The Gotham Hotel had nothing on the Dressrious Salon. It was a relic of traditional luxury, designed to serve traditional elites. It had a boring lounge, mediocre drinks, and staff who offered exaggerated smiles and endless “sorries” without ever actually solving a problem. You know the type—so let’s skip the decor and get straight to the story.
Trevor and Report Man were greeted in the lobby by the manager, Enzo, a middle-aged, short-statured man with a meticulously trimmed mustache and a dark red uniform.
“Ciao! Great to see you again, amico,” Enzo said, hugging Report Man warmly.
“Ciao,” Report Man replied, before gesturing to Trevor. “This is my friend, Mr. Edson. His cousin is looking to host a family Natalis Invicti party in a high-end hotel. I thought of you immediately, so I suggested we stop by for a look.”
“Indeed, we are a terrific choice for a family gathering. How many guests are you expecting?” Enzo asked professionally.
“More than sixty,” Trevor said with a practiced smile. “I’d love to see your ballroom; I’ve heard it’s quite impressive.”
Enzo’s expression soured. “Unfortunately, the ballroom was damaged by a fire. For safety reasons, it’s closed for repairs until next month.”
“A fire? How is that even possible in a place like this?” Report Man’s jaw dropped. Trevor couldn’t help but admire the man’s acting skills; he looked genuinely shocked.
“It is a long story. Come, sit in the lounge, and we can discuss it,” Enzo led them to a table and gestured for a waitress to bring coffee. “The fire started right here. As you can see, we are still repairing the damage.”
Trevor and Report Man looked where Enzo pointed. Along the right-hand wall, a section about four booths long was hidden behind scaffolding. “The ballroom is directly behind that wall. Because the fire compromised the structure, we can’t risk hosting events right now.”
“How did it start?” Report Man asked, taking a sip of his coffee.
“It happened early last Wednesday morning, around 4:10 AM. But the cause was a black suitcase left behind by a man on Tuesday night,” Enzo sighed.
“The suitcase sat there all night and no one noticed?” Trevor asked.
“No one. It was late, the lights were dimmed, and the bar was closing. There were only a few guests. The man arrived at midnight, sat for a short while, and then vanished.”
“You couldn’t identify him?”
“He wore a hat and a long coat. It’s nearly impossible to see his face in the footage.”
“Did the suitcase just… spontaneously combust?” Report Man asked, leaning in. “Nobody opened it?”
“You could say that. The police said it contained stacks of paper soaked in pyrophoric liquids. It’s lucky no one tried to open it; they would have been badly burned. It ignited due to the ambient heat of the room—the flammable vapors built up until the suitcase simply went up in flames. It was a cheap paperboard suitcase, burnt fast and left almost nothing behind.”
“And no one else approached it? No one even looked at it?” Report Man pressed.
Enzo shook his head firmly.
“That sounds more like a terrorist attack,” Trevor said, sounding appropriately horrified.
“Perhaps, but because it happened so late with no injuries, the police are treating it as a strange case of arson rather than terrorism.”
“Could it be revenge? Or a business competitor?” Trevor asked casually.
Enzo’s eyes widened. “The wedding after-party for Senator Style’s son had to be moved to the Dressrious Salon because of this fire. Do you think they planned it?”
Trevor nearly choked on his coffee, regretting the suggestion. Report Man jumped in quickly to steer the conversation away from the Salon. “Let’s not overthink it, Enzo. Speculation is dangerous.”
“You’re right,” Enzo sighed. “Well, the ballroom is out, but we have several dining and conference rooms. Would you like a tour?”
Trevor checked his watch. “It’s getting a bit late, and I have an appointment soon. Do you have a card? We should chat again once I’ve spoken to my cousin.”
“Of course, Mr. Edson. A pleasure to meet you.” Enzo handed over his card and shook Trevor’s hand.
Before they left, Trevor’s eyes caught a man with dark, wavy hair in a light blue shirt sitting at a corner table, typing intently on a laptop. When the man looked up to take a drink of his coffee, Trevor froze. It was the same guy from the party yesterday—Alisa’s mysterious friend.
As they walked toward the subway, Report Man lowered his voice. “Dropping a suitcase like that is usually how you deliver millions in cash. But it’s strange—if it was a ransom delivery, the blackmailer should have collected it. Instead, no one showed up.”
“If the blackmailer had tried to take that suitcase, they’d be dead. It was a trap,” Trevor noted.
“A trap, definitely. But why didn’t the target show?”
“Maybe the blackmailer realized something was wrong. Maybe the blackmailer demanded Franco deliver the money personally, but noticed the man with the suitcase wasn’t him.”
“Good point. Which means the blackmailer knows Franco’s face very well,” Report Man said. “We need to get our hands on that footage. We need to see who else was in that lounge.”