Chapter 7 - Shadows in the Penthouse
The celebration at St. Jude’s carried on well into the afternoon, but by evening, Enzo and Adeline had retreated to the quiet sanctuary of the Marchetti penthouse overlooking Millennium Park.
The city lights twinkled below like a field of fallen stars against the dark canvas of Lake Michigan.
Adeline stood by the kitchen island, unpacking a box of pastries she had brought back from a local bakery on the West Side, when she heard the faint, distinct sound of a security chime echoing from the private elevator foyer.
Ding.
Adeline froze. Enzo was sitting on the leather sofa reviewing a portfolio of shipping manifests, but the moment the chime sounded, his body went instantly rigid. He didn't reach for a phone; his hand slipped smoothly inside his coat toward his shoulder holster.
“Vance,” Enzo called out, his voice sharp and low. “Report.”
The secure intercom speaker crackled with static, but no voice answered from the downstairs lobby. Instead, the private elevator indicator light flashed amber, signaling an authorized override using a master cryptographic key.
A master key.
Only three people on earth possessed the cryptographic code required to bypass the penthouse elevator lock: Enzo Marchetti, his head of security, and Arthur Marchetti—Enzo’s estranged, elderly uncle who had officially retired to Zurich twelve years ago.
The heavy elevator doors slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
Stepping out into the penthouse foyer was an old man leaning heavily on a carved ivory cane, wearing a sweeping cashmere overcoat and a fedora tilted slightly over one eye. Behind him stood two massive, stone-faced bodyguards who looked like they had been chiseled out of Italian granite.
Arthur Marchetti was seventy-eight years old, but his eyes were as sharp and predatory as a hawk’s.
“Put the gun away, boy,” Arthur rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding under a heavy boot. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have taken the private elevator; I would have cut your brake lines in the garage like your father used to do.”
Enzo slowly withdrew his hand from his holster, standing up from the sofa with calculated slowness. His face was a mask of cold, unyielding iron.
“Uncle Arthur,” Enzo said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a surprise visit from Zurich? Did the Swiss banks run out of safe boxes to hide your blood money?”
Arthur chuckled, a dry, rattling sound, as he walked further into the living room, tapping his cane against the hardwood floor. His eyes swept past Enzo and landed squarely on Adeline, who was standing by the kitchen island with her hands resting calmly on the marble surface.
“So this is the little archivist,” Arthur said, stopping a few feet away from her and examining her with cold, calculating scrutiny. “The one who blew up Camilla’s wedding, tanked the Ashford trust, and now fancies herself Chief Compliance Officer of an empire built on contraband and steel.”
Adeline didn't shrink away. She met the old man’s piercing gaze head-on, her chin lifting just an inch.
“And you must be the absentee landlord,” Adeline replied smoothly, her voice entirely devoid of fear. “The one who signed off on the Cicero rezoning permits back in 2023 while safely hiding five thousand miles away in the Alps.”
May you like
Arthur’s eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his wrinkled face.
“Well, well,” Arthur murmured, looking over at Enzo. “You finally found a woman with more teeth than the entire board of directors combined. It’s a pity she won't survive the week.”
