Chapter 3 - The Labyrinth of the Service Corridors
The service hallways behind the grand ballroom were a maze of exposed concrete, industrial ventilation pipes, and flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed with a low, maddening frequency.
Elena’s heels clicked rapidly against the linoleum floor as she hurried toward the employee exit. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. The image of Lucia Moretti smiling feebly in that old photograph—and the chilling warning written on the back—kept replaying behind her eyelids.
ELENA IS NEXT.
Why her? She was just a night-shift nurse who had spent three years working herself to the bone to pay off student loans and keep her mother out of a subpar Medicaid facility. She hadn't asked to be dragged into a multi-million-dollar Manhattan wedding. She hadn't asked for Adrian Moretti to look at her wrist and recognize a faded silver medical bracelet that she had worn like a talisman of ordinary human kindness.
A heavy metallic crash echoed down the intersecting hallway to her left.
Elena froze.
She pressed her back against the cool, damp concrete wall, holding her breath. The service corridor was supposed to be empty at this hour; all the catering staff were stationed either in the main ballroom or down in the primary kitchen washing glassware.
“Check the stairwell access,” a low, unfamiliar voice muttered just around the corner. “If she slips out through the delivery docks, boss is going to skin us alive.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” a second voice replied, closer this time—so close Elena could hear the distinct scrape of boot leather against the floor. “The perimeter doors are jammed from the outside. Whoever dropped that envelope in the ballroom wants a private conversation.”
Panic spiked through Elena’s veins. They weren't looking for Adrian. They were looking for her.
Without thinking, she darted in the opposite direction, ducking into an open linen storage room filled with towering stacks of white tablecloths, folded napkins, and industrial cleaning supplies. She slipped behind a massive wheeled cart loaded with heavy canvas laundry bags, pulling a thick linen sheet down over her front to break her silhouette.
The heavy door of the storage room creaked open.
Footsteps entered. Heavy, measured, deliberate.
Elena squeezed her eyes shut, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She prayed to whatever saints listened to exhausted, underpaid workers that whoever had come in would check the shelves and walk right back out.
“I know you’re in here, sweetheart,” a voice whispered, smooth and dripping with a sickening faux-gentleness that made her skin crawl.
A hand brushed against the canvas laundry bag inches from her face.
Elena bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out.
“The boss wants a word,” the voice continued, coming closer. “And trust me, you don't want to make him wait. Not after what happened to the last nurse who asked too many questions about Saint Catherine’s.”
The mention of the clinic sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through her system.
Before the man could pull the linen sheet away, the heavy storage room door burst open with a deafening crash that shook the metal shelving units.
“Step away from the linen cart,” a voice commanded.
It wasn't a whisper. It was a roar of pure, unadulterated violence.
Elena opened her eyes slightly through a gap in the canvas.
Adrian Moretti stood in the doorway, blocking the exit entirely. His suit jacket was gone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, corded forearms and knuckles bruised from a fight she hadn't even heard happen in the hallway. In his right hand, he held a sleek, matte-black firearm with a tactical suppressor attached to the barrel.
The man standing near Elena spun around, his hand instinctively diving toward his waistband.
“Don't even think about it,” Adrian said, his voice dropping into a register so dark and cold it seemed to freeze the air in the room.
“Moretti,” the intruder sneered, trying to mask his panic with a cocky grin. “You think you can protect her? You couldn't even protect your own sister six years ago. What makes you think—?”
The sound of the suppressed gunshot was little more than a heavy thud, followed instantly by the clatter of a heavy metal pipe hitting the linoleum floor as the intruder dropped hard to his knees, clutching a shattered shoulder.
Adrian didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, grabbed the man by the collar of his uniform, and slammed him against the concrete wall with enough force to rattle the teeth in his skull.
“Who sent you?” Adrian demanded, pressing the barrel of the gun against the man's throat.
“Go to hell,” the man gasped, spitting a drop of blood onto the floor.
Adrian didn't blink. He cocked the hammer. “Try again. And make it your last mistake.”
From behind the linen cart, Elena finally found her voice.
“Adrian... stop,” she called out, her voice shaking as she stepped out from the shadows. “Look at his left wrist.”
Adrian glanced back for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes locking onto Elena to ensure she was unhurt. Then, following her instruction, he looked down at the intruder’s arm.
Peeking out from beneath the man's rolled-up sleeve was a faint, jagged scar in the exact shape of a crescent moon.
May you like
Adrian’s expression shifted from blind fury to cold, absolute recognition.
“Daniel’s private security detail,” Adrian whispered, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. “The groom isn't just an accomplice, Elena. He’s running the whole operation.”
