Chapter 8 - The Safehouse in the Woods
The black Maybach glided through the pre-dawn streets of downtown Chicago.
The rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt shimmering like black glass under the streetlights.
The city was asleep.
Nobody walking the sidewalks knew that the balance of underworld power was hanging by a thread forty floors above Michigan Avenue.
Daniel drove with cold, mechanical focus.
His tactical earpiece blinked green in the dark cabin.
“The Drake Hotel security is completely under Genovese control,” Daniel reported quietly.
“Salvatore Marcone brought fifty soldiers from New York. They have checkpoints at every elevator bank.”
“What about Antonio?” Luca asked from the back seat.
“Antonio is in the Grand Ballroom on the top floor,” Isabella replied from the front passenger seat.
She was monitoring the building’s compromised blueprints on her tablet.
“He has the Chicago capos seated on the right side. The New York commission is on the left.”
She looked back at us.
“The Founders' Toast is scheduled for 5:45 a.m. Exactly fifteen minutes from now.”
Luca glanced down at his watch.
5:30 a.m.
His hand found mine on the leather seat between us.
His fingers intertwined with mine.
His grip was firm, grounding me against the terrifying reality of what we were about to do.
“When we walk into that ballroom,” Luca said, looking directly at me,
“They will assume Daniel brought you as a prisoner. And they will assume I am dead.”
“And how do you enter?” I asked.
A dangerous smirk touched Luca's lips.
“The Drake has an exterior freight lift used for private VIP catering.”
He looked at Daniel.
“You take Emma through the main lobby. Present her to Antonio as the daughter of Marcus Vance.”
Daniel swallowed hard.
“Antonio will want to interrogate her immediately, boss.”
“He won't get the chance,” Luca said.
“Keep his attention focused on the flash drive in Emma's hand for exactly three minutes.”
Luca pulled a high-frequency jamming remote from his pocket.
“At 5:44, Isabella will kill the ballroom power for five seconds. When the lights come back on...”
Luca didn't need to finish the sentence.
The cold certainty in his eyes spoke for itself.
The Maybach pulled up to the grand awning of the historic Drake Hotel.
Four large men in tailored charcoal suits stepped forward immediately.
They carried concealed automatic weapons under their coats.
New York muscle.
Daniel rolled down the driver’s window.
He flashed a gold signet ring and a laminated security badge.
“Daniel Russo. Escorting Don Antonio’s private package.”
The guard leaned down, inspecting Daniel's face.
Then his eyes traveled to the back seat, landing on me.
He saw the emerald silk gown.
He saw the diamond choker.
And he saw the black titanium drive sitting on my lap.
The guard tapped the roof of the car twice.
“Take the private service elevator on the left. Don Antonio is waiting.”
The heavy wrought-iron gates opened, allowing the car into the VIP courtyard.
Luca had already slipped out the opposite door into the shadows before the car even came to a complete stop.
He moved like a phantom, disappearing into the dark service corridors behind the kitchen docks.
Daniel stepped out and opened my door.
He offered his arm.
His face was completely neutral, playing the role of the loyal turncoat to perfection.
“Ready, Emma?” he murmured beneath his breath.
I took a deep, steadying breath.
I felt the weight of the pearl-handled pistol pressed against my thigh under the silk gown.
“Let’s do this, Daniel.”
We walked through the opulent marble lobby of the Drake Hotel.
Crystal chandeliers hung from gilded ceilings.
Yet the hotel was completely devoid of normal guests.
Every doorway was manned by armed guards with coiled earpieces.
We stepped into the private express elevator.
Daniel pressed the button for the Penthouse.
The elevator surged upward smoothly.
My reflection stared back at me in the mirrored walls.
I didn't recognize the woman in the emerald gown.
She didn't look like a terrified maid who scrubbed floors for minimum wage.
She looked like an avenging fury.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open on the fortieth floor.
A wave of laughter, classical violin music, and the heavy aroma of expensive cigars washed over us.
The Grand Ballroom was breathtaking.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a 360-degree panoramic view of Lake Michigan and the glowing Chicago skyline.
Seated around a massive horseshoe-shaped table were over sixty of the most dangerous men in North America.
At the center of the head table sat two men.
On the left was Salvatore Marcone.
The New York boss was seventy years old, with slicked-back white hair and the dead, reptilian eyes of a lifelong butcher.
On the right sat Antonio Moretti.
Antonio wore a midnight-blue tuxedo.
His silver-topped obsidian cane rested against the table beside him.
And standing right behind Antonio, wearing a backless crimson dress, was Vanessa Bellini.
Vanessa held an antique silver chalice filled with dark red wine.
She was laughing at something Marcone had said.
Then the double doors clicked shut behind Daniel and me.
The heavy sound echoed through the ballroom.
One by one, the conversations died.
The violinists stopped playing.
Sixty pairs of eyes turned toward the entrance.
Vanessa looked up.
Her smile froze.
The color instantly drained from her face.
“Daniel?” Antonio spoke, his baritone voice cutting through the silence.
Antonio leaned forward, his cold eyes landing on me.
He took in the emerald gown.
He took in my face.
“And who is this exquisite creature you’ve brought to my coronation?” Antonio asked, a cruel smile touching his lips.
Daniel stepped forward, bowing his head with practiced deference.
“Don Antonio,” Daniel announced loudly so the entire room could hear.
“Luca Moretti is dead. His body is at the bottom of the lake.”
A collective murmur swept through the Chicago capos.
Some looked horrified.
Others looked relieved.
Antonio’s smile widened into a victorious grin.
“A tragic end for an ungrateful son,” Antonio said smoothly.
He looked at Salvatore Marcone.
“You see, Salvatore? The transition is clean.”
Then Antonio looked back at me.
“And the girl?”
Daniel gestured toward me.
“This is Emma Vance, Don Antonio. The daughter of Marcus Vance.”
The entire room seemed to suck in a breath.
Salvatore Marcone sat up straight, his dead eyes narrowing in shock.
“Marcus Vance had a daughter?” Marcone rasped in a gravelly New York accent.
“And she had the ledger,” Daniel added, stepping aside.
I took three slow, deliberate steps forward into the center of the ballroom.
My heels clicked with sharp authority against the polished parquet floor.
I held up the black titanium flash drive between my fingers.
Vanessa’s hands shook so violently she nearly dropped the silver chalice.
“Antonio, don't listen to her!” Vanessa screamed, panic shredding her composure.
“She’s Luca’s pawn! She’s lying!”
Antonio raised a single finger, silencing Vanessa instantly.
He stood up from his chair, leaning on his obsidian cane.
He walked around the table toward me.
“Marcus Vance’s daughter,” Antonio murmured, stopping three feet from me.
“Your father was a very stubborn man, little girl. He thought numbers could defeat blood.”
I looked straight into the eyes of the man who had murdered my father.
My heart was beating like a war drum, but my face remained carved of ice.
“Numbers don't lie, Don Antonio,” I said, my voice echoing clearly across the ballroom.
“Unlike you.”
Antonio’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“What did you say?”
I turned toward Salvatore Marcone.
“Don Marcone! Before you drink that toast, you should know that Antonio Moretti has already liquidated the Chicago accounts you were promised.”
Marcone slammed his heavy hand onto the table.
“What are you talking about, girl?”
“The flash drive in my hand contains the complete offshore transaction records from the last forty-eight hours,” I said loudly.
“Antonio moved two point four billion dollars into private trusts in Dubai under Vanessa Bellini’s name.”
Marcone’s head snapped toward Antonio.
“Is this true, Antonio?” Marcone growled, the threat of immediate violence vibrating in his tone.
Antonio let out a dark, mocking laugh.
“She’s bluffing, Salvatore. She’s an orphaned maid trying to save her own skin.”
Antonio reached out to snatch the titanium drive from my hand.
At that exact second, the grandfather clock in the corner struck 5:44 a.m.
May you like
CHIME.
The entire ballroom plunged into pitch-black darkness.
