Chapter 5 - The UnravelingThe silence in the grand ballroom was now absolute. You could hear the distant hum of the Manhattan traffic five floors below.
Brooke recovered her voice first, her face flushing an ugly, mottled crimson.
"Security!" she shrieked, her voice cutting through the quiet like a broken glass. "Get this woman out of here! How did a fired, unvetted former assistant get past the front doors?! Guard!"
Two burly men in black tactical suits stepped out from the side wings, marching down the aisle toward me with their hands raised.
I didn't flinch. I reached into the sleek velvet clutch bag I was carrying, pulled out a slim, silver tablet, and pressed a single button on the screen.
Instantly, the massive, twelve-foot projector screen behind the dais—which had previously displayed a looping, elegant monogram of Dante & Brooke—blinked black.
A second later, a new title flashed across the glowing screen in bold, clinical red letters:
ROMANO HOLDINGS: CHARITABLE FOUNDATION AUDIT & DISBURSEMENT LOGS (2024–2026).
Murmurs erupted instantly across the room.
"What is the meaning of this?" Senator Sterling demanded, standing up from the neighboring table, his face red with indignation. "Dante, control your guests! What is this projection?"
Dante didn't answer the senator. He slowly stepped down from the dais, ignoring the two security guards who had reached my side. He stopped two feet away from me, his breathing heavy, his dark eyes burning with a mixture of fury and sudden, sickening realization.
"Elena," Dante said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Turn it off. Now."
"Why, Mr. Romano?" I asked, my voice carrying clearly through the ballroom's wireless sound system, which my Soho loft had successfully overridden five minutes prior. "Are you afraid your esteemed guests might read page four? The page where four point eight million dollars in charity funds was wired directly to three federal judges currently presiding over your antitrust litigation?"
The color drained from the faces of the three judges seated near the front table. One of them immediately stood up, knocking his chair backward with a loud crash, and bolted toward the side exit.
"Seize her!" Dante roared, lunging forward to grab the tablet from my hands.
Before his fingers could brush the glass, the side doors of the ballroom flew open.
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They weren't hotel security. They wore federal windbreakers emblazoned with bold yellow letters: FBI — FINANCIAL CRIMES DIVISION.
Behind them strode Special Agent Vance—the same man who had called me from the underground network thirty-six hours ago.
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