Chapter 3 - The Drake Hotel
The Palm Court at the Drake Hotel was filled with the soft ambient sounds of a string quartet, the tinkling of fine china, and the quiet, heavy conversations of Chicago’s true ruling class.
Gabriel Costa sat at a secluded corner table beneath a grand marble archway. Across from him, Salvatore Marino was cutting into a rare steak, his thick, ringed fingers moving with slow, practiced precision. Isabella sat beside her father, sipping champagne, her laughter light and melodic as she showed Gabriel a leather swatch for their wedding venue decorations.
"The Gold Coast estate will need a complete interior redesign, Gabriel," Isabella was saying, her voice bright and unburdened. "Father says we can hire the designers who did the embassy in Paris."
"Whatever you prefer, Isabella," Gabriel said smoothly, taking a sip of his sparkling water.
His face was a mask of polite, handsome composure, but beneath his table, his left hand was clenched into a fist. His eyes kept flicking toward his heavy gold wrist watch.
12:30 PM.
Arthur hadn't called. That meant Clara was still locked in her apartment. He hated that he had felt forced to take such extreme measures, but when she had looked at him in his office six hours ago with those cold, distant eyes and handed him that letter, something wild and possessive had snapped inside his chest.
He had spent four years building a fortress around his life. He had fought off assassins, federal prosecutors, and rival families. But the thought of coming home to a city where Clara Bennett didn't answer his calls was an outcome he refused to accept.
"Gabriel?" Isabella asked, reaching over to touch his sleeve. "Are you listening to me?"
"Forgive me, Isabella," Gabriel smiled smoothly, placing his hand over hers. "I have a complex logistics issue on the riverfront that requires my attention."
"Always working," Salvatore rumbled, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin and leaning back in his chair. "That's why I like you, Gabriel. You don't let assets slip through your fingers. A man who loses control of his holdings loses everything."
Before Gabriel could reply, a quiet hush fell over the surrounding tables.
A tall woman in a dark navy suit walked past the maître d’ stand, ignoring the head waiter who tried to intercept her. She walked with supreme, effortless confidence, her heels clicking cleanly against the marble floor.
Gabriel froze.
It was Clara.
She looked radiant. Her dark eyes were burning with an icy, dangerous intelligence that made the hair on the back of Gabriel’s neck stand up. She didn't look like a runaway assistant. She looked like an executioner.
Salvatore looked up, his brow furrowing as Clara reached their table. "Who is this?"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Marino," Clara said, her voice smooth, formal, and perfectly modulated. She gave a slight, polite nod to Isabella. "Miss Marino. Forgive the intrusion."
Isabella blinked in confusion. "Clara? What are you doing here? I thought Gabriel gave you the day off."
Gabriel stood up so fast his heavy armchair scraped loudly against the floor. His silver eyes were terrifyingly dark as he stepped between Clara and Salvatore.
"Clara," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a register that was barely above a whisper, carrying a deadly edge. "You shouldn't be here."
"I know, Gabriel," Clara said, looking directly into his eyes, completely unbothered by the rage radiating from him. "But you forgot to turn off the corporate courier dispatch for the South Side shipping transfer tax files."
She pulled a thin, leather-bound folder from her arm and held it out toward Salvatore Marino.
"What is that?" Salvatore asked, his heavy eyebrows knitting together as his hand reached out instinctively toward the folder.
Gabriel’s hand shot out, grabbing Clara’s wrist with iron strength, stopping her inches from Salvatore’s fingers. His grip was tight enough to bruise, but Clara didn't even flinch. She simply looked at Gabriel’s hand on her wrist, then looked up into his eyes with a cold, mocking smile.
"That folder," Clara whispered, ensuring her voice was loud enough for Salvatore to hear, "contains the unredacted tax liability audit for the Costa-Marino joint dock terminals. The audit I personally prepared last week. The one that proves your chief financial officer has been skimming four percent from the union pension fund, Salvatore."
May you like
Salvatore’s face went instantly dark red. He slammed his hand down on the table, making the champagne glasses rattle. "What did you say?!"
"Gabriel," Clara said softly, her eyes locked on his furious face. "Let go of my wrist. Or I open this folder and read page seven out loud to the entire Palm Court."
