Chapter 3 - The Chief of Staff
At 2:15 a.m., Mrs. Vance returned, knocked twice on the door, and motioned for Emma to follow her.
They walked deeper into the estate, moving through a grand gallery lined with tall arched windows that overlooked a dark, misty courtyard. Double doors carved from solid mahogany stood at the far end of the hall, guarded by two tall men in dark suits who stepped aside without speaking.
The main dining room was immense—a space that felt more like the council chamber of a small nation than a room in a private house. At the center of the dark parquet floor sat a twelve-foot dining table made of polished black walnut. The table was entirely bare except for two place settings at the far end, illuminated by a single low-hanging chandelier that cast a pool of stark white light across the pristine linen.
Standing by the hearth of a massive stone fireplace was a man in his mid-thirties.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit with a silver silk tie. His hair was dark blond, neatly styled, and his features were handsome in a sharp, predatory way. He was holding a glass of sparkling water, swirling it slowly as he studied a document on a leather-bound folder resting on the mantel.
When the double doors opened, he looked up, his lips curving into an easy, confident smile that didn't reach his bright blue eyes.
“Ah,” the man said, stepping forward with the relaxed grace of an actor taking the stage. “Ms. Brooks. Excellent. You clean up remarkably well.”
Emma stopped ten feet away from him, her posture rigid, her hands clasped tightly in front of her dress. “Are you Adrian Voss?”
The man let out a smooth, quiet laugh that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. “Hardly. My name is Nolan Pierce. I am Mr. Voss’s chief of staff, personal secretary, and primary administrator.”
He offered his hand. Emma looked at it, then looked back into his eyes, refusing to take it.
Pierce’s smile remained fixed, though a faint twitch touched the corner of his jaw before he smoothly dropped his hand back to his side.
“Direct,” Pierce noted, nodding appreciatively. “I like that. Frank assured me you were pragmatic.”
“Frank lied to me,” Emma said flatly. “He told me I was catering a dinner party. There are no other servers here. There’s no kitchen staff working. What am I doing here, Mr. Pierce?”
Pierce took a small sip of his water, looking at her over the rim of the glass. “You are here to perform a very simple, very specific service, Emma. Mr. Voss is a busy man. He requires assistance during private negotiations. Your job tonight is to sit near the head of the table, pour wine when requested, hand documents across the table when instructed, and maintain absolute silence.”
“And that’s worth four thousand dollars?”
“In our world,” Pierce said softly, stepping closer until he was standing just three feet from her, “discretion is the only commodity that never depreciates. You are being paid four thousand dollars not for what you will do tonight, but for what you will never repeat tomorrow.”
Emma stared at him. Nolan Pierce projected an aura of total control—the kind of polish that came from years of managing billionaires, politicians, and dangerous men. But as she watched his eyes, she noticed something subtle: a faint, almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders, a rapid flickering of his gaze toward the double doors every time a floorboard creaked in the corridor outside.
He wasn't calm. He was performing calm.
Before Emma could answer, the double doors clicked open again.
The shift in the room was instantaneous. Nolan Pierce’s posture straightened into military rigidity. Mrs. Vance stepped back toward the wall, her hands folded submissively. The two guards at the door stood at attention.
An elderly man entered the room, walking slowly, accompanied by a single assistant carrying a thin leather briefcase.
Adrian Voss did not look like the terrifying mob boss of Chicago legend. He was a man in his late sixties, leaning heavily on a polished cane made of black ironwood. He wore a simple, unadorned black suit. His hair was pure silver, slicked back from a broad, heavily lined forehead, and his face looked as though it had been carved out of granite.
But it was his eyes that froze Emma in her tracks.
They were a pale, luminous gray—devoid of anger, devoid of heat, carrying a absolute, icy intelligence that seemed to strip away every layer of pretense in the room within a fraction of a second.
May you like
Adrian Voss walked to the head of the long table. He did not speak. He did not offer a greeting to Nolan Pierce, nor did he look at Mrs. Vance.
He sat down in the heavy high-backed leather chair at the head of the table, rested his large, weathered hands on the polished wood, and turned those pale gray eyes directly onto Emma.
