Chapter 8 - THE GALA TRAP
By eleven o'clock that morning, we were back in center city Philadelphia.
The Bellevue Hotel was surrounded by black luxury SUVs with tinted windows.
The city’s underworld elite had gathered in the grand ballroom.
Capos, financiers, corrupt councilmen, and syndicate leaders filled the tables.
I wore a dark charcoal pantsuit Adrian had acquired from a secure boutique downtown.
My hair was swept up into a sleek, severe twist.
The snub-nosed revolver was tucked securely into the waistband at the small of my back.
The brass key was hidden inside my inner pocket.
Adrian wore a tailored black three-piece suit that concealed the bandage on his shoulder.
He looked regal, deadly, and entirely unbothered.
We entered through the hotel’s service kitchen.
The staff parted like the Red Sea the moment they recognized Adrian Vale.
Nobody dared to make a sound.
We reached the heavy double oak doors leading into the main ballroom.
Through the narrow glass panel, we saw the stage.
Vincent Wells stood behind the podium, his silver hair slicked back, wearing a bespoke pinstripe suit.
Beside him sat his daughter Caroline, wearing a pale lavender gown, smiling like a cat full of cream.
And beside Caroline stood Grant Mercer.
Grant was holding a stack of manila folders.
"Gentlemen," Vincent’s voice boomed through the speakers.
"Adrian Vale has disgraced the traditions of this city."
Murmurs rippled across the crowded tables.
"Last night, Adrian attempted to sell our port contracts to federal prosecutors to save his own skin."
Vincent paused, feigning deep sorrow.
"When our loyal men confronted him, he opened fire. In the ensuing firefight... Adrian was killed."
Caroline dabbed an imaginary tear with a lace handkerchief.
Grant stepped to the microphone.
"As his closest kin," Grant said with false solemnity, "I am stepping forward to merge the Vale holdings under Mr. Wells."
"You're stepping into a grave, cousin," Adrian’s voice rang out.
Adrian kicked the double oak doors wide open.
The wood slammed against the marble pillars like cannon fire.
The entire ballroom went dead silent.
Cigars froze halfway to mouths.
Waiters dropped trays of crystal glasses.
Adrian walked down the center carpet, his stride long, confident, and unstoppable.
I walked right beside him, my chin lifted, my eyes locked on Caroline Wells.
Caroline’s face lost every drop of color.
Grant stumbled backward, knocking over his chair.
"Adrian?" Vincent choked, his hands gripping the edges of the podium until the wood groaned.
"You declared me dead two hours too early, Vincent," Adrian said smoothly.
His voice echoed off the gilded ceiling.
"And you forgot one small detail."
Adrian stopped at the base of the stage.
He looked around the room at the seventy mafia capos staring in absolute shock.
"The Vale transport lines do not belong to me," Adrian announced.
He turned toward me, extending his hand.
"They belong to the rightful heir of Thomas Bennett."
Gasps erupted across the room.
Old men at the front tables stood up in disbelief.
"Thomas Bennett?" a grey-haired boss from South Philly muttered.
"He died twenty years ago!"
"His daughter lives," Adrian declared, his voice ringing with absolute pride.
"And she holds the original bloodline trust."
Caroline recovered from her shock, her face twisting with ugly venom.
"She’s a maid!" Caroline shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at me.
"She serves champagne for minimum wage! She’s an imposter!"
Grant pulled a small black device from his pocket.
May you like
A hidden radio detonator.
"Kill them both!" Grant screamed into the device.
