Chapter 5 - THE BRIDAL SUITE
The envelope felt like a brick of lead in my hands as I walked down the long, carpeted corridor of the third floor toward the east wing.
My knuckles were white. The numbness in my back was beginning to give way to a distant, dull ache as the local anesthetic slowly wore off, but the adrenaline rushing through my veins drowned it out completely.
I reached the double doors of the bridal suite. From inside, I could hear the muffled sounds of laughter, the popping of a champagne cork, and the lilting jazz of an Italian ballad playing over a portable speaker.
I took a deep, steadying breath, schooling my face into the same subservient, vacant expression I had worn for eleven months.
I knocked twice.
The door was yanked open by Bianca, Vanessa’s cousin and maid of honor, a sharp-featured woman wrapped in a lavender silk robe, a glass of Mimosa in her hand.
"What is it?" she asked, looking me up and down with open contempt.
"I have the guest and transport manifest from Mr. Moretti's desk," I said, holding out the cream envelope. "Miss Bellini asked for it."
"Give it here," Vanessa’s voice called out from the depths of the suite.
Bianca stepped aside, letting me into the room.
The bridal suite was an explosion of tulle, ivory lace, and open makeup cases. Hanging from the center of the carved plaster ceiling was the wedding gown—a breathtaking, bespoke creation of Chantilly lace, shimmering with tens of thousands of hand-sewn seed pearls, trailing an eight-foot train across a protective white sheet.
Vanessa was sitting before a three-way vanity mirror, her makeup artist applying individual silk eyelashes with tiny silver tweezers.
She held out an impatient, manicured hand without looking away from the glass. "Give it to me, Claire. And tell Mrs. Carter that the florist sent the wrong shade of peonies. If the blush ones aren't here by eleven, I will personally throw them in the incinerator."
"Yes, ma'am," I said, stepping forward and placing the sealed envelope into her outstretched fingers.
Vanessa immediately broke the wax seal, sliding the single cream sheet out. Her eyes darted across the text, scanning the convoy schedules, the vehicle registrations, and the specific route notations down Wacker Drive.
I watched her through the mirror.
A tiny, triumphant smile curled the corner of her crimson lips. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, deeply satisfied breath.
"Is there anything else, Miss Bellini?" I asked quietly.
"No," she said, waving her hand dismissively without turning around. "Get out. And make sure you stay in the basement service kitchen for the rest of the day. I don't want your pathetic, limping figure ruining the wedding photographs."
"Of course, ma'am."
I turned toward the door, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Wait," Vanessa called out suddenly.
My blood ran cold. I stopped with my hand on the polished brass doorknob, forcing myself not to turn around too quickly. "Yes, ma'am?"
Vanessa had turned in her swivel chair, her dark eyes drilling into the back of my head. The makeup artist paused, holding a brush suspended in mid-air.
"You look very pale, Claire," Vanessa said, tilting her head with feigned concern. "Are you quite sure you’re fit to work?"
"I'm fine, ma'am. The painkillers helped."
Vanessa stood up, walking slowly across the room, the silk of her robe whispering against the floorboards. She stopped three feet from me, folding her arms across her chest.
"Did Luca say anything to you when you went into his study?"
"No, ma'am," I lied smoothly, looking directly into her eyes without flinching. "He was arguing on the phone with his shipping manager about a dock strike in New Jersey. He barely noticed me take the paper."
She studied my face for five agonizing seconds, searching for a tell, a tremor, a shift in my pupils.
I held her gaze, drawing on every ounce of strength I had inherited from my father, who had stared down company goons on the picket lines for thirty years.
Finally, Vanessa smiled—a cruel, beautiful smile of absolute condescension.
"Good," she said softly. "You may be stupid, Claire, but at least you know your place. Now go."
I opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, and pulled it shut behind me.
The instant the latch clicked, I leaned against the wainscoting, letting out a long, ragged exhale. My knees were shaking so violently I had to grab the molding to keep from falling.
She had taken the bait. The trap was set.
I took the service stairs down to the ground level, my shoes making no sound against the rubber treads. At the base of the staircase, standing in the shadows behind the industrial laundry bins, Daniel was waiting.
He wore a dark tactical windbreaker over a Kevlar vest, a secure comms earpiece looped over his left ear.
"She read it?" he asked in a low whisper.
"She read it," I confirmed. "And she was thrilled."
Daniel tapped his earpiece. "Eagle, this is Scout. Package has been delivered. Intercept confirmed."
He looked back at me, his rugged features softening slightly. "Transport is at the rear kitchen gate, Claire. Black Suburban, tinted windows. The driver is Frank—one of the boss’s personal inner circle. He’s taking you straight to Midway. Your mother is already in the medical van heading to the tarmac."
I hesitated, looking toward the heavy wooden door that led back to Luca's private wing. "Daniel... what about the ceremony? Is Luca really going to the cathedral?"
May you like
Daniel gave a grim, humorless shake of his head. "The boss has a few surprises planned for the altar, Claire. Now move. The city is about to become very loud."
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