Chapter 2 - Blood on the Velvet Carpet
The Gold Coast ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a monument to old money and carefully disguised crime. Beneath towering limestone archways and gilded ceiling moldings, three hundred of Chicago’s most influential figures sipped champagne: corrupt aldermen, real estate moguls, high-ranking judges, and syndicate capos wearing bespoke tuxedos that concealed nine-millimeter automatics.
My heels were too high. Dante had purchased them himself—black Christian Louboutins with five-inch red-lacquered soles. Every step felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss. My hand was looped through Dante’s muscular forearm, feeling the iron-hard tension in his bicep beneath his midnight-blue tuxedo jacket.
Vincent Morelli walked three paces behind us, his thick neck bulging over his collar, scanning the room with cold, reptilian precision.
""Relax your fingers, Amelia,"" Dante murmured under his breath as we circled the perimeter of the room. ""You’re gripping my sleeve like a drowning swimmer.""
""I am drowning, Mr. Costa,"" I hissed back, smiling rigidly at an elderly woman dripping in pearls who nodded politely toward Dante. ""That man near the ice sculpture has a scar from his ear to his chin, and he’s been staring at my neckline for ten minutes.""
""That is Salvatore. He runs the waste-management unions. He isn't staring at your neckline; he’s trying to figure out why the girl who broke the espresso machine on Wednesday is wearing a Cartier diamond choker.""
My hand flew to my throat, feeling the cold weight of the heavy platinum necklace Dante had fastened around my neck in the limousine. ""Wait, this is real diamond? You told me it was cubic zirconia from the gift shop!""
""If I put fake stones on you, Salvatore would assume my cash flow was compromised,"" Dante said, not missing a beat. ""Now turn left. Smile. The vultures are circling.""
Standing by the grand champagne tower was James Whitaker, our slick senior accountant. He was dressed in a tailored Tom Ford dinner suit, holding a crystal flute, but his eyes were darting erratically. Beside him stood a shorter, heavyset man with silver hair and a crooked nose—Julian Bianke, the boss of the South Side network that had sent the wooden crate bomb to our office forty-eight hours ago.
""Dante,"" Bianke drawled, stepping forward with an oily smile that didn't reach his cold blue eyes. ""I see you survived the week. We heard rumors you had an unexpected delivery at the tower.""
Dante didn't break his stride until we were standing two feet from them. The air between the two men instantly crackled with violence.
""My logistics team handles packages with extreme care, Julian,"" Dante said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. ""Particularly when the sender forgets to check the tension wires on their crude toys.""
Bianke’s jaw tightened, the smile slipping. His gaze flicked to me, taking in the emerald dress, the diamonds, and the undeniable terror I was trying to mask behind my frozen smile. ""And who is this charming creature? A new associate from the North Side?""
""This is Miss Clark,"" Dante said smoothly, sliding his arm around my waist, his broad palm resting possessively against the curve of my hip. ""My executive assistant. And my personal auditor.""
Whitaker choked on his sip of champagne, spilling foam across his lapels. ""Auditor? Mr. Costa, she’s a temporary administrative hire—""
""Miss Clark has an exceptional eye for ledger discrepancies,"" Dante interrupted, his dark eyes boring into Whitaker’s skull like drill bits. ""She recently showed me that our offshore logistics transfers to Grand Cayman were short by four hundred thousand dollars. Strange, isn't it, James? Considering you signed the reconciliation report on Monday afternoon.""
Whitaker turned the color of damp parchment. ""There... there must be an accounting misinterpretation. I can explain the depreciation variables at the office—""
""You will explain them now,"" Dante commanded, stepping forward, his massive frame completely eclipsing the smaller accountant.
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Panic flashed behind Whitaker's eyes. He didn't look at Dante; he looked at Bianke. And in that split second of silent communication between traitors, I saw Whitaker’s right hand slip toward his inside breast pocket.
He wasn't reaching for a ledger. He was reaching for steel.
