Chapter 1 - The Man Behind the Wall
“If I ever meet the man who owns this hotel, I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of his management.”
On the other side of the temporary ballroom partition, Roman Duca slowly lowered the financial report in his hands.
For twenty years, people had crossed streets to avoid Roman.
Men who owed him favors answered before the second ring. Restaurant owners somehow discovered private tables when he arrived without a reservation. Executives who bragged about fearing no one became remarkably careful with their words whenever Roman entered a room.
Yet the woman behind the wall had just insulted him.
And she didn’t even know he was there.
Roman glanced toward the narrow gap between the decorative panels.
“Perhaps you should tell him,” he said.
“Oh, I will.”
Her voice sounded young, tired, and wonderfully irritated.
“And if he fires me, I’m sending him an invoice for emotional damages.”
Roman’s mouth almost curved.
Almost.
Twenty minutes earlier, Natalie Brooks had believed she was talking to Daniel Price, the hotel’s audiovisual technician and one of the few coworkers she trusted enough to complain around.
She didn’t know Daniel had been called upstairs.
She didn’t know Roman had stepped behind the partition to inspect a restricted service entrance.
Most importantly, she didn’t know the man she was blaming for every failure inside the Harrington Grand owned more of the hotel than anyone else.
“Seriously,” Natalie continued, flipping through papers, “how hard can it be to run a luxury hotel without making everyone miserable?”
Roman leaned against the service counter.
“That sounds like a management question.”
“It’s a human question.”
That answer caught his attention.
Outside the partition, the Harrington Grand’s largest ballroom was being transformed for a three-hundred-guest charity gala.
White roses climbed six-foot arrangements. Crystal chandeliers glowed over polished tables. Champagne waited on silver carts.
Everything looked effortless.
Natalie knew better.
Luxury hotels were simply places where disasters wore expensive clothes.
In six years, she had replaced a missing wedding cake forty minutes before a ceremony, recovered a diamond bracelet from a commercial dishwasher, and once convinced a famous actor that the ballroom carpet could not be replaced ten minutes before his speech because he had suddenly decided its pattern felt “hostile.”
Natalie solved problems.
She was good at it.
Which was why Victoria Crane, the hotel’s events director, made sure Natalie solved them without receiving credit.
“Natalie!”
Victoria’s voice crossed the ballroom.
Natalie closed her eyes.
“See?” she whispered toward the partition. “The predator has located me.”
Roman’s mouth twitched again.
“You should probably run.”
“She enjoys the chase.”
Natalie stepped away.
Roman remained where he was.
“Why are the floral arrangements still in the corridor?” Victoria demanded.
“Because they delivered blush roses instead of white.”
“Then fix it.”
“I called the florist.”
“Call again.”
Natalie paused.
“Should I use a different accent this time?”
Silence.
Roman lifted one eyebrow.
Victoria’s voice dropped.
“Tonight’s guests are important. I need you to remember that.”
“I remember.”
“And Mr. Duca may inspect the ballroom personally.”
Roman waited.
Natalie said nothing.
“So I need everything perfect. And Natalie?”
“Yes?”
“Stay behind the scenes tonight.”
A different silence followed.
Roman’s expression hardened.
Natalie had apparently done enough work to be blamed for everything but not enough to be seen when important people arrived.
“Of course,” she finally said.
Victoria walked away.
Thirty seconds later, Natalie returned behind the partition and dropped her clipboard onto the counter.
“I hope the man who owns this place enjoys beige.”
“Why beige?” Roman asked.
“Because apparently beige is the only acceptable personality here.”
He heard papers moving.
Then Natalie stopped.
The humor vanished from her breathing.
Roman straightened.
“What happened?”
A pause.
“You sound weird again.”
Roman remembered she thought he was Daniel.
“Do I?”
“Deeper.”
“A cold.”
“Drink tea.”
Roman stared at the wall.
Nobody had prescribed him tea in years.
On Natalie’s side, an email had appeared on her phone.
She read it once.
Then again.
Her stomach tightened.
Three weeks earlier, she had noticed discrepancies in several vendor invoices. Amounts had been changed after approval. Payment dates didn’t match original event files. Digital authorizations appeared on days when the employees supposedly responsible had not even been working.
The total was nearly eighty thousand dollars.
Natalie had mentioned it to Victoria.
Victoria had told her accounting would handle it.
Now the email on Natalie’s screen contained a revised internal report.
It blamed Harold Bennett.
Harold was sixty-two and had managed banquets at the Harrington Grand for thirty-one years.
When Natalie had been twenty-five, broke, and working fourteen-hour shifts in shoes that rubbed her heels raw, Harold had quietly left a new pair in the employee locker room.
He claimed they were “extra supplies from an event.”
Natalie knew better.
He had simply seen someone struggling and helped without asking for anything in return.
The report said Harold had approved unauthorized payments.
Natalie knew that wasn’t true.
Because two of those approvals had supposedly occurred while Harold was attending his daughter’s wedding in Vermont.
“What’s wrong?” Roman asked again.
Natalie looked toward the wall.
“Daniel?”
“Yes?”
“Do you ever get the feeling somebody wants you to sign something because they need your fingerprints on the knife?”
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“What are they asking you to sign?”
She hesitated.
“I probably shouldn’t say.”
“Then don’t.”
His lack of pressure surprised her.
Most people at the Harrington Grand always wanted information.
Roman simply waited.
Natalie looked at the report again.
“They want me to confirm that someone approved payments I know he didn’t approve.”
Roman’s posture changed.
“How do you know?”
“Because I checked.”
“Carefully?”
“Very.”
“How much money?”
She froze.
“Why are you asking?”
Roman realized he had become too interested.
“Curiosity.”
“That’s a dangerous hobby in this hotel.”
“You seem to practice it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Natalie lowered her voice.
“Almost eighty thousand dollars.”
Roman stopped breathing for half a second.
The amount itself meant little to him.
The method mattered.
The Harrington Grand had undergone an internal audit six months earlier. No discrepancy of that size should have survived.
Unless someone had deliberately hidden it.
“Who wants you to sign?”
Natalie looked toward the ballroom.
Victoria stood twenty yards away speaking with the catering manager.
“I can’t tell you.”
Roman glanced through the gap.
He saw Natalie clearly for the first time.
Blonde hair pinned loosely behind her head. Ivory dress. Clipboard held against her chest.
She wasn’t what he had expected.
She looked exhausted.
And angry.
But not afraid.
Roman had spent enough years studying people to recognize fear when it appeared.
Natalie wasn’t worried about herself.
She was worried about Harold.
That interested him more than her insult had.
“What happens if you refuse?” he asked.
“I probably lose my job.”
“And if you sign?”
“Someone innocent might lose his.”
Roman’s gaze became colder.
“Then you already know what you’re going to do.”
Natalie frowned.
“You always this annoying when you have a cold?”
“Usually worse.”
A reluctant smile appeared on her face.
Then Victoria called again.
“Natalie!”
Natalie sighed.
“Coming.”
Before leaving, she whispered toward the wall.
“Drink tea, Daniel.”
Roman waited until her footsteps disappeared.
Then he pulled out his phone.
His chief of security answered immediately.
“Mr. Duca.”
“Find Daniel Price.”
A pause.
“The audiovisual technician?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No. I need to know where he is.”
Less than a minute later, the answer came.
“Thirty-eighth floor. Conference room B. He’s been there for approximately forty minutes.”
Roman looked at the partition.
So Natalie had never been speaking to Daniel.
She had spent nearly half an hour insulting Roman Duca directly.
He should have been irritated.
Instead, for reasons he didn’t entirely understand, it was the most interesting conversation he’d had all month.
His phone vibrated again.
This time it was his attorney, Vincent Hale.
Roman answered.
“We found another irregularity in the Harrington accounts,” Vincent said.
“How much?”
“We don’t know yet. Someone buried payments through multiple vendors.”
Roman’s eyes moved toward the ballroom.
“Names?”
“One keeps appearing.”
Roman waited.
“Crane.”
His expression went still.
“Victoria Crane?”
“Not Victoria.”
Roman frowned.
“Then who?”
“Marcus Crane. Her brother.”
Roman looked through the gap again.
Natalie stood across the ballroom while Victoria handed her a document.
“Keep digging,” Roman said.
He ended the call.
Then something happened that erased every trace of amusement from his face.
Victoria pointed toward the paper.
Natalie shook her head.
Victoria said something.
Natalie shook her head again.
Victoria leaned closer.
Roman couldn’t hear the words.
But he saw Natalie’s expression.
She had just realized she was being threatened.
Roman stepped from behind the partition.
At the same moment, Natalie turned.
For the first time, she saw him.
Tall.
Black suit.
Dark eyes.
Controlled expression.
He was nothing like Daniel.
Natalie stared.
Roman walked toward her.
Victoria immediately straightened.
“Mr. Duca.”
Natalie’s face lost its color.
Her eyes moved from Victoria to Roman.
Then toward the partition.
Then back to Roman.
The realization arrived slowly.
Painfully.
“Oh,” Natalie whispered.
Roman stopped in front of her.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Finally, Roman tilted his head.
“Tea?”
Natalie closed her eyes.
She wanted the marble floor to open beneath her.
Instead, Roman looked at the document in Victoria’s hand.
“What are you asking Ms. Brooks to sign?”
Victoria smiled quickly.
“Nothing important.”
Roman’s gaze remained on the paper.
“I’ll decide that.”
Victoria hesitated.
Then handed it to him.
Roman read the first page.
His expression revealed nothing.
Natalie could hear her own heartbeat.
Finally, Roman looked at Victoria.
“Leave us.”
“Mr. Duca, I can explain—”
“Not yet.”
Victoria walked away.
Natalie stared at Roman.
“So…”
“So?”
“You’re the owner.”
“One of them.”
“And you let me keep talking?”
“You seemed committed.”
“I insulted you.”
“Several times.”
“I called your management soulless.”
“You also called the lobby music psychological warfare.”
Natalie covered her face.
Roman almost smiled.
Then his expression changed as he looked at the document.
“Do not sign this.”
Natalie lowered her hands.
“Why?”
“Because you were right.”
“About Harold?”
Roman looked toward Victoria.
“About something being wrong.”
For the first time that evening, Natalie felt something colder than embarrassment.
Roman handed the report back.
“Keep the original.”
“Why?”
“Because someone may try to make it disappear.”
Natalie stared at him.
“You know something.”
Roman said nothing.
“Mr. Duca?”
He started walking away.
Then stopped.
Without turning, he said quietly:
“Ms. Brooks, from this moment forward, if anyone asks you about those invoices, you tell them nothing.”
Natalie’s stomach tightened.
“Why?”
Roman finally looked back.
“Because eighty thousand dollars isn’t what’s missing.”
Her fingers tightened around the report.
“How much is?”
Roman’s expression darkened.
“We don’t know.”
Then his phone vibrated.
He looked at the message.
And for the first time, Natalie saw genuine alarm in Roman Duca’s eyes.
The message contained only one sentence:
May you like
Someone just deleted six years of Harrington Grand financial records.
And according to the system log, the deletion had been authorized using Natalie Brooks’s employee account.
