Chapter 7 - THE ARMORY OF THE PASTThe safety deposit box at the First National Bank didn't hold money. It held ghosts.
Using Calder's key, I unlocked the steel box in the dim, quiet vault room. Inside sat a matte-black passport folder, three encrypted flash drives containing the financial records of the entire syndicate, and a sleek, custom-modified Walther PPK—the exact model I used to carry before I threw my badge into the Danube.
Adrian stood watch outside the vault door, holding his injured arm tight against his chest, his face pale from blood loss but his eyes sharp.
"Is everything there?" he asked as I stepped out of the booth.
"Everything," I said, slipping the flash drives into my pocket and tucking the Walther into the waistband of my dark cargo pants. I had ditched the diner uniform hours ago; now, I wore black tactical gear sourced from Adrian’s hidden stash—practical, dark, and lethal.
"The gala starts at eight," Adrian said, checking his watch. "Valenti Hotel, penthouse suite. Security will be airtight—private mercenaries, metal detectors, facial recognition at every elevator."
"Good thing I know the architectural blueprints better than the architects do," I replied, pulling a dark tactical turtleneck over my head. "My uncle designed that hotel fifteen years ago. Every panic room, every ventilation shaft, every blind spot."
Adrian looked at me, a mixture of awe and caution in his dark eyes. "You're walking into a slaughterhouse, Elena."
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"No," I corrected him, cocking the slide of the Walther with a sharp, metallic clack. "I'm walking into a family reunion."
We slipped out of the bank's underground garage into the damp Chicago night air, sliding into a nondescript black sedan. The storm clouds above were heavy, promising rain that would wash the streets clean before the night was over.
