Chapter 6 - The Steel Trap
The Bellmont Hotel was surrounded by flashing police lights. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the main entrance.
Rachel walked right past the barricades.
She wore a fresh hotel uniform borrowed from a frightened maid in the Rossi payroll. Her hair was pulled back tightly. Her head was down. Just another invisible worker bee terrified of the police presence.
Beneath the crisp white apron, taped securely to the small of her back, was a compact 9mm pistol.
Frank had given it to her twenty minutes earlier, forcing her to shoot a target in the Rossi basement until she stopped closing her eyes when she pulled the trigger.
She entered through the basement laundry doors. The exact route she had used every day for three years.
In her earpiece, Frank’s voice crackled.
“Vincent just engaged the Morettis at the shipyard,” Frank said. “It’s a bloodbath. Isabella took the bait. But she’s not there. She’s coordinating from a secure location.”
“I’m in the service elevator,” Rachel whispered, swiping a master keycard. “Going to the penthouse.”
“Be careful, Rachel. If you are wrong about this…”
“I’m not.”
The elevator lurched upward. Rachel’s stomach dropped, but her hands were perfectly steady. She wasn't just Rachel Monroe anymore. She was the ghost of Daniel Rossi, coming back to collect a debt.
The doors chimed open on the penthouse floor.
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
Two Moretti guards in tailored suits stood outside the double doors of the Presidential Suite.
Rachel took a deep breath. She grabbed a silver service cart loaded with fresh towels and champagne from a nearby supply closet.
She pushed the cart down the hallway, keeping her eyes glued to the floor.
“Hold it,” the taller guard ordered, stepping into her path. “Floor is locked down.”
“Front desk requested fresh towels for the suite,” Rachel mumbled softly, mimicking the terrified demeanor she used to carry so naturally.
The guard sneered, patting down the cart. He didn't bother looking at her face. Why would he? She was the help.
“Go in, drop it off, get out,” he commanded, swiping a keycard to unlock the door.
Rachel pushed the cart inside.
The Presidential Suite was massive, overlooking the glittering skyline of Philadelphia.
Sitting in a high-backed leather chair by the window was Isabella. She was still wearing her velvet evening gown, a laptop glowing on the table beside her, coordinating the massacre at the shipyard.
And tied to a chair in the center of the room, bruised and gagged, was Rachel’s mother.
Isabella turned around. She smiled when she saw the uniform.
“Just leave the cart by the door,” Isabella said dismissively, turning back to the screen.
Rachel didn’t stop walking.
She pushed the cart forward, reached behind her back, and drew the 9mm.
“Isabella,” Rachel said.
The bride-to-be froze. She slowly turned around, her eyes widening as she recognized the waitress.
She looked at the gun in Rachel’s hand.
Then, Isabella laughed.
“Oh, the little waitress has claws,” Isabella mocked, standing up slowly. “Do you really think you can pull that trigger, Rachel? You’re not one of them. You’re just a civilian playing dress-up.”
Rachel thumbed the safety off, exactly as Frank had shown her.
May you like
The loud click echoed in the silent room.
“I’m a Rossi,” Rachel said coldly. “Tell your men to stand down.”
