Chapter 5 - The Gala of Wolves and Thirty-Two Guests
Thursday arrived with an icy blizzard that coated Chicago’s skyscrapers in a thick armor of white frost.
Inside the Meridian’s Grand Ballroom on the forty-second floor, the heat was set to an opulent seventy-two degrees.
Thirty-two of the city’s wealthiest and most ruthless power brokers sat around a massive oval table carved from black Italian marble.
Arthur Sinclair—the aging, gray-haired patriarch of Sinclair Logistics—sat at the head of the table, his gold watch glinting under the three-tier crystal chandeliers.
To his right sat Margot Sinclair, radiant in an emerald silk evening gown, her diamond necklace flashing like cold stars. Julian Sinclair sat beside her, sipping vintage scotch and laughing with two city commissioners.
At the far end of the marble table sat Augustine Vandermir.
He wore a tailored black tuxedo, his posture relaxed, his hands folded loosely on the polished stone. He looked less like a groom-to-be and more like an executioner waiting for the clock to strike eight.
Dela stood near the service pantry doors, holding a silver tray laden with champagne flutes.
Her uniform was freshly pressed. Her black shoes were freshly taped beneath the arches—neat, tight, and hidden from view.
Her heart was beating a steady, furious rhythm against her ribs.
Beneath her jacket, inside the deep interior pocket, rested her mother’s blue lacquered fountain pen.
“Look at them,” Teddy whispered beside her, adjusting Dela’s bowtie with rough, motherly hands. “A room full of hyenas in tuxedos.”
“Hyenas bleed just like anything else,” Dela murmured.
Teddy looked at her sharply. “Delilah... what did you get yourself into?”
“Just doing my job, Teddy.”
At 8:15 PM, Arthur Sinclair tapped his heavy silver butter knife against his crystal water goblet.
The sharp ping echoed through the vast ballroom, cutting off the murmur of conversation instantly.
“Friends, colleagues, partners,” Arthur Sinclair began, his voice booming with the easy confidence of a man who believed he owned the earth. “Tonight marks the dawn of a new era for Chicago commerce. The union of Sinclair Logistics and the Vandermir Maritime Consortium.”
A smattering of polite, well-mannered applause rippled around the table.
Margot beamed, resting her hand possessively over Gus’s sleeve. Gus did not move his arm. He simply stared down the length of the marble table at Arthur.
“Before we pop the 1996 Dom Pérignon,” Arthur continued, gesturing to a junior associate standing behind him with a leather briefcase, “we have the formality of signing the Master Port Integration Agreement.”
The associate stepped forward, placing a thick, forty-page bound document bound in heavy navy-blue leather in front of Gus, and an identical copy in front of Arthur.
“Forty pages of ironclad synergy,” Arthur smiled, pulling a gold Montblanc pen from his pocket. “Reviewed by three separate legal teams from Kirkland & Ellis. Gus, my boy... let’s make history.”
Gus did not pick up a pen.
He didn't even open the navy leather binder.
Margot’s smile flickered. She leaned closer to Gus, her voice dropping into a tense whisper that carried across the nearest seats.
“Augustine? Sign the document, darling. The photographers are waiting outside.”
Gus turned his head slowly toward the service line.
“Service,” Gus said clearly.
The room blinked.
“Excuse me?” Arthur frowned.
“The wine hasn't been poured,” Gus said, his tone conversational. “I never sign multi-billion-dollar mergers on an empty glass. Bring the champagne.”
Margot rolled her eyes, letting out an irritated puff of air. “Fine. Waitress! Bring the tray over here. Quickly!”
Dela lifted her silver tray, stepped out from the shadows of the pantry, and walked steadily across the ballroom floor.
Thirty-two pairs of eyes watched her approach.
She stepped up to the head of the table, positioning herself between Margot and Gus, lifting the first crystal flute with a steady hand.
Margot looked up, recognizing Dela instantly.
A nasty, triumphant sneer spread across Margot’s face.
“Oh, look,” Margot announced loudly to the entire table, her voice dripping with venomous amusement. “It’s our little clumsy waitress with the taped shoes.”
A few muffled chuckles broke out among the younger associates at the table.
Julian Sinclair grinned into his scotch glass.
“Tell me, Dela,” Margot purred, leaning back in her chair so everyone could hear her. “Did you manage to find real shoes yet, or are you saving up your tips to buy a clue?”
Dela poured the champagne with flawless composure, the pale golden liquid foaming perfectly to the rim of Margot’s glass.
“My shoes are quite comfortable, Ms. Sinclair,” Dela said softly.
“I’m sure they are,” Margot laughed. “You know, Father, this poor thing is working sixteen-hour shifts while five months pregnant just to scrape together six thousand dollars for a hospital bed.”
Margot reached into her beaded evening bag, pulled out a stack of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, and tossed them casually onto the open leather contract in front of Gus.
The cash fanned out across the legal text.
“Here’s six thousand dollars, Dela,” Margot smiled, her eyes glittering with cruelty. “Take it. It’s yours. On one condition.”
May you like
Dela paused, holding the champagne bottle upright. “What condition is that, Ms. Sinclair?”
“Read page twenty-four of this contract out loud to the room,” Margot mocked. “If you can read all the big legal words without stumbling once, you keep the money. If you can’t... you get on your knees, apologize for being an eyesore in my banquet hall, and resign tonight.”
