Chapter 7 - The Trap in the Ballroom
At 3:00 PM, the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel was filled with two hundred prominent civic leaders, news reporters, and corporate donors for Marcus Kane’s pre-election fundraising gala.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the ornate ceiling, shining over white linen tables covered in expensive floral arrangements and champagne flutes.
Marcus Kane stood near the main stage, wearing a tailored navy suit, smiling broadly as he shook hands with potential campaign donors, oblivious to the storm gathering above his head.
I stood near the grand mezzanine balcony on the second floor, wearing an elegant black silk evening gown, holding a glass of sparkling water. Behind me, hidden in the shadows of the arched doorway, stood Adrian, dressed in a sleek charcoal tuxedo.
My phone buzzed in my clutch bag.
It was an encrypted text message from my former supervisor at the federal prosecutor’s office: Elena, where are you? Kane says you missed your morning briefing.
I typed a brief reply: I found the missing eighteen million. Delivering the final report now.
Down on the main floor, Kane stepped up to the podium. The crowd applauded enthusiastically as he adjusted his microphone, flashing his polished, television-ready smile.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Kane’s voice echoed clearly through the hall. “Today, we stand on the threshold of a new era for Chicago—an era where transparency, accountability, and the absolute rule of law will restore integrity to our government!”
Adrian stepped up beside me, leaning his arm against the brass railing of the balcony, looking down at Kane with cold, predatory calm.
“He speaks well for a man who has thirty minutes of freedom left,” Adrian noted softly.
“Check your watch, Adrian,” I said, looking at my phone screen as the digital timer hit 4:29:55 PM.
4:29:58...
4:29:59...
May you like
4:30:00 PM.
I pressed the execution command on my phone screen.
