Chapter 6 - The Ghost Leaves the Room
The man did not look at Mara again.
He didn't touch her; he didn't offer a threat, a name, or a tip. He turned on his polished heel and walked toward the brass entrance doors with the smooth, unhurried cadence of a king departing an occupied province.
The six suited men fell into defensive formation around him—two flanking his lead, two on his flanks, two covering his rear, their coats unbuttoned, their eyes sweeping the room with cold, clinical efficiency. The heavy glass-and-brass doors pushed open into the rainy October night, swallowed the seven silhouettes, and clicked shut with a heavy, pressurized thud.
Outside, through the steamed front windows, Mara caught the brief, strobing reflection of black Cadillac Escalades idling three-deep against the curb, their emergency flashers painting the wet asphalt in rhythmic pulses of amber and red. Within ten seconds, the low, synchronized rumble of three eight-cylinder engines echoed through the street, accelerating away toward Lake Shore Drive before dissolving into the hiss of the storm.
Inside The Gilded Drake, the air rushed back into the room like a breached vacuum.
People began to exhale. A woman at table four let out a ragged, nervous sob; a broker near the bar down his martini in a single, desperate gulp; the jazz pianist nervously struck a middle-C chord, his hands shaking so badly he missed the transition into the next measure.
Mara’s knees finally gave out.
She caught herself on the edge of the walnut booth, her knuckles white against the dark wood, her head hanging between her shoulders as her lungs frantically pulled in the stale, air-conditioned oxygen. Her entire body was shaking with an uncontrollable, violent tremor—the delayed shock of an animal that had just smelled the teeth of the wolf and somehow walked away with its throat intact.
Across the room, Chloe was leaning against the service station, her face the color of spoiled milk, her hands clutching her server book against her stomach as if she were about to be physically ill.
Mara didn't look at her. She pushed herself off the booth, her rubber soles squeaking on the parquet, and rushed across the floor toward the bar.
Frank was still standing behind the brass draft towers. He hadn't poured a single drink. His bar towel was crumpled in his fist, his weathered forehead glistening with cold sweat.
Mara slammed her palms onto the mahogany counter, leaning over the brass rail, her brown eyes wide, wild, and desperate.
"Frank," she gasped, her voice raw, her heart hammering against her ribs like a drum. "Frank, who was that? Who did I just kiss?"
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Frank slowly set the towel down onto the wet drain board. He looked at Mara—really looked at her—with an expression of profound, unvarnished pity that made her stomach drop through the floorboards.
"You don't know?" Frank whispered, his voice cracking with old age and terror. "God help you, girl. That was Adrian Moretti."
