Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Executive SuiteThe fourth floor of the Grand Monarch was unnaturally silent.
While sirens wailed on the street below and police cruisers flooded the hotel's front entrance, the executive wing remained locked in a thick, artificial tranquility. The carpet here was deep burgundy, muffling their footsteps as Leonardo, Meline, and Dante moved past mahogany-paneled doors.
Meline’s mind was racing. Marcus Sterling had been her boss for six years. He was a quiet, meticulous man who spent his weekends playing golf with city council members and bragging about the hotel's five-star ratings. The idea that he could be involved in an international assassination plot was absurd.
Yet, when Dante kicked open the double doors to the Director of Operations suite, the room was empty.
Drawers were pulled open. A paper shredder in the corner was still warm, its bin overflowing with white paper ribbon. On the massive oak desk sat an empty glass of scotch and an unlit cigar.
"He cleared out," Dante said, sweeping the room with his weapon raised. "Left in a hurry. The side service stairs lead directly to the underground parking garage."
Leonardo walked slowly around the desk, his gloved fingers trailing over the polished wood. He stopped beside the internal hotel printer sitting on a side credenza. He pressed the interface screen, pulling up the machine's internal memory log.
"Job 409," Leonardo read aloud. "Printed at 4:18 PM. File name: Grand_Monarch_Table1_Final.pdf. User ID: M_Sterling."
Meline pressed her hand against her mouth. "It was him."
"It wasn't just him," Leonardo corrected, his voice dropping into a sinister hush. He reached down and picked up a leather-bound appointment ledger lying near the shredder. He flipped through the pages until he reached today's date. "Sterling didn't have the connections to hire a professional sniper who carries cyanide capsules. He was just the inside man."
"Who was he meeting?" Meline asked, stepping closer to the desk, her professional curiosity overriding her fear for a brief second.
Leonardo held out the ledger.
Written in neat, black ink in the 3:00 PM slot was a single name: Moretti.
Dante swore under his breath. "Julian Moretti? Boss, he's supposed to be in federal custody in Chicago."
"Supposed to be," Leonardo said softly, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticked beneath his skin. "Evidently, the justice department's security is as porous as this hotel's."
Meline looked between the two men, feeling completely out of her depth. "Julian Moretti... the shipping tycoon?"
"The man who controls half the illegal freight coming through the Brooklyn piers," Leonardo explained, his dark eyes fixing on hers. "Three years ago, I stripped him of his holdings in the European shipping consortium. He promised he would kill me before the decade ended."
Suddenly, the red emergency phone on the executive desk began to ring.
The sound shattered the heavy silence like a gunshot.
Leonardo didn't flinch. He slowly reached out, picked up the receiver, and pressed it to his ear without saying a word.
A harsh, raspy voice echoed through the speaker—a voice distorted by electronic scramblers.
"I see you found Marcus's office, Leonardo," the voice mocked softly. "A pity about the ballroom. The shooter was expensive, but I suppose one must cut corners when dealing with short notice."
"Julian," Leonardo said smoothly, leaning his hip against the oak desk. "You always were terrible at delegation."
"The night is young, my friend," Moretti whispered through the static. "I hear you have a new companion. The little event coordinator who noticed the seating chart. A clever girl. It's a shame she's standing in a room that is currently rigged with four pounds of C4 beneath the floorboards."
Meline froze, her breath catching violently in her throat.
Leonardo's expression didn't change, but his knuckles went white against the black telephone receiver. "If you detonate this building, Moretti, you destroy your own financial records in the basement vault."
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"A sacrifice I am entirely willing to make to see you burned to ash," Moretti laughed—a cold, metallic sound. "You have three minutes, Leonardo. Let's see how fast you can run with a civilian in high heels."
The line went dead with a loud click.
