Chapter 7 - The Gala of Wolves
The Grand Plaza Hotel ballroom was a monument to excessive wealth.
Crystal chandeliers hung from gilded ceilings, casting diamond reflections across hundreds of men in black tuxedos and women in shimmering evening gowns. Champagne flowed from ice sculptures; a string quartet played Vivaldi near the grand staircase.
Richard Mercer stood near the center stage, a glass of vintage champagne in hand, holding court among the city’s political elite. His face was flushed with triumph, laughing loudly at a joke made by Councilman Davis.
“The harbor development contract will be finalized tomorrow morning,” Mercer boasted, straightening his diamond cufflinks. “A clean sixty million. Progress requires a steady hand, gentlemen.”
“And what about that widow?” someone asked quietly. “David Vance’s wife? Heard there was an incident at the school today.”
Mercer waved his hand dismissively. “A brief disturbance. The woman is mentally unstable. She’s currently being detained for a psychiatric evaluation, and the children are being placed in state care. Tragic, but necessary.”
Suddenly, the double mahogany doors at the top of the grand staircase swung wide open.
The brass music faltered. The string quartet missed a beat, then stopped completely.
The room went dead silent.
Walking down the grand marble staircase was a sight the city’s high society had never witnessed.
I wore my full Army Dress Blues—midnight blue wool, gold braided epaulets, three rows of combat ribbons including the Silver Star and Legion of Merit, and the polished silver eagles of a full Colonel gleaming under the crystal chandeliers.
On my arm was Sarah.
Major Sterling had procured an elegant, understated emerald-green evening dress for her. Her hair was swept up, her posture regal, her head held high. She looked stunning, powerful, and utterly unafraid.
Behind us walked Master Sergeant Miller and two federal marshals in dark suits, their badges gleaming on their lapels.
Mercer’s champagne glass slipped from his fingers. It hit the marble floor with a sharp crash, shattering into a thousand pieces, golden liquid pooling around his Italian shoes.
“What... what is this?” Mercer choked out, his face turning the color of chalk.
I stepped off the final riser of the staircase, my dress shoes echoing through the cavernous ballroom. Sarah walked beside me, her chin lifted, her gaze locked onto Mercer’s terrified eyes.
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“Good evening, Mr. Mercer,” I said, my voice carrying into every silent corner of the room. “I believe you were just telling the Council about progress.”
***
