Chapter 1: A Champagne-Doused Crown of Thorns

The neon of Fifth Avenue cut into gold dust on the Rolls-Royce window, and Ethan glanced down to adjust the cufflinks when he caught a glimpse of the driver's restrained blank stare in the rearview mirror. The Armani suit had left its duster for the first time in three years, and the cuffs, worn white like a spitting snake, were sneering at the Casio digital watch on his wrist.

The gold-plated buttons of the ballroom doorman shook him and made him squint." The Vanderlinde's... Uh..." The young man stared hesitantly at the guest list, his fingernail caps still stained with the motor oil Ethan had scuffed up while working on the Bentley Mulsanne in the garage half an hour earlier.

"Garbageman." Ethan jerked the invitation away and stepped through the door, catching Luna's back accurately in the crystal halo of light refracted by the champagne tower. The dark green velvet dress wrapped around her stiff spine like a frostbitten emerald orchid.

The ash of Nathan Vanderlinde's cigar rustled on Ethan's collar." Let us welcome the family's most competent... Accountant." He purposely kept the last word in his whiskey, triggering snickers that rose and fell between the velvet seats. Ethan's thumb rubbed the edge of his cell phone under the tablecloth, the lock screen photo a side view of Luna's wedding day-she was throwing her bouquet into the Hudson River.

"I heard you screwed up the Caribbean shipping line?" Cousin Charlie spun the Patek Philippe star dial, "How does it feel to sink twenty shiploads of bourbon into the Atlantic?" The waiter brought a French lobster bake, the number of the container Ethan had photographed in the harbor last night reflected on the edge of a silver platter: the very same "lost shipment" that was currently parked at the Manhattan docks.

Luna's knife suddenly whistled on the plate." Father, the security system in Warehouse Three needs to be upgraded." She didn't flutter her eyelashes as she spoke, but Ethan noticed that the diamond streamers in her earlobes were quivering-a replica he'd bought last year with the bonus money from the car repair, now revealed under the Swarovski crystal chandelier.

The moment the champagne splashed over, Ethan caught the distinctive almond flavor of Kegel Royal. The sting triggered when the liquid seeped into his shirt was nowhere near as sharp as when he recognized the bottle as coming from Luna's pre-wedding collection. Emily shook her empty glass, "Oops, I forgot that garbage collectors are supposed to shower with beer."

The ballroom suddenly fell into dead silence, except for the electronic beep of Ethan's wristwatch, "2100 hours Pacific Standard Time." He wiped the liquor from his lashes as the screen of his cell phone under his fingertips lit up with the anonymous missive, [Freight Manager has purchased tickets to Argentina]. As his eyes skimmed over Nathan's well-maintained temples, he noticed an additional fresh scratch there-the same as the one he'd seen on the dockside warehouseman's neck this morning.

"Mr. Ethan should be familiar with liquids." Nathan sliced into his Kobe steak, blood permeating his napkin, "After all, the order you handled last month cost the company whiskey that could fill all of Central Park." The board members' Gucci frames turned in unison toward Ethan's frayed cuffs, not realizing that the miniature recorders peeking out of the cracks in the side of his leather shoes were glowing.

The waiter appeared just in time with the lobster bisque. Ethan had already formed a wall with his body when the pot of boiling hot bisque was "accidentally" tilted toward Luna. The broth dripped down his old tie and formed a small amber lake next to his cracked oxfords.

"West Texas Intermediate crude futures are up 4.2% today," he spoke calmly, the composure in his voice a brutal contrast to the burning in his back, "as the freighter you arranged for to be registered in Panama is sailing to Houston full of Russian crude at this very moment." The sauce-stained cell phone was pushed across the table, a video of the cargo manager counting dollars in an airport restroom playing on the screen.

Luna's napkin drifted down into the soup, soaking up the cream and blood. As Ethan turned toward the fire escape, there was the sound of china breaking behind her-this time she'd smashed the bottle of 1945 Chateau Mouton Rothschild herself.

In the blind spot of the underground garage's security cameras, Ethan ripped open his shirt, the skin on his burns blistering and festering.The lights of the 911 TurboS suddenly came on, illuminating the container's code he was trying to decipher in his hand: Luna1997.The ambulance's hiss came from the top-floor ballroom as the beeping of a successful unlocking sounded-Nathan's high blood pressure finally lost the battle to anger.

The moment the car keys were inserted, the rearview mirror flashed the back of the freight manager's scurrying escape. Ethan stepped on the gas, the car screen popped up on the birth mother's old photo: in 1999, the NASDAQ exchange, seven months pregnant, she was ringing the bell, the fetal heartbeat monitor curve and the Dow Jones index amazing coincidence.