Page 37 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)

Ruby

C opley Square Plaza was a blur of cameras, clapping, and the dull roar of city heat off the pavement. I kept my shoulders square, hands steady, face neutral. The press loved a woman who looked grateful. They hated a woman who looked sure.

The flags behind the podium snapped in the breeze. Every step toward the mic felt rehearsed, heavy. I'd practiced this speech a hundred times, but now my mouth felt too dry to shape the words.

The mayor worked the edge of the crowd like it was still election night—shaking hands, laughing too loud, clinging to relevance. Julian stood just behind the press pit, all polish and presence, like this was his victory too. It wasn’t.

Off to the right, Natalia caught my eye and waved. Her boyfriend trailed behind her, already half-checked out, swirling his drink like he wished it were something stronger.

I didn’t belong here. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

But I smiled. I mingled. I played my part.

Alek slid up to the bar beside me, sharp in a charcoal suit with the top button undone and his tie loose. Hair immaculate, like always. He looked relaxed, confident—like he already knew how the night would go.

“I just talked to the Herald,” he said, voice pitched low. “Well, Erica. She’s here. Shiny press pass and all. She’s on the hunt.”

“Hopefully not for me,” I said, draining the last of my champagne. It tasted like chemicals and old money.

“It’s always about you,” he replied, dry as gin. “The press conference is already making the rounds. You’re trending.”

“Good,” I said. “Let them talk.”

Alek’s hand brushed my elbow, steadying. “Don’t get reckless now, Ruby.”

“I’m not reckless,” I said, smiling. “I’m just done hiding.”

He started to answer, but stopped. I followed his gaze—Julian, watching me from across the room.

The kind of stare that made your skin itch.

He’d seemed okay with everything, I’d been sure of it when I spoke to him at his house…but now, he felt off. He caught me looking and something changed, his face going a little less…

I don’t know.

A little less angry, maybe?

Then Erica Fields materialized at my side, notepad out. “Woman of the hour,” she said, voice bright. “You ready to become Boston’s first Latina District Attorney?”

“I’m just here to get sworn in,” I replied, shaking her hand. “It’s about the job–not vanity.”

Alek drifted back, giving us space to spar. Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Kieran—no, Kieran’s shadow—by the service door, shoulders squared, eyes never missing a thing.

Of course he was watching. There was something almost comforting about it.

She ran through the usual warm-up: budget projections, overtime audits, whether I thought Fitzsimmons was eyeing another run for mayor. I gave her the polished lines—tight, focused, just weary enough to sound sincere.

But I knew she wasn’t here for that. And so did she.

“So,” she said finally, eyes narrowing. “You called me. What’s the story?”

I glanced toward the crowd, then tipped my head toward the back hallway. “Let’s talk somewhere quieter.”

We slipped out of the noise and light, down a service corridor and into the stairwell—the one that always felt too cold, like the building remembered every secret it had to hold.

The door shut behind us with a heavy click.

Erica waited until the echo swallowed us. “You sure you want this on the record?”

“I’m sure.”

She clicked her recorder without breaking eye contact. “You could’ve called anyone. Why me?”

“Because you wrote the first piece on Mickey Russell’s trial. You got his wife’s story out when no one else would touch it.”

“That story nearly got me blacklisted.”

“And it made me trust you.”

Something in her expression softened—just slightly. “You’ve always had my vote, you know. Hero of the people and all that.”

“Not tonight.”

She gave a dry little laugh. “Let’s see.”

“I shot someone,” I said. The words came out flat, cold. Like I was still figuring out what they meant.

Her pen stilled. “Who?”

“Mickey Russell. He broke into my house. He was armed. There’s no record—yet. I didn’t file one. Not until now.”

Her eyes searched mine, calculating. “You’re giving me the exclusive?”

“Yes. But not until after the press conference. And not a single mention of my daughter.”

“I’ve never published a word you didn’t want published,” she said, voice smooth, almost fond. “Let’s have it.”

I took a breath. “After I shot him, he ran. Or at least, he left the premises. I haven’t seen him since.”

She nodded slowly. “And?”

“And the DOJ’s been running a case on organized crime. They used Russell as a confidential informant. He was their pipeline into the Callahan syndicate. You won’t get confirmation. Not yet. But it’s true.”

That got her. Real surprise, for once.

“The DOJ used a convicted domestic abuser as an informant…and it almost got the DA killed,” she said softly. “That’s nuclear.”

“And that’s not everything.”

Erica watched me a long moment. “What else?”

My heart was hammering. I felt the press of the stairwell walls, the chill in the concrete. “I’m getting divorced,” I said. “Julian and I are finalizing it. He stays Rosie’s legal father. And if you so much as print her name—”

“I won’t,” she said, quick and firm. “You have my word.”

I held her gaze another beat. “Good. Because if you touch my daughter, I’ll break your hands.”

She shrugged, like she’d heard worse. “And you want this all to drop today?”

“Right after the press conference. You show up, ask the questions, I answer on record. You break embargo after. That’s the deal. No edits, no walk-backs, and no heroines. If you write halo-glow crap, I’ll spend the week feeding your dead leads to every reporter with a blog.”

She grinned, wide and wicked. “You’re better at this than anyone gives you credit for.”

“It’s not a compliment,” I said, and for the first time in a year, I meant it.

“Thanks for the scoop.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

She stowed her pen, gave me one last on-the-record: “Hell of a story,” she said. “Good luck, Madam DA.”

I watched her go, heels echoing up the stairwell, and realized I was gripping the bannister hard enough my knuckles had gone white. I took a breath, then another, each one less like a DA and more like a woman trying to remember what survival felt like.

Back in the ballroom, Alek was waiting. He looked up from his phone with an expression I knew: tired, proud, and bracing for impact.

“You did it, didn’t you,” he said. Not a question.

“Yeah,” I said. “She’s loaded up. Ready to fire.”

He checked his watch. “You have forty minutes to be a person. Then you’re public property again.”

“Sounds fun.” I tried to smile. “How drunk can I get?”

Alek poured us both a heavy drink from the real punch bowl—no water, no pretense. The booze burned, but it was the right kind of burn: the kind that made your nerves settle, just enough to get you through the next round.

“You think Kieran’s coming tonight?” I asked, like it was nothing, like I hadn’t seen his shadow by the coat check or noticed the security detail had quietly tripled since I walked in.

Alek shrugged. "If he was, he'd already be handcuffed to you." His smile faded. "I don't think you're as safe tonight as you’re pretending, Ruby."

"Nobody’s ever as safe as they’re pretending."

I put my back to the wall, tried to fade into the crowd.

But every time I closed my eyes, I saw the lines converging: City Hall, the courthouse, the Callahan club, Julian’s condo.

All roads leading to this sparkling, brittle moment.

All of it ending on the second floor of the ballroom, where I’d step in front of the cameras and say my piece.

“Have you told Rosie yet?” Alek’s voice was soft, almost gentle.

I shook my head. “Some things. I wanted to do it myself. Before anyone else could.”

He nodded, and for a second, his hand hovered near my shoulder. “She’s going to be proud of you,” he said. “One day. Maybe not next week, but…” He let it hang. Only people who’d survived a few disasters knew how to do that.

“Erica Fields told me there were rumors I was quitting.”

Alek frowned. “There aren’t.”

“She said forty percent of the office is betting on it.”

He looked over at Julian, who was deep in conversation with some city councilman. Alek watched him for a beat too long, then glanced back at me. "Unless you think maybe…"

"No," I said, voice flat. "Julian’s not that type."

He looked at me, really looked—testing, careful. "You sure?"

"Positive," I lied. I was pretty sure. In this city, that was as close to certainty as anyone ever got.

And he was Rosie’s father.

Or at least, the closest thing she’d ever had to one. That had to count for something.

But the longer I watched him, the more I felt it in my bones.

I didn’t feel safe in my own campaign anymore.