Exits first. People second. That's the order, and it's never failed me.
The Moretti gala delivers exactly what it promises—chandeliers hanging like storms that forgot to fall, marble polished until it throws your reflection back at you whether you want it or not, and beneath the perfume, that particular smell of men who paid retail for their innocence. My instructions tonight couldn't be simpler. Stay close to Lorenzo Moretti. Blend into the wallpaper. Be nobody.
Nobody is my specialty.
Then she...