Chapter 2 - The Weight of a Dead Man's Initials
The sterile white light of the private elevator lobby cast long, distorted shadows across the imported Italian marble floor.
Clara stood paralyzed near the edge of table twelve, her fingers clutching the concealed leather card holder inside her apron pocket.
The man who stepped out of the elevator did not look like a corporate goon or a hotel bouncer.
He wore an immaculate charcoal-grey overcoat, tailored to perfection, and his silver-streaked hair was combed back with military precision.
Yet, it wasn’t his imposing posture or his expensive attire that arrested Clara’s attention.
It was the unmistakable glint of brushed steel wrapped tightly around his left wrist.
The medical emblem caught the overhead spotlight, flashing a warning signal straight into Clara’s soul.
It was her father’s bracelet.
Not a replica.
Not a similar model.
The exact dent on the clasp from when Daniel Bennett had accidentally slammed it in his garage workbench back in the winter of 2012.
“Clara Bennett,” the man said, his voice deep, gravelly, and carrying a faint European accent that sent shivers down her spine.
He didn't raise his voice, yet the acoustic perfection of the private dining hall carried every syllable directly to her ears.
Stephen, the restaurant manager, hurried over, nervously wiping his sweaty palms on his service towel.
“Good evening, sir,” Stephen stammered, instantly adopting his most servile management tone. “Can I help you locate someone? The private party has unfortunately had to conclude due to an unforeseen medical situation—”
“I am not here for the party, Manager,” the man interrupted smoothly, his cold blue eyes never leaving Clara’s face. “I am here for the employee who took it upon herself to direct emergency medical personnel regarding a proprietary medical device.”
Stephen blinked in utter confusion, turning to look sideways at Clara.
“Clara? Did you interfere with the billionaire’s medical crisis?”
“I helped save his life,” Clara replied, her voice shaking slightly but holding firm against the rising tide of intimidation. “The paramedics needed to know what was on that bracelet.”
The silver-haired man took two deliberate steps forward, the rubber soles of his Italian leather shoes making virtually no sound against the floor.
“You know nothing about what was on that bracelet, Miss Bennett,” the man said softly, stopping just a few feet away from her. “Ignorance is a very comfortable shield. You would be wise not to discard it.”
“Who are you?” Clara demanded, stepping out from behind the table to close the distance between them. “And why are you wearing my dead father’s bracelet?”
Stephen gasped, his eyes darting back and forth between Clara and the stranger.
“Clara, have you lost your mind? You don’t talk to a Bellandi representative like that!”
“A Bellandi representative?” Clara scoffed bitterly. “Is that what you call yourselves now? Thieves stepping out of corporate elevators?”
The man’s lips didn't smile, but a cold amusement flickered across his sharp features.
“My name is Viktor Vance,” the man introduced himself quietly. “And I suggest you hand over whatever you just picked up off the floor beside Mr. Bellandi’s chair before this conversation becomes significantly less pleasant.”
The warning messages still glowed faintly in Clara’s mind: Do not give them the photograph. Your father did not die from what you were told.
She squared her shoulders, refusing to let them see how terrified she truly was.
“I didn’t pick up anything belonging to you, Mr. Vance.”
Viktor Vance tilted his head slightly, studying her with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a laboratory rat.
“Daniel raised a stubborn daughter,” Viktor remarked quietly, almost to himself. “It is a tragic family trait. It got him buried in an unmarked plot outside Milan, and it will very likely cost you your catering career—or worse.”
The mention of Milan struck Clara like a physical blow.
Milan was the exact city stamped on the back of the vintage photograph hidden in the card holder.
Before Clara could fire back a retort, the private service doors flew open again, and Marianne Cole rushed back into the room, looking thoroughly rattled.
She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Viktor standing opposite Clara.
“Director Vance,” Marianne said, her voice tight with suppressed panic. “I thought you were still at the Geneva headquarters.”
“Plans change when amateurs start playing doctor at high-profile dinners, Marianne,” Viktor replied without turning around. “Have you secured the acquisition documents?”
“Yes, they are in my briefcase,” Marianne answered quickly. “But the paramedics are reporting that Matteo regained consciousness briefly in the ambulance. He asked for the waitress by name.”
Viktor’s eyes snapped back to Clara with predatory intensity.
“Did he?” Viktor murmured, taking another step closer. “How fascinating.”
“He asked how I knew about the bracelet,” Clara said defiantly, her heart hammering against her ribs. “He recognized my last name. He knew who Daniel Bennett was.”
Viktor’s expression hardened instantly into solid granite.
“Mr. Bellandi is suffering from severe systemic exhaustion and delirium,” Viktor stated flatly, his voice carrying an unmistakable warning undercurrent. “He hallucinates past employees when his blood pressure drops. You are nothing more to him than hired help who happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“If I’m nobody, why are you standing here interrogating me instead of letting me clock out?” Clara challenged.
Viktor reached inside his overcoat, and Stephen flinched as if expecting a weapon to appear.
Instead, Viktor produced a sleek, black metallic card case identical to the one currently hidden in Clara’s apron pocket.
He placed a crisp, heavy black business card on the edge of table twelve, right beside Matteo’s untouched wine glass.
“Consider this a professional courtesy, Clara,” Viktor said softly. “Go home. Forget the bracelet. Forget Milan. And above all else, forget that you ever laid eyes on Matteo Bellandi tonight. If you decide to dig into a past that does not belong to you, you will quickly discover that Project Seventeen buries its secrets very deep indeed.”
Without waiting for a response, Viktor turned sharply on his heel and walked back toward the private elevator.
Marianne Cole shot Clara one final look of pure dread before scurrying after him like a frightened shadow.
The brass doors closed, sealing them away in the descending car.
Stephen collapsed into one of the vacant dining chairs, wiping his forehead with his hand.
“Clara… what in God’s name was that all about?” Stephen whispered, completely shell-shocked. “Who are those people?”
“I don’t know, Stephen,” Clara lied smoothly, her hand gripping the leather card holder in her pocket. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Well, take your apron off,” Stephen muttered, shaking his head. “Go home. Take the rest of the week off. If corporate security comes back asking for you again, I’m telling them you quit effective immediately.”
Clara didn't wait to be told twice.
She stripped off her black catering vest, tossed her white service shirt into the laundry bin in the back locker room, and grabbed her worn denim jacket.
Instead of taking the main elevator down to the lobby where corporate guards might be waiting, she slipped out through the subterranean loading dock into the chilly autumn air of the city.
The neon lights of downtown hummed against the damp pavement as Clara hailed a yellow cab.
“Where to, miss?” the driver asked without looking back.
“Take me to 42nd and Elm,” she said, giving him the address of her modest third-floor apartment.
As the cab pulled away from the curb, Clara pulled out her phone and slid the leather card holder onto her lap.
She carefully extracted the folded photograph and turned it over to look at the handwritten note again.
Bellandi Clinical Program. Milan. 17.
Her father had never been to Italy, or at least he had always sworn to Clara and her mother that he had never left the United States before his engineering career collapsed.
Why would Daniel Bennett's picture be stamped with a clinical program in Milan alongside Dr. Samuel Bennett—an uncle Clara had never even met because her father claimed he died in a laboratory fire twenty years prior?
Her phone buzzed again in her hand.
Another unknown number.
She swiped to open the message.
They are tracking your cab. Do not go home.
Clara slammed her hand against the plastic partition behind the driver's head.
“Change of plans!” she shouted over the roar of traffic. “Turn left on Fifth! Go to the central station!”
The driver cursed loudly, swerving across two lanes of traffic while Clara stared wildly out the back window.
A sleek black sedan with tinted windows had pulled out from the curb just fifty feet behind them, matching their every turn.
May you like
Project Seventeen was hunting her.
And Clara was finally ready to hunt back.
