“Dance As My Husband—There’s a Red Dot on Your Forehead,” She Whispered to the Mafia Boss…
“The men upstairs are carrying equipment purchased…
“The men upstairs are carrying equipment purchased through a Newark shipping intermediary called Hudson Maritime Logistics.”
His face stayed blank.
But his eyes didn’t.
“Never heard of it.”
“You own forty percent through three shell companies.”
That landed.
I continued.
“The purchase authorization came through a private account controlled by Nathaniel Caruso.”
Gabriel’s oldest friend.
His underboss.
The man whose name appeared beside Gabriel’s on half the charity programs downstairs.
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe.”
I leaned closer to the gun.
“Call him.”
Gabriel stared at me.
“Go ahead.”
He took out his phone.
No signal.
I smiled without humor.
“Funny timing.”
The elevator jerked.
Lights flickered.
Then stopped.
Gabriel looked at the floor indicator.
Fourth floor.
We had been heading down.
Somebody had seized control of the elevator.
Heavy footsteps sounded outside.
I pulled the compact pistol strapped beneath my torn skirt.
Gabriel looked down.
Then back at me.
“You really did come prepared.”
“I came prepared for a gala.”
“This is your gala equipment?”
“You should see what I wear to Thanksgiving.”
For the first time, he almost smiled.
Then the footsteps stopped directly outside the doors.
Gabriel lifted his weapon.
I lifted mine.
And as the elevator doors began opening, I realized something worse than Nathaniel’s betrayal.
Somebody inside Gabriel’s family knew exactly where we were.
And they were waiting.
PART 2 — The failed ambush proves Gabriel’s enemies already control his house.
The doors opened six inches.
Gunfire hit the steel.
Gabriel pulled me sideways.
I fired low through the gap, not trying to be heroic, just forcing whoever was outside to move.
Gabriel pushed through first.
Thirty ugly seconds later, the hallway was quiet.
Too quiet.
Three attackers were down.
One had escaped around the corner.
I grabbed the encrypted radio clipped to one man’s vest.
Gabriel searched another attacker’s pockets.
Then he froze.
“What?”
He held up a black hotel key card.
Not guest access.
Executive security access.
“That opens staff-only floors,” I said.
“My office arranged those cards for my protection team.”
“Then somebody duplicated them.”
He stood.
“No. Only three people can authorize replacements.”
“Let me guess. You, Nathaniel…”
“And Lorenzo.”
Lorenzo Bellini.
His consigliere.
Sixty-one years old.
Family friend.
The man who had reportedly held Gabriel at his baptism and stood beside his father’s casket twenty years later.
Gabriel looked suddenly older.
Not weaker.
Just less certain.
That was more dangerous.
We moved through the fourth-floor service hall.
Somewhere nearby, a vacuum cleaner still ran unattended.
A television inside a guest suite played a Yankees highlight reel.
New York kept moving.
That’s the thing about disaster.
Half a block away, somebody is always ordering Chinese food.
My earpiece remained dead.
“They’re jamming us,” I said.
Gabriel glanced at me.
“Whoever hired you expected this?”
“Some of it.”
“Who?”
I didn’t answer.
He stopped me beside a housekeeping cart.
His stare could have cracked stone.
“Madeline.”
“Your sister.”
Everything in him went still.
“Evelyn?”
“She hired Archangel three weeks ago.”
“My sister is in Milan.”
“She landed at Teterboro this morning.”
His jaw tightened.
“She lied to me.”
“She was trying to keep you alive.”
“That doesn’t improve my mood.”
“No. Families rarely do.”
We headed toward the laundry wing.
Behind us, another radio clicked alive.
A male voice said six words.
“Russo is moving east. Close it.”
Gabriel heard it too.
He looked at me.
Nobody should have known our direction.
Unless they could see us.
I raised my eyes.
Security camera.
Small.
Black dome.
Watching us from the ceiling.
And the little red light was blinking.
PART 3 — A hidden camera reveals the traitor watching every move.
I dragged Gabriel beneath the camera.
He stared upward.
“That system belongs to the hotel.”
“Not that camera.”
“How do you know?”
“Wrong housing. Wrong mounting bracket.”
I stood on the housekeeping cart and ripped the device from the ceiling.
A tiny transmitter had been taped behind it.
Private feed.
Live.
Gabriel looked murderous.
“They’ve been watching us since we left the ballroom.”
“Probably before.”
I pulled the memory card.
“That could help.”
“You think the people trying to kill me politely recorded themselves?”
“Criminals love cameras when they think they control them.”
We reached the industrial laundry room.
Huge washers.
Steel tables.
Canvas carts filled with white sheets.
The smell of detergent almost covered the smoke drifting down from upstairs.
Almost.
I opened the laundry chute.
Then a man spoke behind us.
“I always said you were difficult to kill, Gabriel.”
Gabriel turned.
Lorenzo stood between two armed men.
Gray suit.
Perfect tie.
Calm face.
Like he had arrived for a board meeting.
Gabriel lowered his gun half an inch.
It was the first real mistake I had seen him make.
“Lorenzo?”
The old man actually looked disappointed.
“That stubborn expression. Your father wore the same one.”
Gabriel’s voice dropped.
“You raised me.”
“I advised you.”
“You ate Thanksgiving dinner in my mother’s kitchen.”
“And you ignored every lesson I gave you.”
