Chapter 5 - The Velvet Cage
The east wing master suite was larger than my entire downtown apartment, adorned with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan, heavy velvet drapes, and a king-sized bed draped in imported silk linens. Yet, as Mrs. Gable quietly closed the heavy oak door behind her, leaving me alone in the opulent silence, the room felt less like a bedroom and more like a golden cage.
I walked over to the glass pane, pressing my palms against the cool surface, watching the grey waves of Lake Michigan crash against the rocky shore far below. Forty-eight hours ago, I was just Maeve Calloway, an overworked event planner stressing over floral arrangements and seating charts for the Aurora Gala. Now, my face was undoubtedly plastered across every news station and police briefing in Illinois, tied irrevocably to the most feared syndicate boss in the Midwest.
A soft knock at the door interrupted my spiraling thoughts. Before I could answer, the door pushed open, and a young woman with dark hair and a warm, nervous smile stepped inside, carrying a rolling rack loaded with designer dresses, shoes, and casual loungewear.
"Hi," she said softly, her accent carrying a faint, melodic lisp. "I'm Elena. Mr. Castellani sent me. He said you'd need a complete wardrobe overhaul, considering... well, considering how you arrived."
A hot flush crept up my neck, remembering the black pencil skirt left behind in Room 1007 and the silk slip I had been wearing when the police burst in. "Right. The front desk mix-up."
Elena chuckled softly, wheeling the rack closer to the massive walk-in closet. "Front desk mix-up is what they're calling it on the morning news. Half the city thinks you're an undercover federal agent, and the other half thinks you're Luciano's secret mistress. Honestly? The staff downstairs is taking bets on whether you last a week."
I let out a dry, humorless laugh, sinking down onto the edge of the velvet armchair. "I'm not an agent, and I'm definitely not a mistress. I'm a hostage with a very fancy wardrobe."
Elena paused, turning to look at me with a sudden, serious gravity in her dark eyes. "Mr. Castellani isn't a monster, Maeve. Ruthless? Yes. Dangerous? Absolutely. But he doesn't keep people around for fun. If he brought you here—if he risked blowing his own alibi to keep you attached to him—it means the Falcone loyalists were already tracking everyone who touched that hotel floor. You weren't just in the wrong room, Maeve. You were sitting on a ticking bomb."
The words sent a cold shiver down my spine. The image of Vito Falcone dead in Room 402 flashed through my mind. If the Falcones thought I had seen something—if they thought I was part of Luciano’s inner circle—they wouldn't care about a clerical error. They would hunt me down just to get to him.
"So what am I supposed to do?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Just hide in this mansion forever?"
"No," a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the doorway.
Elena and I both jumped. Luciano stood leaning against the doorframe, his jacket discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, corded forearms marked by faint, jagged scars. His winter-gray eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made it difficult to draw breath.
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"You're not going to hide," Luciano said, stepping fully into the room and dismissing Elena with a flick of his hand. The young woman bowed her head respectfully and slipped out of the suite, closing the door softly behind her.
Luciano walked slowly across the plush rug until he stood right in front of my chair. "You're going to step out into the light, Maeve. Tonight, there is a charity auction at the Chicago Art Institute. And my new fiancée is going to make her grand debut."
