Chapter 2 - Midnight Encounters
By 2:00 AM, the Drake Hotel was quiet, bathed in the soft blue shadows of the late-night hours. Rosie was in her office in the basement level, surrounded by clipboards, floor plans, and color-coded binders.
She had spent the last three hours reviewing the security logs and vendor manifests for the afternoon’s mega-wedding. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on linen counts and champagne towers, Lorenzo’s dark eyes kept intruding into her thoughts.
A soft knock at her office door startled her.
She looked up, expecting night security. Instead, Mateo stood in the doorway, his jacket unbuttoned, holding a thick manila folder under his arm.
"Miss Hastings," Mateo said politely, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
"Can I help you, Mr...?"
"Mateo is fine," he said, pulling up a chair and sitting across from her desk. He placed the manila folder between them. "Lorenzo asked me to bring you this."
Rosie looked at the folder warily. "What is it?"
"Background checks, shipping manifests, and a list of names," Mateo replied smoothly. "Regarding Dante’s missing two million dollars."
Rosie laughed dryly, leaning back in her chair. "Why on earth would I care about Mr. Bianca's missing money?"
"Because the missing cargo didn't vanish at Navy Pier, Miss Hastings," Mateo explained, leaning forward. "It vanished right here. In the subterranean storage docks of the Drake Hotel. Three days ago."
Rosie’s professional composure wavered. "That’s impossible. Our loading docks are monitored twenty-four hours a day by security."
"Your head of security, Mr. Henderson, took a extended paid vacation to the Bahamas yesterday," Mateo pointed out, opening the folder to reveal photos of a security desk left unmanned, alongside bank transfer slips. "Paid for by a shell company linked to the Moretti family."
The Moretti family.
Even Rosie knew that name. The Morettis were the rival syndicate operating out of New York, aggressively trying to push their way into Chicago's river logistics and hospitality sectors.
"If the Morettis are stealing from Lorenzo, why bring this to me?" Rosie asked, her pulse quickening. "I'm a banquet manager."
"Because Lorenzo doesn't trust anyone inside the hotel's executive team right now," Mateo said flatly. "Except you. You noticed the discrepancy in the food shipment tonight before anyone else. You know the hotel layout better than the engineers. And most importantly, you aren't on anyone's payroll."
"I am on the hotel's payroll!"
"Which Lorenzo bought fifty-one percent of at midnight," Mateo replied with a cool smile. "Congratulations, Rosie. Lorenzo Bianca is now your direct employer."
Rosie stared at him, speechlessness washing over her. "He bought the hotel?"
"He bought controlling interest," Mateo corrected softly. "To ensure his guests—and his interests—are protected. Lorenzo wants you to look over these dock logs tonight. See if you notice any patterns. If you help us identify the insider who helped the Morettis, Lorenzo will personally ensure your career at this establishment has no ceiling."
"And if I refuse?"
Mateo’s expression softened, though his eyes remained serious. "Lorenzo doesn't hurt civilians, Rosie. Especially not women who speak Sicilian like his late mother used to. But... staying ignorant won't protect you anymore. The Morettis know someone intercepted the truffle shipment tonight. If they realize it was you, you're already in the middle of this."
Rosie looked at the manila folder. Every instinct screamed at her to pack her bags, leave her keys on the desk, and catch the first train out of Illinois. But beneath her fear was something else—a spark of anger.
She had worked too hard to build her life here. She had earned her place at the Drake through sweat, sleepless nights, and relentless dedication. She wasn't going to let mobsters—whether from Chicago or New York—destroy her home.
May you like
She reached out and pulled the folder toward her. "I'll look at it. But I work alone."
Mateo stood up, nodding respectfully. "Lorenzo expected you’d say that. Seven AM, Miss Hastings. Don't forget his breakfast."
