Chapter 3 - THE SECRETARY'S RECKONING
The Art of the UnderworldThe service elevator descended into the bowels of the Waldorf with a sickening, mechanical groan. Inside the small metal box, Chastity stood perfectly still, her hands trembling as she looked down at her dress.
The emerald silk was no longer pristine. A streak of Gabriel’s blood was smeared across the midsection, a gruesome contrast against the brilliant green.
"Damn him," she whispered, her voice cracking in the silence. "Damn him for playing the martyr."
She didn't cry. She hadn't cried since she was a child. In Gabriel Mercer’s world, tears were just lubricant for a bullet.
The elevator bell chimed, a cheerful, jarring sound as the doors slid open into the damp, concrete basement of the hotel.
Waiting in the shadows was Mick, a tall, gaunt man with a jagged scar running from his ear to his collarbone. He held a submachine gun against his chest. When he saw Chastity emerge alone, his eyes widened.
"Where’s the boss?" Mick demanded, stepping forward.
"He’s upstairs. He’s shot," Chastity said, her voice instantly shifting back into the cold, authoritative tone she used when balancing the syndicate's ledgers. "The Leone family ambushed the gala. He stayed behind to clear the exit because the backup generator couldn't support the weight of both of us."
Mick swore, pulling out his radio. "All units, we have a code black at the Waldorf. The boss is—"
"Put the radio down, Mick," Chastity commanded.
Mick blinked, looking at the secretary as if she had lost her mind. "Miss Morales, with all due respect, I take orders from Mercer, not his assistant."
"Gabriel is currently bleeding out on a kitchen floor while five hitmen try to finish the job," Chastity said, stepping directly into his space. The sheer emerald dress and the blood on her face made her look like a vengeful spirit. "If you broadcast that he is compromised over an unencrypted radio channel, every low-life from here to the border will storm this building to take his head. Do you want to start a gang war tonight, or do you want to save his life?"
Mick hesitated, the cold logic of her words penetrating his panic. He lowered the radio. "What do we do?"
"We don't use the front doors," Chastity said, pulling her clutch open and retrieving her work phone—an encrypted device that never left her side. She quickly tapped into the Waldorf's building schematic, which she had downloaded months ago as part of Gabriel's standard security protocols. "The Leones think they have the perimeter secured. But they don't know about the old coal tunnels underneath the boiler room. They lead directly to the municipal subway lines."
She looked up at Mick. "Do you have the medical kit in the SUV?"
"Yeah. The heavy-duty trauma pack."
"Get it. And bring two extra magazines for my gun."
Mick stared at her. "Your gun?"
Chastity reached down, reached into the deep, hidden slit of her emerald dress, and pulled a compact, pearl-handled .22 revolver from a strap bound tightly around her thigh. It was a weapon Gabriel didn't know she carried. A gift from her father, a man who had died in the same trenches Gabriel now ruled.
"You think I've sat next to a monster for three years without learning how to bite, Mick?" Chastity asked, her eyes flashing with a dangerous brilliance. "Get the kit. We're going back up."
Five minutes later, they were moving through the dark, subterranean corridors of the hotel. The air was thick with the smell of old dust and heating oil.
Chastity led the way, using her phone's screen to navigate the labyrinth. Her stiletto heels had been abandoned in the basement; she was barefoot now, her silk dress pulled up and tied in a knot around her waist to allow her to move quickly.
As they reached the access stairs leading back to the banquet kitchens, the sound of muffled voices echoed from above.
"He's bleeding bad," a man’s voice rasped in Italian-accented English. "Track the blood trail. He couldn't have gone far."
Chastity crept up the stairs, peering through the small glass pane of the fire door.
Gabriel was there. He had barricaded himself behind a massive stainless-steel prep table. His overcoat was gone, his white shirt almost entirely soaked in crimson. He was holding his gun with a visibly trembling hand, his breathing ragged.
Two Leone hitmen were slowly advancing on his position, their weapons raised.
"Mick," Chastity whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. "The man on the left. Take him out. The one on the right is mine."
"Miss Morales—"
"Do it!"
Mick kicked the fire door open.
The kitchen erupted into violence once more. Mick fired a burst from his submachine gun, catching the left hitman squarely in the chest.
The second hitman spun around, raising his weapon toward Mick, but before he could pull the trigger, a sharp bang echoed through the kitchen.
Chastity stood on the stairs, her two-handed grip steady on the small .22 revolver.
The bullet struck the hitman in the throat. He gasped, dropping his weapon as he collapsed to the floor, clutching his neck.
Gabriel’s head snapped up. Through the haze of pain and blood loss, his eyes widened as he saw Chastity standing in the doorway, barefoot, covered in blood, holding a smoking gun.
"Chastity..." Gabriel choked out, his voice faint. "I told you... to leave."
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She marched across the kitchen floor, ignoring the bodies, and dropped to her knees beside him. She dropped her gun onto the counter and opened Mick’s trauma pack.
"And I told you, Gabriel," she said, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she ripped his shirt open to expose the wound. "Your calendar is clear for the evening. Which means you don't get to die until I say so."
