Chapter 20 - The Envelope on the Brass Bar
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One week later, the rooftop lounge on the twenty-second floor of the Meridian Hotel was open for business under the new ownership of the Ferraro Hospitality Group. The broken crystal had been swept away, the corrupt security chief was sitting in a federal holding cell alongside Preston Hollis, and the formerly billionaire Vance Hollis was living in a rented studio apartment in Cranston.
Behind the twelve-meter counter of blackened brass, Delaney Marsh stood in a fresh black leather apron, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, wiping down a row of whiskey glasses with a neatly folded white towel.
The elevator doors chimed softly, and Noel Ferraro walked across the black tile floor. She was wearing the pale blue silk dress—the repaired seam completely invisible beneath the warm amber lights—and carrying her violin case in one hand.
"I thought you were supposed to have your arm in a sling for another ten days," Noel said warmly, sliding onto a barstool across from Delaney.
"I get restless sitting in that apartment," Delaney replied with a rare, genuine smile, sliding a glass of sparkling water with lime across the brass counter. "Besides, someone has to make sure the new owner’s sister gets decent service."
"Dante offered you the head of security position for the entire East Coast port authority this morning," Noel said, tilting her head curiously. "Six figures, a penthouse, and a clean legal record. Why did you turn him down to stay behind a bar?"
Before Delaney could answer, the service elevator at the rear of the lounge chimed. Neither of the bartenders had called it. A tall man in a grey courier uniform stepped out, walked straight to the bar without looking at a single guest, and placed a heavy, wax-sealed manila envelope directly on top of Delaney’s folded bar towel. Then he turned and walked back into the elevator.
Delaney’s smile vanished. Slowly, she broke the red wax seal and slid two items out onto the blackened brass: a disposable satellite phone, and a surveillance photograph dated yesterday.
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Staring back from the glossy photo, alive behind the barbed wire of a federal black site in Virginia, was Dante Ferraro’s wife, Elena—the woman Delaney had supposedly failed to save six years ago.
Right beside the photograph, the satellite phone began to ring.
