Chapter 14 - The Devil's Gala
The Obsidian nightclub was a monument to excessive wealth and hidden corruption,
a massive,
multi-level building located in the heart of the city's financial district,
glowing with neon lights and surrounded by a fleet of expensive,
imported vehicles.
The line to enter the exclusive charity gala wrapped around the block,
filled with women in glittering designer gowns and men in sharp,
custom-tailored tuxedos,
blissfully unaware that they were stepping into a war zone.
I sat in the back of an armored black surveillance van parked two blocks away,
staring at the glowing monitors that Silas had rigged up,
my heart pounding so hard I felt it in my teeth.
Asher sat beside me,
his jaw clenched,
his fingers tightly gripping the sleek,
black communication radio,
listening to the encrypted frequency connecting us to the woman walking straight into the lion's den.
"Radio check,
Phantom,"
Asher muttered into the microphone,
using her old operative call-sign,
his voice strained with a heavy,
suffocating anxiety.
"Loud and clear,
Overlord,"
Eleanor's voice crackled softly over the speaker,
sounding completely relaxed,
as if she were ordering a coffee instead of breaching a mafia stronghold.
On the main monitor,
the hidden camera pinned to her dress provided a crystal-clear feed of her surroundings,
showing the massive,
gold-plated double doors of the nightclub.
She stepped out of the rented limousine,
and for a moment,
I almost didn't recognize her.
The plain,
beige sweaters and crisp white aprons were gone,
replaced by a breathtaking,
floor-length gown made of deep crimson silk,
clinging perfectly to her frame,
making her look like a goddess of war bathed in blood.
Her dark hair was styled elegantly over one shoulder,
diamonds glittering at her throat,
a small,
venetian masquerade mask covering the upper half of her face,
hiding the deadly,
calculating eyes of a killer.
She walked with impossible grace,
her posture regal,
commanding the attention of every man and woman standing near the entrance,
parting the crowd effortlessly as she approached the heavy-set security guards blocking the door.
"Invitation,
miss,"
the guard grunted,
his eyes sweeping over her crimson dress,
completely distracted by her beauty,
failing to notice the lethal tension in her muscles.
Eleanor handed him a flawless forgery created by Silas,
a perfect replica of a VIP pass,
listing her under a fake,
aristocratic name that could not be traced.
The guard scanned the barcode,
the machine beeping a bright,
cheerful green,
and he stepped aside,
opening the heavy doors to let her pass into the chaotic,
pounding bass of the gala.
"I am inside,"
Eleanor murmured,
her lips barely moving,
the tiny microphone hidden in her diamond necklace picking up her whisper perfectly over the loud music.
"Proceed to the elevator bank on the north wall,"
Silas instructed rapidly,
typing furiously on his keyboard,
bypassing the club's firewall to loop the security camera feeds.
"Donatello's vault is on the top floor,
but the elevators require biometric access,
you will need a high-ranking lieutenant's thumbprint to bypass the lock."
Eleanor moved through the crowded dance floor,
weaving gracefully between the intoxicated socialites and the dangerous mob bosses,
her eyes scanning the room,
identifying threats,
marking exits,
and analyzing the patrol routes of the armed guards.
"Target acquired,"
Eleanor whispered smoothly,
her camera feed focusing on a tall,
brutish man standing near the VIP bar,
wearing a flashy suit and laughing loudly with two women.
It was Marco,
Donatello's right-hand man,
a brutal enforcer known for his violent temper and his high-level access to the Romano compound.
"How do you plan to get his thumbprint?"
I asked through the radio,
sweat pooling on my forehead,
terrified that she was pushing her luck too far.
"I am going to ask him for a dance,
Kaelen,"
Eleanor replied,
her voice dripping with a dangerous,
seductive confidence.
We watched in tense,
suffocating silence as she approached the bar,
ordering a glass of champagne,
and deliberately spilling a few drops onto Marco's expensive shoes.
He turned around,
furious,
his mouth opening to shout an insult,
but the moment he saw her crimson dress and her glittering mask,
his anger vanished,
replaced instantly by predatory interest.
"My apologies,"
Eleanor purred,
her voice a pitch-perfect imitation of a wealthy,
spoiled heiress,
"I am afraid I am terribly clumsy tonight."
Marco grinned,
stepping closer to her,
May you like
falling completely,
hopelessly into the trap set by a ghost.
