Chapter 5 - THE GALA
"In here," Anna mouthed, grabbing Elias’s sleeve and pulling him toward the chemical storage closet. It was no bigger than a phone booth, smelling overwhelmingly of ammonia. They squeezed inside, Anna pulling the louvered door shut just as the lab lights flicked on.
Through the narrow slats, Anna saw Preston step into the room, flanked by one of the massive security guards from the restaurant. Preston kicked the shattered glass of the dropped beaker with his expensive leather shoe.
"She was here," Preston said, his voice echoing. "The glass is fresh."
Anna held her breath. Elias was trembling next to her, his breathing shallow. If he coughed, they were dead.
The security guard walked toward the closet. His shadow fell over the door. Anna gripped the padded box holding the solvent vials. If he opened the door, she would throw the chemicals right in his eyes.
"Mr. Blackwood," the guard’s radio crackled. "Your father wants you back at the penthouse. The Dubai clients are arriving early."
Preston scowled. "Fine. But leave two men at the exits of this building. If she shows her face, break her legs."
The lights clicked off. The door upstairs slammed shut.
Anna and Elias waited in the dark for twenty agonizing minutes before daring to move.
"We can't go out the doors," Anna whispered. "We have to use the old steam tunnels."
By 5:00 PM the next evening, Bellamy’s penthouse was a fortress.
Anna stood in the alley where she had been fired just twenty-four hours earlier. She was wearing a crisp, tailored server’s uniform she had pilfered from the laundry truck delivery an hour prior. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she wore thick, dark-rimmed glasses she’d bought at a pharmacy to alter her face.
Elias was safely hidden in a crowded 24-hour diner three blocks away, clutching a burner phone.
Anna checked the tiny earpiece hidden beneath her hair. "I'm going in," she whispered.
She bypassed the main security checkpoint by slipping through the kitchen loading dock, blending seamlessly with the chaotic rush of forty temporary caterers hired for the massive gala. Because she had worked there for a year, she knew exactly how to move without being noticed. Head down, carrying a tray, moving with aggressive purpose.
She rode the service elevator up to the 60th floor. The doors opened to a scene of staggering opulence.
Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. A string quartet played softly over the murmur of billionaires, politicians, and foreign royals.
The twelve paintings were displayed in a heavily guarded glass atrium adjoining the main ballroom. They were beautiful, but Anna knew instantly they were fake. The brushstrokes lacked Muski’s visceral violence; they were too clean, too commercial.
She needed to get into that atrium.
She grabbed a silver tray of champagne flutes and began walking toward the glass doors.
"Hey. Waitress."
Anna froze. The voice was right behind her.
She slowly turned.
Preston Blackwood was standing there, a smirk playing on his lips. He was holding a glass of scotch, looking her up and down.
"I asked for a dry martini ten minutes ago," Preston sneered.
He didn't recognize her. The glasses and the pulled-back hair were working.
"My apologies, sir," Anna lowered her voice, pitching it an octave higher. "I will get that for you immediately."
She turned to walk away.
"Wait a minute," Preston said.
He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. The same wrist he had grabbed when he smashed her phone.
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He looked at the frayed, braided bracelet poking out from her white cuff.
"I've seen this bracelet before," Preston whispered, his smirk vanishing into a look of absolute malice.
