Chapter 7 - The Tenth Floor Service Key
The VIP elevator rose with a silent, stomach-dropping surge of hydraulic speed that made my ears pop.
Marcus Vance stood beside me, his hands resting lightly on the silver head of an umbrella, watching the floor indicators flash from one to ten.
There was no music in the shaft, only the low hum of cables lifting us toward the private stratosphere of Boston old money.
When the brass-plated doors parted on the tenth floor, the air was warm, smelling of polished mahogany, fresh lilies, and expensive pastry butter.
Thick wool carpeting muffled our footsteps as we stepped into the vestibule.
To the left was the main entrance to the Harborview Salon, guarded by two private hotel security guards wearing earpieces and tailored gray blazers.
To the right was the narrow service corridor used by catering crews and housekeeping supervisors.
Vance stopped at the junction, pulling the heavy brass service key from his coat pocket and pressing it into my hand.
“The security guards at the front double doors are instructed to admit only family members,” Vance said quietly.
“If you walk through the main entrance, Graham’s mother will see you coming and cause a scene before you reach the table.”
“Take the service pantry door behind the kitchen.”
“It opens directly beside the serving credenza at the head of the dining table.”
I nodded, gripping the key until the brass edges bit into my skin.
“And you?” I asked.
“I will enter through the front doors thirty seconds after you,” Vance said, his eyes narrowing like a hawk fixing its prey.
“Let him begin his victory speech, Miss Bellamy.”
“Let him taste the five million dollars before you pull the table out from under him.”
He turned and walked toward the lounge at the end of the public hall, leaving me alone in the corridor.
I turned toward the service door, sliding the heavy brass key into the lock.
The cylinder turned smoothly without a click, and I pushed the gray metal door open, stepping into the narrow pantry area lined with rolling warming carts and silver chafing dishes.
Through the louvered wooden partition separating the pantry from the private salon, I could hear voices.
The salon was large, flooded with morning light from floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Boston Harbor.
In the center sat an oval mahogany table covered with white linen, set with sterling silver flatware and bone china.
Graham Vale sat at the far end of the table, looking radiant in a custom navy bespoke suit, his crisp white cuff links gleaming under the crystal chandelier.
His silver hair was combed with expensive salon oil, and he had that expansive, relaxed posture of a man who believed the entire world belonged to him.
Beside him sat Julianna Vance, a delicate, fair-skinned young woman with wide hazel eyes, wearing an ivory silk morning robe trimmed with ostrich feathers.
She looked tired, her shoulders slightly curved, clutching a mug of tea with both hands while Graham casually rested his hand over hers on the linen.
At the opposite end of the table sat Arthur Sterling, the family’s eighty-year-old trust attorney, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles and leafing through a stack of thick vellum documents.
And sitting two seats away from Graham, wearing a brand-new lavender designer suit that still had the boutique tag tucked into the collar, was Evelyn Vale.
Graham’s mother was spreading artisanal raspberry jam onto a croissant, her eyes darting between her son and the stack of bank authorization forms.
“It’s truly a tragedy about your mother’s sudden illness yesterday, Graham,” Julianna was saying softly, her voice filled with gentle, naive concern.
“I felt terrible that we had to cut the champagne toast short last night so you could rush back to the intensive care unit.”
Graham lifted Julianna’s hand, pressing a tender, lingering kiss against her knuckles.
“Family comes first, Julianna,” Graham said, his voice dropping into that smooth, comforting baritone that had lied to me for fourteen months.
“My mother has suffered so much since my father passed away.”
“Seeing me finally secure a future with a woman as magnificent as you simply overwhelmed her heart.”
“The doctors said her vitals stabilized around three in the morning, which was the only reason I was able to leave her bedside to be here with you and Arthur.”
Evelyn Vale cleared her throat, dabbing at her dry eyes with a linen napkin.
“The doctors were wonderful, Julianna darling,” Evelyn chimed in, her voice shrill with nervous vanity.
“They said Graham was the most devoted son they had ever seen in the cardiac wing.”
“He didn't leave my side for a single second.”
I stood behind the pantry louver, my stomach turning with a disgust so potent it made my teeth ache.
Eighteen hours ago, Evelyn had watched me stack rented folding chairs while her son slipped into the freight elevator to change into a four-thousand-dollar tuxedo.
Now she was sitting on silk upholstery, eating French pastries paid for by my stolen credit line, pretending she had spent the night in an oxygen tent.
Arthur Sterling adjusted his spectacles, tapping the blue-backed trust disbursement agreement with a heavy Montblanc pen.
“Well, Graham,” the old attorney said in a dry, gravelly voice.
“The trustees have reviewed the financial schedule for Vale Logistics.”
“Your unencumbered ownership of the commercial real estate on West Broadway provides sufficient collateral to satisfy the third-tier trust criteria.”
“Once you affix your signature to section four, the first wire of five million dollars will be initiated to your commercial treasury account at State Street Bank.”
Graham picked up the gold pen resting beside his plate.
A triumphant, predatory smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
May you like
“It will be the honor of my life to protect this family’s legacy, Arthur,” Graham murmured, leaning forward over the vellum.
I stepped around the warming cart, reached for the double swinging doors of the pantry, and kicked them wide open with the steel-toed sole of my work boots.
