Chapter 8 - PENTHOUSE PERILThe Valenti Hotel glowed against the midnight Chicago skyline like a monolith of wealth and corruption. Crystal chandeliers glittered through floor-to-ceiling glass windows on the top floor, where elite businessmen, politicians, and syndicate bosses mingled in expensive tuxedos and designer gowns.
We bypassed security by infiltrating the service elevator using a stolen maintenance override card Calder had carried.
When the doors slid open on the penthouse level, the muffled sound of classical string music and clinking champagne flutes hit our ears.
"Stay here by the stairwell exit," I whispered to Adrian, keeping him in the shadows. "If I'm not back in twenty minutes, use the flash drives to upload the files to every major news outlet and run."
"And if you don't make it back?" Adrian asked quietly.
"Then tell the world Mara Bell made terrible coffee," I said, offering a cold, razor-thin smile before slipping out into the corridor.
The grand ballroom was breathtaking and grotesque. Men who traded human lives laughed over vintage wine, oblivious to the fact that the ghost they thought they buried had just walked through the front door.
At the center of the room, standing beside a podium overlooking the Chicago skyline, was an elderly man with silver hair, sharp aristocratic features, and cold, calculating eyes.
Victor Vance. My uncle.
He raised a glass of champagne, calling for attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight marks a new era for Valenti Logistics. We are expanding our horizons—permanently."
The room erupted into polite, eager applause.
I walked steadily down the center aisle, my hand resting comfortably on the grip of the Walther hidden beneath my jacket. Heads turned as people noticed a woman in tactical gear striding through a black-tie gala, but before security could react, I drew the weapon and fired a single shot into the crystal chandelier above.
CRASH.
Glass rained down over the ballroom floor. Screams echoed off the marble walls as panic instantly seized the elite crowd. Security guards rushed toward me from all sides, drawing their sidearms.
I didn't flinch. I spun around, sweeping the legs of the first guard, disarming him in one fluid motion, and using him as a human shield against the second.
"Victor!" I shouted over the chaos, raising the Walther directly toward the podium.
My uncle froze, his champagne glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the floor. Color drained from his face as his eyes locked onto mine.
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"E... Elena?" he stammered, his aristocratic composure shattering into dust. "You're dead. The fire in Berlin..."
"Lie number one of many, Uncle," I said, stepping over a paralyzed security guard and walking slowly toward the stage. "I'm here to collect the rest of the inheritance."
