Chapter 6 - Operation Black TieThe ballroom of Marcus Vance’s waterfront estate looked like a scene straight out of a high-society magazine. Chandeliers made of imported crystal cast a warm, golden glow over hundreds of guests dressed in designer gowns and custom tuxedos. Classical music floated gently through the air, masking the undercurrent of tension, whispered politics, and illegal deals happening in the corners of the room.
Walking among them in a fitted black server’s vest and a white button-down shirt was Grace Bennett.
Her hair was pinned up neatly, and she carried a silver tray stacked with flutes of champagne. To anyone in the room, she was just another hired hand brought in to cater the elite event. Nobody paid attention to the waitstaff. People in power never did. And that was exactly why Grace was dangerous.
Through a tiny, flesh-colored earpiece hidden beneath her dark curls, Dominic’s deep voice crackled quietly.
“Status, Grace?”
“I’m past the main security checkpoint on the second floor,” Grace whispered back, her lips barely moving as she offered a glass of champagne to a passing city councilman. “The guards are heavy near the executive study, but the service elevator is wide open.”
“Be careful,” Dominic’s voice warned, laced with a rare hint of tension. “Marcus isn't an amateur. If he catches you near his private files, he won’t hesitate to put a bullet in you.”
“Noted. Love the vote of confidence,” Grace muttered sarcastically, slipping down a dimly lit hallway away from the blaring music of the ballroom.
She pressed her back against the cool mahogany wall beside a heavy double door labeled PRIVATE - M. VANCE. Two armed guards in black suits stood on either side of the entrance, their arms crossed over their chests, scanning the corridor.
Grace needed a distraction. And she needed it fast.
Spotting a service cart nearby loaded with crystal glassware and expensive bottles of liquor, Grace took a deep breath, grabbed a full bottle of vintage scotch, and deliberately tripped over her own feet, crashing the cart directly into the service door.
Crash!
Shattering glass echoed down the hallway like an explosion.
“What the hell?!” one guard shouted, spinning around and rushing toward the mess.
“I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” Grace cried out, dropping to her knees amid the shards of glass, putting on an Oscar-worthy performance of a panicked, clumsy waitress. “The wheel jammed! My boss is going to fire me!”
“Get out of here before I throw you over the balcony, you idiot!” the second guard barked, moving in to help his partner pull the weeping waitress away from the door.
While both guards were distracted, struggling with the mess and yelling at the clumsy server, the door behind them clicked open just a fraction—unlatched by the impact of the cart.
Grace didn't hesitate. While still pretending to cry on the floor, she gave the heavy door a swift, silent kick with her heel. It swung open wide enough for her to slip inside the dark, luxurious study unseen.
The door clicked shut behind her, cutting off the noise of the party.
Grace stood in the center of the room, her heart hammering against her ribs. The study was massive, lined with leather-bound books, antique globes, and a sprawling mahogany desk overlooking the dark waters of the bay.
She moved quickly toward the computer terminal on the desk. It was locked, requiring a secure biometric scan or a passcode.
“Mr. Hale,” Grace whispered into her earpiece, her hands flying across the keyboard. “I’m inside. The computer’s locked.”
“Look for the painting on the wall behind the desk,” Dominic’s voice instructed immediately, sounding laser-focused. “A landscape of the Boston harbor. Vance keeps his physical backup drives in a wall safe behind it.”
Grace spun around, spotting the massive oil painting hanging on the wall. She grabbed the edges, lifted it off the mount, and set it carefully on the floor.
Sure enough, a heavy metal keypad safe was embedded in the brick wall.
“What’s the code?” Grace asked, biting her lower lip.
“Try Sophie’s birthday,” Dominic said grimly. “Marcus was her godfather before... everything.”
Grace punched in the digits: 0-8-1-4.
A loud, mechanical clack echoed through the quiet room. The heavy steel door swung open.
Inside sat a small, black titanium flash drive. Etched onto the side of it was the official seal of the Boston Syndicate.
“I found it,” Grace breathed out in triumph, reaching out to grab the drive.
Suddenly, the overhead lights in the study flooded on with a sharp click.
“Well, well, well,” a smooth, chillingly polite voice echoed from the doorway. “It looks like trash day came early this year.”
May you like
Grace froze. Slowly, she turned around.
Standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe with a glass of scotch in his hand and a cold, predatory smile on his face, was Marcus Vance. And resting casually in his right hand was a silenced automatic pistol, pointed directly at Grace’s chest.
