Chapter 4 - The Drake Hotel Gala
The Drake Hotel on Michigan Avenue was glittering with crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, and the crème de la crème of Chicago’s corrupt elite. Men in velvet tuxedos and women in shimmering silk gowns mingled beneath vaulted ceilings, laughing loudly, completely unaware that the ground beneath their feet was about to give way.
I wasn't wearing a delivery uniform.
I wore a backless, emerald-green silk gown that hugged my athletic frame like a second skin, purchased using a fraction of Dominic’s retainer. My hair was swept up into a sleek chignon, and a diamond-encrusted choker—loaned to me by Marcus’s covert logistics team—sparkled against my throat.
Passing through the gold-trimmed lobby, I flashed a forged VIP security pass bearing the name Dr. Evelyn Vance.
“Right this way, Dr. Vance,” the doorman smiled, tipping his hat.
I descended the grand staircase leading to the service corridors behind the ballroom, leaving the glittering lights and champagne laughter behind. The air grew cooler, smelling of bleach, damp concrete, and old steam pipes.
My earpiece buzzed with Marcus’s static-laced voice.
“Avery, you’re clear on sector four. Security patrol just rotated toward the east loading dock. You have four minutes before the digital lock on the sub-basement archive resets.”
“Copy that,” I whispered back, stepping silently down the concrete steps in my four-inch heels.
The sub-basement archive was supposed to be impenetrable. Two-ton steel doors, biometric scanners, and a direct feed to the private security firm Arthur Vance owned. But Vance didn't account for the fact that my father had helped design the original security architecture of the Drake Hotel back in the nineties before he was pushed out of the engineering syndicate.
I walked up to the biometric panel, pulled a small micro-filament scanner from my evening clutch, and tapped into the bypass port.
Beep. Beep. Green light.
The heavy steel door slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
I slipped inside, closing the door behind me. The room was lined with rows of fireproof filing cabinets and digital servers humming quietly in the dark. I walked straight to the primary safe hidden behind a framed portrait of Arthur Vance himself.
Before I could reach for the dial, the heavy archive door behind me slammed open.
“Well, well,” a smooth, oily voice drawled from the doorway. “If it isn't the delivery girl playing dress-up.”
I turned slowly.
Standing in the doorway was Arthur Vance himself—tall, silver-haired, wearing a tailored navy suit identical to Dominic’s, with a cold, dead smile playing across his lips. Behind him stood two massive armed thugs holding suppressed handguns.
“Avery Carter,” Arthur murmured, stepping into the room and inspecting me as if I were a bug on his shoe. “Your father was a stubborn fool who didn't know when to stay in his lane. It looks like the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.”
I didn't flinch. I didn't reach for my hidden blade.
Instead, I smiled.
“My father taught me one very important lesson, Arthur,” I said softly, rolling my shoulders back as I slipped out of my high heels with effortless grace, letting them drop to the concrete floor.
Arthur frowned. “And what’s that?”
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“Never trust a man who leaves his back exposed.”
Before Arthur’s guards could raise their weapons, the lights in the sub-basement archive abruptly plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
