Chapter 7 - Landing in Baltimore
The private Marchetti jet touched down at Baltimore-Washington International Airport under the cover of a freezing midnight rain.
A sleek convoy of three black armored Mercedes waiting on the tarmac whisked them away before the plane's turbines had even fully wound down. In the back seat of the lead car, Arya stared out the window at the familiar, glittering skyline of the city where her life had been ripped apart three years ago.
"Nervous?" Rocco asked, sitting beside her. He was dressed in a razor-sharp charcoal suit, his expression carved from granite.
"Not nervous," Arya said, turning to meet his gaze. "Ready."
"Good. Because Dr. Sterling is currently hosting an elite charity gala at the Inner Harbor Marriott to celebrate his nomination for the National Medical Innovation Award. That's where we're going."
"We're crashing a black-tie medical gala?" Arya raised an eyebrow.
"We aren't crashing," Rocco replied with a cold, predatory smile. "We're making a grand entrance."
Twenty minutes later, the grand ballroom of the Inner Harbor Marriott was buzzing with laughter, clinking champagne flutes, and the gentle hum of classical string music. Surgeons in expensive tuxedos and pharmaceutical executives in designer gowns mingled under sparkling crystal chandeliers.
On the elevated stage, Dr. Richard Sterling—silver-haired, impeccably groomed, and smiling like a statesman—was accepted a crystal trophy for his contributions to cardiovascular research.
"Thank you all so much," Sterling's smooth, practiced voice echoed through the microphone. "Innovation is never a solo journey. It requires sacrifice, dedication, and above all, absolute integrity..."
The heavy double doors at the back of the grand ballroom suddenly banged open with a deafening crash.
The music cuts off mid-measure. Two hundred heads snap toward the entrance in stunned silence.
Striding down the red carpeted aisle came Rocco Marchetti, flanked by four towering security guards in tactical suits. But it wasn't Rocco that made the room gasp in collective horror and disbelief.
It was the woman walking beside him.
Dr. Arya Vance. Wearing a breathtaking, backless emerald silk gown that commanded the room, her dark hair swept up in elegant cascading waves, walking with the posture of an absolute queen.
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Dr. Sterling froze on the stage, the crystal trophy nearly slipped from his grasp. His face drained of all color, turning the shade of spoiled milk.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Rocco's deep, resonant voice carried effortlessly across the silent ballroom. He stopped in the center aisle, looking straight up at the stage. "I apologize for interrupting the self-congratulatory circle-jerk. But I believe Dr. Sterling has a special guest he forgot to invite."
