Chapter 7 - The Drake Hotel Gala
Twenty-four hours later, the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a sea of black tuxedos, shimmering silk gowns, and clinking champagne flutes. High society mingled with the city's deadliest predators beneath towering crystal chandeliers. Armed security in discreet earpieces patrolled the perimeter, but their attention was focused on the street, confident that the Ferris Syndicate had been wiped out at their Lake Forest compound.
They were wrong.
I stood beside Callum near the grand mezzanine staircase, disguised in plain sight. I wore an emerald green backless silk gown that clung to every curve, my hair pinned up in an intricate, elegant chignon. Beside me, Callum was the picture of lethal aristocracy in an immaculate bespoke tuxedo, his posture radiating unyielding authority.
Hidden in my small velvet clutch was a customized flash drive containing the decrypted Moretti ledger.
""Breathe, little bird,"" Callum whispered in my ear, his hand resting possessively and reassuringly on the small of my back. ""You look like royalty.""
""I feel like a target,"" I murmured back through a perfectly constructed smile.
""They don't know who you are,"" he replied smoothly. ""And by the time they realize I'm standing in this room, it will already be over.""
Across the crowded dance floor, standing near the VIP raised dais, was Victor Moretti. He was a tall, gaunt man in his late thirties with slicked-back blonde hair, cold reptile eyes, and a cruel, arrogant sneer. Standing right beside him, nursing a glass of scotch, was Marcus, his scarred face twisted in an arrogant laugh as they accepted congratulations from a corrupt Cook County commissioner.
""Maya has tapped into the hotel's master audiovisual feed,"" Callum whispered, leaning down as if whispering a lover's secret. ""The moment we plug the drive into the central projector hub behind the stage, the entire federal dossier will broadcast simultaneously to the ballroom screens, the Chicago press corps, and the Department of Justice.""
""Then let's deliver the bill,"" I said, my nerves suddenly crystalizing into diamond-hard resolve.
We split up according to plan. Callum began descending the grand staircase, intentionally drawing the eyes of the room. The effect was instantaneous and electrifying. The low hum of polite conversation began to die out in waves as guests, bodyguards, and syndicate lieutenants recognized the man they thought was dead.
Victor Moretti’s glass slipped from his fingers, shattering across the polished parquet floor. His face drained of all color.
""Ferris..."" Victor hissed, his hand reaching inside his tuxedo.
""Enjoying the party, Victor?"" Callum's voice projected effortlessly across the cavernous room, cold, mocking, and commanding. Every weapon in the room tensed, but with half the city's political elite present, Victor couldn't simply order a public execution without destroying his own cover.
While all eyes were fixed on the standoff between the two kings of Chicago's underworld, I slipped behind the heavy velvet curtains flanking the orchestra stage. I navigated the narrow backstage corridor, spotting the master AV terminal exactly where Maya said it would be.
The technician on duty was tied up and gagged in the corner—Lev’s handiwork from ten minutes prior.
I opened my clutch, pulled out the sleek drive, and plugged it directly into the master terminal. A blue prompt appeared on the screen: OVERRIDE BROADCAST SYSTEM?
I hit enter.
Instantly, the classical waltz playing through the ballroom's high-end sound system cut out, replaced by a deafening screech of audio feedback. Across the grand ballroom, the six massive digital projection screens displaying the charity's donor logos flickered and transformed.
In bold, massive black and red letters, the screen displayed:
THE MORETTI CARTEL: MASTER BRIBERY & TRAFFICKING LEDGER.
Underneath, bank statements, transaction logs with Victor Moretti's digital signature, and audio recordings of Marcus admitting to the murder of Callum's father began looping at maximum volume.
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Screams and gasps erupted across the hall as senators, judges, and socialites realized their illegal offshore accounts were being broadcast to hundreds of smartphones and live-streaming news cameras.
""Shut it down!"" Victor roared, his sanity snapping as he drew his chrome-plated pistol. ""Kill him! Kill them all!""
