Chapter 7 - Whispers in the Shadows
While the ballroom upstairs buzzed with champagne, laughter, and high-society politics, the sub-level service corridors of The Drake Hotel were cool, dim, and entirely detached from the celebration.
Marcus Vance walked briskly down the concrete hallway, his heavy leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the floor. He stopped in front of a heavy steel utility door marked Authorized Personnel Only.
Two of Vincent’s most trusted enforcers stood guard outside the door, their arms crossed over their broad chests. They gave Marcus a sharp nod of acknowledgment.
“Is he awake?” Marcus asked, pulling a heavy iron key ring from his pocket.
“Barely,” one of the guards muttered, spitting out a toothpick. “Hasn't stopped whining about his constitutional rights for the last two hours. Keeps threatening to call the mayor.”
Marcus snorted. “Tell him the mayor is currently upstairs eating mini quiches and donating to Emily’s favorite charity fund. Let’s see how far that gets him.”
With a heavy, mechanical clack, Marcus unlocked the steel door and swung it open.
Gideon Vale sat slumped on an upturned wooden crate in the center of the cramped, windowless utility room. His designer suit was wrinkled and stained with concrete dust, his hair disheveled, and the arrogant, cocky smirk that had defined him at the cathedral was entirely gone, replaced by a hollow, defeated glare.
He looked up as the light from the hallway flooded his dark cell, squinting against the glare.
“Marlow,” Gideon rasped, his voice hoarse. “Are you here to finish it?”
Marcus stepped into the room, leaning casually against a metal shelving unit filled with cleaning supplies. He didn't carry a weapon, but the cold amusement in his eyes was dangerous enough.
“Finish it? Relax, Vale. The boss is upstairs enjoying his wedding reception. He’s got better things to do than deal with trash.”
Gideon tried to stand, his knees wobbling slightly from exhaustion and stress. “You can’t keep me down here. I have people. I have contracts—!”
“You had people,” Marcus corrected smoothly, cutting him off. “Fifty guys who dropped their rifles the second a woman in a wedding dress looked at them sideways. Let’s be honest, Gideon—your crew didn't leave because of our snipers. They left because they realized you were an idiot leading them into a meat grinder.”
Gideon clenched his fists, trembling with rage and humiliation. “She humiliated me. That... that woman humiliated me in front of everyone.”
Marcus chuckled, pushing off the shelf and walking toward the door. “Yeah, well, that woman is now Mrs. Marlow. And rule number one of surviving in Chicago is simple: never, under any circumstances, interrupt her wedding.”
May you like
Marcus stepped back out into the hallway, pulling the heavy steel door shut with a resounding, metallic slam.
“Keep him down here until dawn,” Marcus instructed the guards over his shoulder as the lock clicked into place. “Then put him on a one-way cargo train heading west. Let him figure out his own logistics.”
