Chapter 9 - The Man Beneath Lower Wacker Who Was Supposed to Be Dead

Mateo killed the lights.

Darkness swallowed the hidden archive.

Rosie crouched behind a stack of document boxes with Celeste beside her. Rossi remained tied to the chair because no one had time to free his wrists.

The outer archive door opened.

A flashlight beam moved across the shelves.

Paolo Vescari entered without speaking.

Another man followed.

Then a third.

Mateo waited until they crossed the false wall.

The first fight lasted less than ten seconds.

Mateo struck the nearest man before he could raise his weapon. Rosie heard a body hit metal shelving. Celeste pulled Rosie lower as a suppressed shot snapped into the wall.

Paolo moved toward Rossi.

Not Rosie.

That detail mattered.

He had come to finish the witness.

Rosie grabbed a heavy binder from the floor and threw it at the flashlight.

The beam spun away.

Rossi kicked the chair sideways, catching Paolo’s knees.

Mateo tackled him.

The third man ran.

Lorenzo’s people intercepted him in the service corridor.

When the lights came back, Paolo lay facedown with Mateo’s knee between his shoulders.

Rosie stood slowly.

Her hands shook.

She hated that Paolo noticed.

“You’re not built for this,” he said.

Rosie looked at the blood on his lip.

“Neither is your face, apparently.”

Mateo laughed once.

Lorenzo arrived three minutes later.

He ignored Paolo and checked Rosie first.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

He checked anyway, eyes moving over her arms, shoulders, face.

Rosie understood the impulse.

She also understood that something had shifted between them.

Not romance yet.

Something more dangerous.

Concern without calculation.

Paolo watched.

“That is how it starts,” he said.

Lorenzo turned.

“How what starts?”

“The mistake.”

Paolo smiled.

“Your father made the same one.”

Lorenzo’s expression hardened.

Mateo pulled Paolo upright.

“Where is Enzo?”

Paolo said nothing.

Rossi did.

“Lower Wacker.”

Everyone looked at him.

“I heard them mention a pump room. Old service tunnel under Columbus.”

Mateo frowned. “There are dozens.”

Rosie knew the hotel delivery maps.

“Not anymore.”

She remembered a city rerouting notice from two years earlier. A maintenance tunnel near Columbus had been closed after flooding, but service vehicles could still access it through a gate used by utilities contractors.

“Show me a map.”

Within five minutes, she identified the likely entrance.

Lorenzo ordered Mateo to take Paolo elsewhere for questioning.

Rosie stepped forward.

“No.”

Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed. “No?”

“If you torture him, whatever he says becomes useless.”

“This is not a courtroom.”

“It might become one.”

“He threatened you.”

“And if everyone who threatens me gets dragged into a basement, I will lose half the wedding industry.”

Celeste looked away to hide a smile.

Lorenzo exhaled through his nose.

They left Paolo under guard and drove toward Lower Wacker with Rossi providing directions.

Chicago disappeared beneath itself.

Concrete pillars, echoing engines, orange utility lights, and wet pavement surrounded them.

Rosie had coordinated deliveries down there hundreds of times.

She had never imagined a kidnapped man hidden behind one of the service doors.

They found the pump room locked.

Mateo cut power to the alarm.

Lorenzo opened the door.

Enzo Bianca sat on the floor against a pipe, wrists bound, face swollen.

He looked up at Lorenzo.

“You took your time.”

Lorenzo crossed the room and cut him free.

Enzo tried to stand and nearly collapsed.

Rosie handed him water.

His gaze settled on her.

“You’re the hotel woman.”

“Apparently that is my official title now.”

Enzo laughed painfully.

Then he saw Rossi.

His expression changed.

“You.”

Rossi stepped back.

Mateo blocked him.

Enzo looked at Lorenzo. “He built the vendor chain. Frank opened the hotel. Paolo moved the shipments.”

“And Vittorio?”

Enzo wiped blood from his mouth.

“Grandfathered access. Old contacts. Old fear.”

“Who gives the orders?”

Enzo looked toward Rosie.

That hesitation told her the answer involved someone she knew.

“Say it,” Lorenzo demanded.

Enzo shook his head. “Not here.”

A distant engine echoed through the tunnel.

Mateo went to the door.

A black sedan had stopped fifty yards away.

No plates.

“Move.”

They rushed toward the SUV.

The sedan’s rear window lowered.

Rosie saw only a hand.

Then gunfire cracked through the tunnel.

Concrete exploded beside them.

Lorenzo shoved Rosie behind a pillar.

Mateo returned fire.

Enzo stumbled.

Blood spread across his side.

The sedan accelerated away.

Rosie dropped beside Enzo.

“Pressure,” she said.

She pressed both hands against the wound.

Enzo gripped her wrist.

“Listen.”

“Save your strength.”

“No.”

His voice was fading.

“The person running it knows the hotel better than Frank.”

Rosie looked at him.

“Who?”

Enzo swallowed.

“She approved every vendor.”

Rosie froze.

“Celeste?”

Enzo shook his head.

“No.”

The engine noise faded.

Enzo pulled her closer.

“The regional board.”

Rosie’s thoughts raced.

Only three people above Celeste could approve preferred vendors across properties.

One had retired.

One lived in London.

The third chaired the Drake’s ownership group and had attended hundreds of hotel events.

A man Rosie had served personally for years.

Enzo whispered the name.

“Adrian Vale.”

Rosie knew it.

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Everyone in Chicago hospitality knew it.

Adrian Vale owned the Drake Hotel.