Chapter 3 - Suite 512
Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Winters found me sitting on an upturned crate in the humid, cramped staff locker room, trying to wipe the champagne smell off my uniform.
“Eliza,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Mr. Costello has requested you in Suite 512.”
My heart skipped a beat. “For what?”
“He’s hosting a private post-gala meeting with his associates. He specifically asked for you to serve their drinks.”
“Why me? I ruined his guest’s dress!”
“He didn’t explain,” Mrs. Winters said, lowering her voice and casting a nervous glance at the hallway. “And before you try to make up an excuse... he offered triple pay for your time.”
Triple pay. That was half my mother’s weekly medication cost in a single hour.
“You can refuse,” Mrs. Winters added, though we both knew the unspoken rule of hospitality: you don't say no to men like Adriano Costello.
I took the service elevator to the fifth floor, my hands trembling as I straightened my jacket. A heavy-set security guard standing outside the double doors of Suite 512 nodded and pushed the door open before I even knocked.
The suite was a sprawling penthouse living room overlooking the glittering expanse of Port Alder bay. Nine men sat around a low mahogany coffee table, glasses of dark amber whiskey catching the light of the city below. The atmosphere was thick with cigar smoke and hushed, tense dialogue that cut off the second I stepped across the threshold.
Adriano stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of bourbon in his hand.
“Miss Brennan,” he said, turning around. “Thank you for coming up.”
“I was told you needed a server, sir,” I said, keeping my eyes respectfully lowered toward the bar cart.
“My associates need refreshments. Nothing more,” he said, gesturing toward the ice bucket.
For the next hour, I moved silently around the room, pouring drinks and avoiding eye contact. Most of the men ignored me, treating me like part of the furniture. But a younger man with restless, predatory eyes—Marco, one of Adriano’s inner-circle lieutenants—watched my every movement like a hawk sizing up a rabbit.
When I leaned over to refill his glass, Marco’s fingers suddenly shot out, clamping firmly around my wrist.
“Grazie, bella,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing roughly against my pulse point. “You've got steady hands for someone who drops trays.”
I tried to yank my arm away, but his grip tightened. “Please let go, sir.”
Marco chuckled, his smile predatory. “Relax. We’re all friends of Mr. Costello here—”
“Marco.”
The single word fell across the room like a block of dry ice.
Marco blinked, looking up. Adriano hadn’t raised his voice, but every man in the room instantly straightened in their seats.
Marco slowly released my wrist. “I was just being friendly, boss.”
“Then learn the difference between friendly and unwelcome,” Adriano said, his voice dangerously soft as he walked slowly across the carpet. He stopped right beside me, resting his palm lightly, possessively, against my shoulder. “Miss Brennan is here to work.”
Marco forced an awkward, defensive grin. “My apologies. No harm done.”
Adriano’s hand remained on my shoulder for a second longer than necessary. I couldn't tell if he was protecting me from his own men or staking a claim on me for reasons I didn't yet understand.
By midnight, the meeting adjourned. Only Marco, two silent guards, and Adriano remained in the room. Marco stood up, swaying slightly from the whiskey, and walked over to where I was packing my tray.
“Sit down, Eliza,” Marco commanded, patting the leather sofa beside him.
“I’m finished with my shift, Mr. Marco. I need to go downstairs.”
“You’ve been on your feet all night. Sit,” Marco insisted, his tone hardening as his hand lunged out to grab my elbow.
May you like
Before his fingers even touched my skin, a heavy shadow fell over us. Adriano’s hand caught Marco’s wrist mid-air, squeezing with enough pressure to make the younger man wince in sudden pain.
“I said,” Adriano whispered, his face inches from Marco’s, “she is working.”
