Chapter 11 - The Gala of Wolves
The Veridian Consulate was an imposing neoclassical mansion on the Upper East Side, flanked by iron gates and private security guards armed with concealed submachine guns.
Limousines lined the cobblestone driveway, discharging ambassadors, oligarchs, and corrupt politicians in black-tie attire.
In the rear alley, a delivery truck carrying crates of Dom Pérignon backed into the service loading dock.
Rose stepped out from the cargo bay, dressed in the crisp white shirt, black vest, and tailored apron of a high-end sommelier. Her long auburn hair was slicked back into an immaculate, tight bun. Hidden beneath the collar of her shirt was an ultra-thin bone-conduction transmitter; strapped to her inner thigh beneath her trousers was an electronic frequency scrambler designed by Nathaniel’s tech operatives.
"Comms check," Nathaniel’s voice murmured in her ear, taut with agony and vigilance. He was three blocks away in a surveillance van, watching thermal feeds of the mansion. "Rose, thermal imaging shows eighteen hostiles on the ground floor. Leo’s biological signature is located on the third-floor penthouse study. But Rose... the perimeter is crawling with facial recognition cameras."
"They look at the guests, Nathaniel," Rose whispered into her hidden lapel mic as she hoisted a silver tray laden with champagne flutes. "They never look at the hands carrying the drinks."
She walked past the biometric checkpoint. A private security guard held up a metal detector, scanning her torso. The scanner beeped.
"What's in the pocket?" the guard barked in a thick Eastern European accent, reaching for his sidearm.
Rose looked him dead in the eye, maintaining the blank, subservient expression she had perfected over years of servitude.
"Silver corkscrew and emergency wine thermometer, sir," she said softly, pulling out the polished metal tools. "If the 1996 vintage warms above twelve degrees, Monsieur Sterling promised to fire the head chef. Would you like to inspect the cork?"
The guard sneered, waving her through dismissively. "Move it, maid. Down the hall to the ballroom."
Rose stepped through the double doors into the glittering ballroom. The crystal chandeliers cast a sickening golden glow over the crowd of corrupt elites.
And standing at the grand staircase, raising a glass of vintage scotch, was Julian Sterling. Beside him, dressed in an immaculate emerald gown and smiling with wicked satisfaction, was a woman who should have been in federal detention.
May you like
Victoria.
***
