Chapter 5 - The Gala of Wolves
The grand ballroom of the Palmer House was a monument to gilded excess. Massive crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls from ceilings painted with neoclassical frescoes. Four hundred of Chicago’s elite moved across the parquet floor in a sea of black tuxedos and couture silk, drinking champagne that cost more per bottle than my monthly studio rent.
On the tables sat the three hundred place cards I had spent three weeks lettering by hand.
Every time my eyes swept over the crisp, creamy vellum with its intricate black-and-gold script, a sick, cold knot tightened in my gut. Those cards were the reason I was here. Those cards were the thread that had dragged me out of my quiet, predictable life and dropped me straight into a pit of vipers.
Graham’s hand was resting firmly against the small of my back.
His grip was just a fraction too tight, his fingers splayed across the emerald satin of my gown. To anyone watching, he looked like the picture of an attentive, proud fiancé. He had arrived at my temporary hotel suite that afternoon with a dozen white lilies, an apology for the "terrible break-in" at my studio, and an expensive pair of diamond earrings that felt like lead weights hanging from my lobes.
*Some street junkies looking for scrap bronze,* he had said smoothly, kissing my cheek. *Thank God you were out running errands, Sadie. Don't worry. I've hired private security for you until the wedding.*
Private security. He meant wardens.
"You look stunning, sweetheart," Graham whispered in my ear, his breath smelling of gin and peppermint. "A little pale, perhaps. Are you sure you're feeling up to this?"
"I'm fine, Graham," I said, offering him the tight, practiced smile I had spent the last two days rehearsing in front of the mirror at Julian’s estate. "I worked so hard on the stationery. I wanted to see it on the tables."
"Of course you did," he said, patting my hip. "Simple pleasures. That’s what I love about you."
We moved toward the VIP reception near the raised dais. Across the room, standing beneath an archway of white orchids, was Julian Richi.
He was in full black tie, his tuxedo cut with an austere precision that made every other man in the room look slightly rumpled. He was speaking to a federal judge and the deputy mayor, holding a tumbler of mineral water, his face completely impassive. He didn't look at me. Not once. But I felt the weight of his awareness like an electric charge running through the floorboards.
"Look at him," Graham murmured, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper as we paused near the champagne fountain. "Playing the statesman. Half the men in this room owe him their livelihoods, and the other half are waiting for him to drop dead so they can pick his bones clean."
"You seem very interested in him, Graham," I said lightly, taking a sip from my flute to steady my nerves. "For someone who claimed he’d never met him until Thursday."
Graham’s fingers tightened on my back, the pressure digging through the satin into my spine.
"A man in my position has to know who the players are, Sadie," he said, his smile never wavering, his teeth gleaming under the chandeliers. "It’s called due diligence. Speaking of which..."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping into a confidential purr that made the skin on my neck prickle.
"After the keynote, we're going to step into the private dining suite on the mezzanine. A colleague from Detroit is joining us. He’s an attorney specializing in municipal trust restructuring. We're going to finalize the paperwork for your grandfather’s easement."
My heart skipped a violent beat. "Tonight? Graham, this isn't the place for business. You said we’d look at the trust after the honeymoon."
"Plans change, darling," he said, his blue eyes locking onto mine with the flat, unblinking intensity of a snake. "The market moves fast. And frankly, with the break-in at your studio, I want all your legal protections locked down. If anything happened to you before the wedding, the trust would revert to the state. We can't have that, can we?"
*If anything happened to you.*
It wasn't a concern. It was a deadline.
"Of course," I said, forcing my voice to remain smooth as glass. "Whatever you think is best."
"Good girl," he murmured, kissing the crown of my head. "Excuse me for a moment. I need to greet the commissioner. Stay right here."
Graham walked away, melting into the crowd with that effortless charm that had fooled me for two years.
The moment he was out of sight, a waiter in a white jacket stepped up beside me, offering a silver tray with fresh glasses.
"Mezzanine suite four," the waiter muttered without looking at me. "The service elevator behind the kitchen. Five minutes."
It was the same house manager who had warned me about Onyx at the gate.
I didn't hesitate. I slipped through the heavy velvet drapes flanking the bar, disappearing into the service corridor. The noise of the gala—the string quartet, the laughter, the clinking crystal—vanished instantly, replaced by the industrial hum of air handlers and the smell of roasting garlic from the banquet kitchens.
I took the service elevator to the mezzanine. Suite four was at the end of a dimly lit hallway carpeted in faded burgundy.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, Julian Richi stood by the window, looking out over the Chicago skyline. The room was sparsely furnished—a mahogany conference table, leather chairs, and a bank of security monitors glowing on the sideboard.
"He’s bringing an attorney up here after the speeches," I said, shutting the door behind me. My hands were shaking again, but my mind was clearer than it had ever been. "He wants me to sign the easement transfer tonight."
Julian didn't turn around immediately. He watched the lights of Michigan Avenue below.
"The attorney’s name is Leonard Vance," Julian said. "He spent twelve years drafting dummy corporations for the Detroit docks. Once you sign that charter amendment, Vance files an emergency petition with a Cook County judge who is currently on the Corliss payroll. Within two hours, the Monroe Trust ceases to exist, and the transit easement is transferred to a shell entity in Delaware."
"And what happens to me?"
Julian turned. The expression on his face was dark, carved from granite.
"Graham has a chartered flight leaving from Midway at 1:00 AM," Julian said. "A private Gulfstream registered to a holding company in the Bahamas. One passenger listed on the manifest."
"Just him."
"Just him."
I closed my eyes, leaning back against the heavy mahogany door. The final illusion—the stupid, pathetic hope that Graham was merely greedy, that some part of him had actually cared for me—withered and died in the dark of that room.
"What do we do?" I asked, opening my eyes.
Julian stepped toward the table. On the polished wood lay a single sheet of heavy parchment, an antique inkpot, and a dip pen with a gold nib.
May you like
"You told me you were a master calligrapher, Sadie," Julian said, his eyes locking onto mine. "Now prove it."
***
