Chapter 3 - The Cold Truth in the Velvet Underground
Five minutes later, Beatrice was wrapped in a heavy, charcoal-grey cashmere coat that smelled distinctly of Dante.
She sat in the deep velvet booth at the back of the club, a glass of twenty-year-old single-malt scotch resting between her hands. Across from her, Dante sat back with effortless grace, swirling his own drink while his right-hand man, Leo, stood behind the booth like a stone monolith.
The commotion at the door had ended abruptly after Leo opened a small slide window and leveled a suppressed firearm at Ross’s forehead. The security team had retreated into the rain, but everyone in the room knew it was a temporary quiet. The Kensingtons were powerful, wealthy, and deeply entrenched in Chicago’s elite high society. They wouldn't let a billion-dollar logistics company walk away without a war.
“Drink,” Dante instructed softly, nodding toward her glass. “You’re shivering.”
Beatrice took a small sip. The liquid burned a golden path down her throat, settling the icy chill in her stomach. “I don't need pity, Mr. Corvino.”
“Good, because I don't give it,” Dante replied smoothly. “And it’s Dante.”
He set a leather-bound folder on the polished mahogany table between them. He opened it, revealing dozens of surveillance photos, financial ledgers, and shipping manifests. Beatrice leaned forward, her sharp logistical mind instantly taking over.
Her eyes widened as she scanned the documents.
“These are Gallagher Freight’s international manifests,” she said, her finger tracing a line of numbers. “Port of Newark to Chicago South Yard. But these bill-of-lading numbers... they aren't ours. They’ve been altered.”
“They were altered four months ago,” Dante explained, his eyes fixed on her face. “The moment your father passed away and Preston Kensington stepped in as your lead financial advisor. He’s been using your middle-tier freight trucks—the ones that don't pass through automated weigh stations—to move unregistered cargo across state lines.”
“Contraband?” she asked, looking up.
“Unlicensed firearms, high-end counterfeit goods, and untraceable bearer bonds,” Dante said coldly. “He’s using Gallagher Freight as a giant laundering machine. And the beauty of his plan, Beatrice, was that your name was on every single executive authorization form.”
Beatrice felt the blood drain from her face.
If the federal authorities caught wind of this, Preston wouldn't go to prison. She would. He had set her up to be the ultimate scapegoat. If the operation succeeded, he got the company. If it blew up, she went to a federal penitentiary for twenty years while he claimed ignorance and took control of the assets as her grieving husband.
“My mother,” Beatrice whispered, her voice cracking for the first time. “My mother signed off on the board seat transition three weeks ago. She told me Preston was helping us save on tax overhead.”
Dante’s expression softened marginally, though his tone remained sharp. “Your mother is either profoundly stupid or heavily compensated. Which is it?”
Beatrice closed her eyes for three seconds, forcing the emotional sting away. When she opened them, her eyes were clear and hard. “My mother cares about three things: social prestige, country club memberships, and my sister Caroline. She’s not stupid. She’s greedy.”
Dante leaned back, a look of genuine respect passing over his dark features. “Most women in your position would be crying into their lace.”
“Most women in my position weren't raised by Arthur Gallagher,” Beatrice countered, setting her scotch glass down with a firm clack. “My father taught me that when a cargo shipment is hijacked, you don't weep over the lost freight. You track the truck, cut off the exit routes, and destroy the hijackers.”
Dante’s dark eyes flashed with raw appreciation. “I like you, Beatrice.”
“Don't like me too much, Dante,” she said coolly. “We’re business partners now. You have the stolen diamond back. You have the evidence against Kensington. What do you need from me?”
“I need your brain,” Dante said, tapping his temple. “You know every route, every blind spot, every corrupted manager, and every warehouse supervisor in Gallagher Freight. I have the firepower, the legal team, and the street muscle to crush Kensington. But to do it cleanly—without destroying your father’s company in the process—I need you to run the board from inside my fortress.”
Before Beatrice could answer, the club’s landline phone rang at the bar.
Leo answered it, listened for five seconds, and walked over to the booth. His face was tense.
“Boss,” Leo said quietly. “Preston Kensington just called a press conference on the steps of St. Matthew’s Cathedral.”
Dante raised an eyebrow. “Already?”
Leo tapped a button on a remote control, turning on a high-definition television mounted above the bar.
The screen flickered to life, showing live news coverage from downtown Chicago. Rain whipped against the camera lens. Standing beneath an umbrella on the church steps was Preston Kensington, looking impeccably handsome, his eyes red-rimmed, his hair artfully distressed. Beside him stood Beatrice’s mother, wiping away tears with a handkerchief, and Caroline, looking pale and delicate.
Preston stepped up to a cluster of news microphones.
“Thank you all for coming,” Preston said, his voice trembling with rehearsed emotion. “As many of you know, today was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. But minutes before the ceremony, my beloved Beatrice... vanished.”
A collective gasp echoed from the reporters on screen.
Preston continued, looking directly into the camera lens with practiced distress. “We have reason to believe Beatrice has suffered a severe manic episode brought on by stress and grief over her father’s passing. More tragically... we believe she has been taken by individuals associated with organized crime under duress. She is not in her right mind.”
Beatrice’s jaw dropped. “He’s framing my escape as a mental breakdown and a kidnapping.”
“As the court-appointed temporary conservator of Gallagher Freight,” Preston announced smoothly, pulling a document from his coat, “I am signing an emergency operational transfer to secure the company’s assets and protect Beatrice from herself. I ask the public to pray for her safe return.”
The TV screen flashed as dozens of camera bulbs went off.
In the quiet of the Velvet Orchid, Beatrice stared at the image of her fiancé seizing her life's work on live television.
May you like
Beside her, Dante stood up slowly. He adjusted his silk tie, turned to Leo, and spoke in a voice that chilled the blood in Beatrice’s veins.
“Leo. Call our media contacts at the Chicago Tribune.” Dante turned his gaze back to Beatrice, offering her his hand. “Miss Gallagher... it’s time to show Chicago what happens when a real boss takes the floor.”
