Three hundred guests watched the fiancée of New York's most feared mafia boss swing her jeweled heel toward my leg, trying to send me crashing into a tower of champagne glasses. But before she could touch me, I caught her ankle with one hand—and when an elderly man near the orchestra whispered, "That style is impossible," the mafia boss himself went pale, as though he'd just seen a dead man come back to life.

Instinct took over before my brain could process the movement.

My right hand darted out, catching the two falling flutes by their stems mid-air, steadying them before a drop was spilled.

Jamie let out a shuddering breath. "Oh God, thank you—"

He didn't see the third glass on his own tray tilt sideways.

Clink.

The glass struck the golden trim of the serving cart, shattered, and sprayed a fine, sparkling mist across the floor. A thin, wet ribbon of golden liquid splashed directly onto the lower hem of Victoria Lane’s pale blue silk gown.

The orchestra's violins faltered. The chatter in the grand ballroom died down like a candle blown out by a sudden draft.

"Are you kidding me?!" Victoria’s voice pierced the silence like shattered glass.

Jamie turned pale as a sheet, dropping his tray with a deafening clash. He looked like he was about to faint right onto the floor.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, ma'am!" Jamie stammered, stepping backward.

"You clumsy, worthless idiot!" Victoria shrieked, her face twisting in pure rage as she looked down at the dark stain ruining her designer dress.

I immediately reached into my apron pocket for a clean white micro-fiber towel and stepped forward, keeping my voice soft, low, and completely non-threatening.

"I'm so sorry, Ms. Lane," I said, dropping to one knee to douse the spill before it set into the silk. "Please allow me to absorb the moisture—"

"Don't touch me!"

Slap.

Her palm struck the towel out of my hand with enough force to send it flying across the floor.

The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Dozens of eyes turned toward us. Society women gasped behind their feather fans. A photographer raised his smartphone, his camera flash blinking twice.

I kept my eyes fixed on the polished floorboards, watching my breath fog the marble. My pulse was beating fast in my throat, but I forced my muscles to relax.

Stay small, I told myself. Think of Mateo's medicine. Think of the rent.

"I apologize, ma'am," I said quietly, reaching out slowly to retrieve the fallen towel. "I will make sure the hotel covers the full cost of dry cleaning or replacement."