Chapter 1 - The Ghost in Suite 904
The second message hung in the air like a death sentence.
AND DON’T LET VINCENT LEARN WHY HIS UNCLE REALLY DIED.
Vincent stared at the glowing screen.
The ballroom around them continued to buzz with the laughter of the oblivious elite, the clinking of crystal, the soft jazz floating from the stage.
But at this table, the world had completely stopped.
Vincent’s grip on the phone turned his knuckles entirely white. He looked at Frank. The man who had raised him. The man who had taught him how to spot a liar in a crowded room.
Frank wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Vincent,” Frank started, his voice a low, warning growl.
“Don’t.” Vincent cut him off. The word was sharp enough to draw blood.
Vincent turned his dark eyes toward Rachel. She was trembling, her waitress uniform suddenly feeling like a target painted directly on her chest. A Rossi. She was a Rossi. The daughter of a ghost. The niece of the man whose empire Vincent now ruled.
“Who sent that message?” Vincent demanded, stepping closer to Frank.
“I don’t know,” Frank lied.
Vincent knew it was a lie. Rachel knew it too.
Before Vincent could draw a weapon, Rachel’s gaze snapped toward the empty chair on Vincent's left.
“Where is she?” Rachel whispered.
Vincent spun around.
Isabella was gone.
Her silk evening shawl was draped over the back of her chair. Her half-empty champagne glass sat next to the changed envelopes. But the bride-to-be had vanished into the sea of wealthy guests.
Vincent’s security chief, Marcus, stepped forward. “Boss. She slipped out through the kitchen service doors. Two of my men went after her. They aren’t answering their radios.”
Vincent’s face hardened into a mask of pure, unadulterated violence. The kind of look that made grown men flee the city.
“Lock the hotel down,” Vincent ordered. “Nobody leaves. Not the mayor. Not the judges. Nobody.”
He looked back at the phone. Suite 904. The trap that wasn't meant for him. It was meant to capture the last remaining piece of Daniel Rossi’s bloodline.
“We are going upstairs,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Marcus. Frank. And you.”
He pointed at Rachel.
“Me?” Rachel backed away, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I just want to go home. I don’t belong in this.”
“If you are Daniel’s daughter, this is your home,” Vincent said coldly. “And right now, you are the most valuable hostage in Philadelphia. You stay where I can see you.”
The journey to the elevators felt like a funeral march. Frank walked in total silence. Marcus gripped a concealed weapon beneath his tailored suit. Rachel walked in the center, her mind spinning wildly out of control. Her mother had sworn her father died in a factory accident before she was born. A simple man. A good man.
All lies.
The elevator chimed. Floor nine.
The doors slid open to reveal a long, dimly lit corridor. The thick carpet absorbed their footsteps.
Suite 904 was at the far end.
The door was already cracked open.
A sliver of yellow light spilled out into the dark hallway.
Vincent drew his weapon. A sleek, silenced pistol that looked terrifyingly natural in his hand. He kicked the door open.
Rachel screamed.
The three men who had been waiting for her were still in the room.
But they were no longer waiting.
They were dead.
Sprawled across the expensive hotel furniture, their dark suits ruined.
May you like
And sitting in the center of the room, on the chair right next to Rachel’s paternity file, was Isabella’s diamond engagement ring.
Stabbed perfectly into the wooden table with a silver steak knife.
