Chapter 4 - Tên Chapter 4 - The Shadow in the Grand Ballroom
By six in the morning, the Grand Ballroom of The Drake was a battleground of silk ribbons, crystalline chandeliers, and towering arrangements of French peonies. Caterers pushed carts of silver chafing dishes across the parquet floors while an army of florists frantically trimmed stems under the harsh work lights.
I hadn't slept a single minute.
Instead of my usual threadbare coordinator's suit, I was wearing a brand-new, charcoal-black silk dress that Lorenzo’s people had delivered to Suite 800 at four in the morning. It was cut with ruthless elegance—hugging my hips, cinching my waist, and accentuating the full curve of my bust without crossing the line into unprofessionalism. A diamond-encrusted hotel manager badge was pinned to my lapel, masking the wire transmitter taped securely between my shoulder blades.
""You look stunning, Miss Moretti,"" Lorenzo’s voice purred directly into my inner-ear monitor. He was sitting in a blacked-out Cadillac Escalade parked in the hotel's loading dock, watching through the ballroom’s hidden security feed.
""It’s Miss Miller,"" I hissed under my breath while pretending to adjust a towering crystal vase on table fourteen. ""And this dress costs more than my car. If Vance figures out what we are doing, he won't just fire me. He has private security teams that used to work Blackwater contracts.""
""Vance is a coward in an eight-thousand-dollar Brioni suit,"" Lorenzo replied, his voice calm, steady, and intoxicatingly deep. ""He preys on weak men. He doesn't know you possess the sharpest tongue and the fastest analytical mind in the city. Keep your eyes on the head table. The seating arrangement has been modified.""
""Modified how?"" I asked, grabbing my clipboard.
""Vance placed Dante's cousin, Marcus, next to the city zoning commissioner. They are planning to sign the preliminary riverfront land deed during the reception toasts under the cover of the wedding noise.""
""I see Marcus,"" I whispered, spotting a slender man in a tuxedo nervously adjusting his cuffs near the champagne tower. ""He looks like he’s about to vomit.""
""Good. Fear makes men sloppy,"" Lorenzo said. Then his tone softened, dropping into that dangerously intimate register that made my toes curl inside my designer heels. ""You handled yourself well last night, Rosie. Most people cry when Mateo locks a door.""
""I cried on the inside,"" I muttered, moving toward the kitchen doors. ""I just have bills to pay, Mr. Bianca. My pride doesn't pay my gas bill.""
""Call me Lorenzo.""
""I am not calling an alleged mob boss by his first name while wearing an FBI-grade wire.""
""You called me much worse in Sicilian when you thought I wasn't listening,"" he pointed out with an audible smirk.
Before I could fire back a retort, the kitchen doors swung open, and Salvatore Rossi stepped out into the service hallway. The burly importer was sweating profusely, his apron stained with truffles and fresh cream. The moment he caught sight of me, his eyes widened in terror. He took off his chef's cap and bowed his head slightly.
""Miss Miller,"" Rossi stammered in broken English. ""The burrata... it is inside the walk-in cooler. Exactly two hundred pounds. Prime quality. No charge for the transport. Not a single penny.""
I stared at him, feeling an unexpected rush of power surge through my chest. For years, vendors like Rossi had treated me like dirt—arriving late, demanding under-the-table kickbacks, and looking down on the overweight girl running around with a clipboard.
""Did you inspect the seal on the cheese containers, Salvatore?"" I asked, slipping into a cold, authoritative tone.
""Personally, Signorina! I swear it on the Madonna!""
""Good,"" I said, waving him away dismissively. ""If one guest complains of a sour taste, I will ensure Lorenzo Bianca audits your warehouse books by sunset.""
Rossi turned pale, crossed himself, and vanished back into the kitchen like a frightened rabbit.
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Through my earpiece, I heard Lorenzo chuckle warmly. ""Look at you. A natural queen of the docks. Nonna Lucia would be weeping with pride.""
""Don't flatter me, Lorenzo,"" I whispered, fighting the blush rising on my cheeks. ""We have a billionaire to destroy, and the bride is walking down the aisle in ten minutes.""
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