Chapter 4 - The Vance Wedding Storm
By five o'clock the following morning, the Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a war zone of high-end luxury preparation.
A hundred and twenty servers, busboys, and floral designers moved across the twenty-thousand-square-foot space like disciplined soldiers under the command of a seasoned general. The air was thick with the scent of five thousand freshly cut Dutch gardenias, expensive beeswax candles, and the rich, roasted aroma of dark espresso brewing in the banquet kitchen.
Rosie Hastings stood on the mezzanine balcony overlooking the floor, a electronic tablet clutched in her hand, her eyes scanning every detail with terrifying precision.
Her dark charcoal wool suit was crisp, her dark hair pinned back into a flawless, tight knot at the base of her neck. To anyone watching her, she looked like the absolute picture of calm executive authority. Nobody could have guessed that she had spent the last three hours sleeping for ninety minutes on a couch in an executive office, dreaming of dark rivers and heavy brass door handles.
"Ms. Hastings!"
Kevin came sprinting up the mezzanine stairs, holding a clipboard, his face flushed with panicked energy. "The delivery trucks from Rossi Fine Imports just backed into the Walton Street loading bay! Five-twenty-five AM!"
Rosie didn't look up from her tablet. "Is the burrata cold?"
"Forty-one degrees," Kevin reported breathlessly. "The head chef checked the seals himself. He said it's the highest quality produce Rossi has ever sent us. And... uh... something weird happened."
Rosie looked up, her dark hazel eyes calm and cool. "What?"
"Salvatore Rossi was on the truck himself," Kevin whispered, leaning in as if afraid of being overheard. "He was wearing a high-vis vest, helping the drivers unload the truffle crates. He looked... Ms. Hastings, he looked terrified. He asked me three times if you were happy with the arrival time."
"Tell Mr. Rossi his promptness has been noted," Rosie said smoothly, tapping a line on her screen. "Ensure the pastry team begins the truffle-infused butter reduction immediately."
"Yes, ma'am!" Kevin scurried back down the stairs.
Rosie turned back to her tablet, but her eyes flicked toward the shadow of the velvet curtains near the east entrance of the ballroom.
Standing discreetly beside a marble pillar was Mateo.
He was dressed in a standard hotel security suit, but his thick neck, scarred eyebrow, and the subtle bulge beneath his left armpit made him stick out to anyone who knew what to look for. He caught Rosie’s eye and gave her a single, slow nod of his head.
Lorenzo's men are on the floor.
By two o'clock in the afternoon, the Vance wedding was in full, glorious swing.
The ballroom was an ocean of black tuxedos, silk evening gowns, crystal champagne flutes, and the sweet, melodic strains of a twenty-piece string orchestra playing classical waltzes. Four hundred and ninety-eight members of Chicago’s ultra-elite social scene drank fifty-four-degree sparkling water, ate razor-thin shavings of black truffle over wild mushroom risotto, and celebrated the union of Victoria Vance and her hedge-fund heir groom.
Rosie moved through the room like a shadow.
She fixed a leaning floral centerpiece on Table Twelve before anyone noticed it was crooked. She discreetly replaced a dropped silver fork at the mayor's table within four seconds of it touching the carpet. She managed a brief, high-tension confrontation with Victoria Vance’s mother—a woman whose face was so tightly pulled by plastic surgery she could barely blink—over the temperature of the lemon sorbet, resolving the crisis with three quiet words and a complimentary bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon.
Throughout it all, Rosie’s mind was calculating every second.
Six o'clock: Reception concludes. Seven o'clock: Ballroom cleanup begins. Eight-thirty: Anthony Moretti’s private motorcade arrives at the subterranean entrance on Walton Street. Nine o'clock: Room 204.
At five-thirty, as the wedding guests began filtering toward the main lobby for the valet pickup, a high-ranking hotel executive—a tall, thin man named Mr. Henderson who wore rimless glasses and smelled constantly of peppermint—approached Rosie near the main doors.
"Sensational work today, Rosie," Henderson said, looking over the pristine ballroom with visible relief. "Arthur Vance just personally complimented the service to the General Manager. He said it was the smoothest event the Drake has hosted in a decade."
"Thank you, Mr. Henderson," Rosie said politely.
"Oh, by the way," Henderson added, tapping his leather schedule folder. "The General Manager asked me to assign the late-night executive dining service in Room 204 to one of the junior staff. You’ve been on your feet for fourteen hours, Rosie. Go home. Take the night off."
Rosie’s heart skipped a beat.
If Henderson removed her from Room 204's roster, Lorenzo’s entire plan collapsed. And if Lorenzo's plan collapsed, her deal—and her safety—went straight down the river.
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Henderson," Rosie said, her voice smooth, cheerful, and entirely unbothered. "Room 204 is hosting an international real-estate investment delegation tonight—Mr. Lorenzo Bianca’s party. They have extremely specific dietary requirements and high-security protocols. I prefer to manage the service personally to ensure there are no slip-ups."
Henderson blinked, looking slightly surprised. "Are you sure? You must be exhausted."
"I am fine, sir," Rosie smiled, her face a mask of dedicated professionalism. "Hospitality never sleeps."
Henderson smiled warmly, clapping her gently on the shoulder. "You really are indispensable, Rosie. Very well. Room 204 is yours."
As Henderson walked away, Rosie turned her head toward the grand staircase.
Standing near the top landing, looking down at her through the amber light of the grand chandelier, was Lorenzo Bianca.
He was dressed in a dark charcoal three-piece suit, a heavy silver watch glittering on his wrist. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He simply raised his crystal tumbler toward her in a silent, powerful toast before turning and disappearing into the executive hallway.
Rosie took a long breath, checking her watch.
8:15 PM.
May you like
She pulled her small leather notebook from her jacket pocket, pulled out her pen, and walked toward the private service elevator that led up to the Glass Room.
The storm was about to hit.
