Chapter 5 - Glass And Granite
The grand hotel downtown rose like a monolithic tower of dark glass and polished limestone against the bruised autumn sky. Valet stands crowded the curb beneath the heavy brass awning, where luxury sedans idling in the damp street air exhaled plumes of white exhaust. I pulled my black car into the restricted service lane, ignoring the sharp whistle of a parking attendant who took one look at my suit, the inked lines crawling up my neck, and the lethal stillness in my posture before backing away without a word. I left the keys in the ignition and stepped out onto the wet pavement.
Inside, the lobby was a cavern of marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and hushed chatter. Wealthy patrons in tailored evening gowns and velvet tuxedos drifted toward the mezzanine stairs, sipping champagne from crystal flutes. They lived in a sanitized world of high finance and sanitized inheritances, entirely insulated from the blood and dirt that had coated my daughter's bare feet just hours before. I walked with deliberate, heavy strides, my shoulder brushing past a pair of city councilmen who didn't dare look up as I passed.
Viktor had texted the exact suite number before I crossed the bridge: the penthouse level, reserved for the gala's VIP hosts and key corporate sponsors. I bypassed the elevators, knowing security cameras monitored every car and cage, and took the heavy fire stairs two at a time. The concrete stairwell echoed with the hollow thud of my leather soles, the sound keeping rhythm with the cold, methodical anger hammering inside my chest. When I reached the heavy steel service door on the penthouse floor, I didn't knock. I hit the latch with the heel of my palm, slipping into the carpeted hallway just as a pair of caterers pushed out a cart of empty glasses.
The main double doors of the suite stood slightly ajar, spilling warm amber light and the murmur of polite applause across the hallway. I pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. Arthur Sterling, the estate lawyer and uncle who had signed away a little girl's life for a clean column of figures, stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows. He was laughing softly, holding a glass of amber whiskey, his arm draped over the shoulder of a local municipal judge.
May you like
"Arthur," I said.
The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a razor blade. The laughter died instantly. Heads turned, champagne flutes froze halfway to lips, and Arthur spun around, his jovial expression fracturing the moment his eyes locked onto my face. The color drained from his skin, leaving him looking sickly and gray beneath the recessed lighting. He knew my face. He knew exactly what men like me did when they found out someone had hurt what was theirs.
