Chapter 4 - The Whispers in the Dark
The Grand Bellissima’s grand ballroom was a cavern of gilded excess. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls from forty-foot ceilings, and walls lined with black marble reflected the dozens of workers setting up flower arrangements, silver banquet tables, and laser-calibrated sound systems.
Marlo spent three days at the venue, establishing herself as an unobtrusive professional.
She calibrated her lenses, mapped the lighting blind spots, and observed the security routines of Sterling’s private guard detail—a group of stone-faced men who reported directly to a man named Dante, Sterling’s head of security and enforcer.
Dante was a broad, scarred veteran of the syndicates whose right hand never strayed far from the tailored lining of his jacket.
“Keep your distance from the stage during the rehearsal,” Dante warned Marlo on Thursday afternoon, his tone laced with menace. “Boss’s orders. Miss Vivienne doesn't like anyone creeping up on her.”
“I know the rules,” Marlo replied, adjusting a diffuser on her flash.
While the staff bustled with preparations, Marlo kept her ears open. Behind the velvet curtains and inside the catering hallways, the gossip of Las Vegas royalty flowed freely among the waitstaff and stage technicians.
“The Chicago family is arriving with five lieutenants,” one of the lighting techs whispered while coiling heavy black cables behind the stage. “Old man Moretti wants to see if Sterling still controls the Strip. He thinks Sterling has gone soft since the old man died.”
“Sterling soft?” the other tech scoffed. “Did you see what he did to that street in the old quarter last month? Bulldozed six blocks without firing a single bullet. Left the old baker woman with nothing. He’s colder than his father ever was.”
Marlo’s fingers tightened on the metal frame of her tripod until her knuckles turned white.
*Bulldozed six blocks. Left the old baker woman with nothing.*
They spoke of Ruth’s life’s work as if it were routine demolition.
Later that evening, after the technicians had left for dinner and the ballroom descended into twilight, Marlo slipped toward the backstage private dressing rooms. She needed to know the exact makeup protocol Vivienne used.
The door to Suite A was slightly ajar.
Marlo approached silently, her camera resting against her chest. Inside, Vivienne was seated in front of a three-way illuminated mirror.
Standing behind her was an older woman in clinical scrubs—a private cosmetic technician. On the vanity table lay rows of specialized medical-grade adhesives, silicone prosthetic blending paints, and bottles of heavy derma-shield spray.
“It’s getting harder to conceal the lower clavicle, Vivienne,” the technician murmured softly, carefully applying a flesh-toned silicone paste along Vivienne’s collarbone. “The skin graft is contracting. You need another surgical revision in Switzerland. If you keep wearing these heavy foundations, you’ll get an infection.”
“Sterling says we can’t go to Zurich until the High Council confirms the new casino licenses,” Vivienne replied, her voice breaking. She looked at her reflection in the glass, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “If Moretti or the Russians find out I’m having skin reconstructions, they’ll know the fire at the safehouse twenty-five years ago almost took Alexander’s bloodline. Sterling will never let them see me bleed.”
“Your brother loves you, child, but he is running an empire on a knife's edge,” the woman sighed. “He thinks he can control the world with money and threats. But the body doesn’t lie.”
Vivienne bowed her head, her thin shoulders shaking. “Sometimes I wish the fire had finished it. I’ve lived twenty-seven years as a ghost painted to look like a porcelain statue. I just want to walk into the sun without fear of melting.”
From behind the velvet drape, Marlo watched, her heart clenching with an emotion she hadn't anticipated: *pity*.
Vivienne was not Sterling’s accomplice; she was his prisoner, just as Ruth Kent had been his casualty. Sterling’s entire empire was an iron fortress built to protect an illusion—a lie invented by his ruthless father to project invincible power to a circle of bloodthirsty mafia bosses.
Suddenly, a heavy shadow fell across the hallway.
Marlo spun around instantly, pressing her back against the corridor wall.
Sterling Voss stood three paces away.
He had removed his jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. His expression was not angry; it was dangerously, lethal quiet.
“You’re off your designated perimeter, Ms. Vance,” he said, his voice a low vibration that made the air feel thin.
Marlo did not flinch. She met his cold gray eyes without looking away.
“I was looking for the stage manager to confirm the spotlight angles,” she said smoothly, keeping her voice even. “The dressing rooms weren't marked on the blueprint.”
Sterling stepped closer, invading her space until she could smell the crisp cedar and tobacco of his cologne. He looked down at her, his eyes searching her face with forensic intensity.
“You lie remarkably well,” Sterling murmured, his eyes dropping to the camera strap in her hands. “Most people start sweating when I corner them. Your pulse barely shifted.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Voss.”
“Then you’re either very foolish, or you don’t know who I am.”
“I know exactly who you are,” Marlo said, her words laden with quiet venom that she couldn't fully suppress. “You’re the man who owns the city. The man who turns streets into parking lots and people into footnotes.”
Sterling’s eyes narrowed into slits. For a fraction of a second, something flared in his expression—not fury, but a flicker of sudden, piercing curiosity.
“Who are you?” he asked softly, reaching out a hand as if to touch her shoulder.
Before his fingers made contact, Dante appeared around the corner.
“Boss,” Dante called out, breathing heavily. “Moretti’s convoy just entered the private garage. We need you downstairs now.”
Sterling paused. His hand lingered in the air between them for a heartbeat before dropping to his side.
May you like
“Go home, Ms. Vance,” Sterling said, his voice turning cold and distant once more. “Tomorrow night is the gala. Be in position by six. And pray for your sake that your lens only captures what you are paid to see.”
***
