Chapter 2 - The Vault and the Velvet
Within twenty minutes, the thirty-first floor of the Belmont Grand was transformed into a fortress.
The private elevators were shut down. Four burly men in dark coats—Roman’s personal security team, led by a scarred, silent man named Dante—stood guard at every stairwell and exit door.
I sat in a plush velvet armchair inside Roman’s private office suite, holding a warm cup of tea that one of the executive assistants had nervously brought me. Elsie was happily sitting on the Persian rug beside my chair, drawing lions on a legal pad with a silver pen Roman had given her.
The door opened, and Roman walked in, accompanied by Dante.
"Is she comfortable?" Roman asked, nodding toward Elsie.
"Yes, Mr. Bellini," I said, standing up quickly. "Sir... I really don't know anything about corporate contracts. I just—"
"Sit down, Maya," Roman said gently, gesturing for me to relax. "You have nothing to apologize for. You and your daughter just saved my company from a catastrophe that would have destroyed a forty-year family legacy."
Roman sat behind his massive mahogany desk, resting his elbows on the polished surface.
"That page forty-seven," Roman explained quietly, "contained a hidden clause. It transferred the operational management of our Boston maritime freight terminals directly to an offshore shell company based in the Cayman Islands if the deal collapsed due to a breach of trust."
My eyes widened. "Someone wanted the deal to fail?"
"Someone wanted Victor Chun to walk out," Roman confirmed, his jaw tightening. "Whoever swapped page forty-seven wanted Victor to think I was trying to cheat him. Victor would pull his one billion dollars, trigger the breach-of-trust clause, and my enemy would automatically gain control of my port terminals without spending a single dime."
Dante stepped forward, holding a sleek black tablet. "Boss, the IT team just finished reviewing the digital logs for the vault in Malcolm's office."
"And?" Roman demanded.
"The vault was unlocked twice last night," Dante reported. "First at 8:14 p.m. using Malcolm Reed's personal biometric thumbprint and primary keycode. Second at 3:22 a.m. using an administrative override code."
"Who holds the administrative override code?" Roman asked, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper.
Dante hesitated, glancing at me before looking back at his boss. "Only three people have that override code, Mr. Bellini. You, Laya Morgan... and Malcolm Reed."
Roman closed his eyes for a brief moment. I could see the profound, heavy burden of a leader who realized that the snake was inside his own house.
"Malcolm has been with me for twelve years," Roman murmured, almost to himself. "I paid for his daughter's medical treatments in London. I made him a millionaire three times over."
"There's more, boss," Dante added grimly. "We checked the security footage from the executive service hallway outside the vault room between 3:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m. The cameras were hit with a short-range infrared pulse. Four minutes of footage were completely wiped."
Roman turned his head to look at me. "Maya."
"Yes, Mr. Bellini?"
"You pushed your cart through the service hallway at three o'clock yesterday afternoon," Roman said, his sharp eyes searching my face. "Did you notice anything unusual near the supply closets or the trash chute?"
I paused, trying to recall every detail of my shift. Housekeeping work is repetitive, but you learn to pay attention to small irregularities in a luxury hotel—a misplaced towel, a flickering light, an unusual scent.
"At four o'clock yesterday," I remembered slowly, my mind racing, "I went to empty the linen bags into the executive laundry chute on the thirty-first floor. The door to the secondary stationery vault—where the special event napkins and official crest paper are kept—was unlatched."
Roman leaned forward. "Was anyone inside?"
"No," I answered. "But there was a fresh smell of lavender soap in the air. The expensive hotel soap we only put in the VIP executive suites on the top floor. And... I found a small silver button on the floor near the threshold."
I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the small object I had picked up yesterday afternoon and completely forgotten about in the chaos of my childcare emergency.
I pulled out a small, circular silver button decorated with an intricate geometric pattern and set it on Roman's desk.
Dante leaned over, looked at the button, and let out a sharp, cold breath.
"That's not from a housekeeper's uniform," Dante whispered.
May you like
Roman picked up the silver button, his eyes burning with a dark, cold fury.
"It's from a custom-tailored suit," Roman said smoothly. "A suit made by Savile Row in London. Malcolm Reed ordered three of them last month."
