Chapter 12 - The Blackened Rose
The annual Moretti Foundation Charity Gala was the most exclusive event of the Chicago social season. Held in the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel, it was a night of champagne, diamonds, and philanthropic checks written with six zeros.
Annie stood at the top of the sweeping staircase, wearing a stunning midnight-blue evening gown that perfectly contrasted with her dark, observant eyes.
She smiled politely at the mayor, shook hands with prominent senators, and played the role of the perfect corporate heiress. But beneath the silk fabric of her dress, strapped securely to her thigh, was a ceramic combat knife that could bypass any metal detector.
She was not taking any chances. It had been forty-eight hours since Marcus escaped, and the city felt like a powder keg waiting for a spark.
Daniel stood by the main stage, addressing the wealthy crowd with his usual effortless charisma. He spoke of the foundation’s new children’s hospital wing, a project dedicated entirely to Eleanor Calehan, who had peacefully passed away in her sleep two years prior, surrounded by love.
He is exposed up there, Silas murmured through the discrete earpiece in Annie’s right ear. I do not like these sightlines. There are too many blind spots in the catering corridors.
I see it, Annie whispered back, her eyes scanning the crowd with surgical precision. Move Team Alpha to the kitchen exits. I am going to step closer to the stage.
As Annie glided through the crowd, nodding to familiar faces, she noticed a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere.
A waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes bumped roughly into a state senator. The waiter did not apologize. He simply kept walking, his eyes locked dead on the stage where Daniel was speaking.
Annie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She looked at the waiter's hands. He was wearing white gloves, but his grip on the silver serving tray was rigid, white-knuckled, and completely unnatural.
Silas, waiter approaching the stage from the left flank, Annie said sharply into her microphone. He is not catering staff.
Before Silas could respond, the lights in the grand ballroom suddenly flickered and went entirely pitch black.
The wealthy crowd gasped, murmuring in confusion. But Annie did not freeze. She knew the darkness was not a malfunction. It was a cover.
Gunfire erupted, the deafening sound of a suppressed automatic weapon chewing through the expensive floral arrangements on the stage.
Screams echoed as billionaires and politicians dove to the marble floor in blind panic.
Annie kicked off her expensive heels and sprinted through the darkness, relying entirely on her memory of the room's layout. She reached under her dress, drawing the ceramic blade.
The emergency backup lights flickered on, casting a dim, red glow across the chaos.
The fake waiter was standing just ten feet from the stage, raising a modified submachine gun, aiming directly for where Daniel had taken cover behind the heavy wooden podium.
Annie did not hesitate. She lunged forward, tackling the assassin from the side.
The man grunted as they crashed to the floor. He was heavily muscled and clearly a professional, but Annie was faster. She drove her knee into his ribs, pinning his gun arm to the ground.
The assassin snarled, swinging a heavy fist toward her face. Annie slipped the punch effortlessly, a move she had practiced with Silas a thousand times. She brought the hilt of her ceramic knife down hard on the assassin's temple.
The man’s eyes rolled back, and his body went limp on the carpet.
Silas appeared out of the red shadows, his own weapon drawn, flanked by six massive Moretti security guards.
Secure the perimeter! Lock down every exit! Silas roared, stepping over the unconscious assassin to reach the stage.
Annie scrambled to her feet, her beautiful dress torn and dusted with debris. She ran to the podium, her breath catching in her throat.
Grandpa! Annie yelled, sliding to her knees.
Daniel was sitting against the wall, clutching his left shoulder. Blood was seeping through his white tuxedo shirt, staining his fingers a dark crimson.
I am alright, little bird, Daniel gasped, trying to force a reassuring smile. It is a clean through-and-through. The old lion still has thick skin.
Annie tore a strip of fabric from the hem of her gown and pressed it firmly against his wound, her hands shaking but her eyes burning with absolute, terrifying clarity.
They did not send a street gang, Annie whispered, looking at the tactical gear worn by the unconscious assassin. That man is a highly trained mercenary. Marcus has money again.
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Daniel looked up at her, seeing the fierce, unyielding spirit of his bloodline shining through her face.
He sold his soul to someone bigger, Daniel gritted out as Silas helped him to his feet. We are not fighting Marcus anymore, Annie. We are fighting a war.
