Chapter 2 - The Wrath of the Manager
General Manager Richard Hale marched into the room, flanked by two burly hotel security guards wearing crisp black uniforms and ear pieces. Hale was a pompous man who had spent three years turning the Grand Bellandi Hotel into an exclusive playground for the ultra-wealthy while mistreating the floor staff.
"Clara!" Hale shouted, pointing a manicured finger at her. "What did I tell you? Housekeeping is supposed to be cleaning the fourth-floor executive suites, not fraternizing with trespassers!"
Clara stood her ground, stepping slightly between Hale and the little girl sleeping on the leather couch. "Mr. Hale, the child was freezing. She needed a warm room."
"I don't care if she was made of ice!" Hale spat, gesturing for the security guards to move forward. "This hotel caters to elite clientele, not street beggars who waltz in off the avenue with sob stories and cheap roses!"
Hale stepped up to Luca, glaring up at the taller man. "Listen to me, buddy. I don't care what fake name you gave the front desk. Take your dirty bag, your brat, and your little defender here, and get out of my lobby before I have you thrown into the snowbank."
Arthur tried to intervene, his voice cracked with terror. "Mr. Hale, please! Stop! You don't know who—"
"Shut up, Arthur!" Hale barked. "You're getting too old for this job anyway! One more word and you're fired without a pension!"
Luca stood perfectly still. The only sign of his anger was a slow, deliberate twitch in his jaw. He carefully set his sleeping daughter down on the soft velvet sofa, covering her with Clara’s shawl. Then, he turned to face Hale.
"You mentioned a lack of reservation," Luca said quietly, unbuttoning his charcoal coat to reveal a pristine tailored suit beneath, complete with a dark gold signet ring depicting a crowned falcon—the crest of the Bellandi Syndicate.
Hale’s eyes locked onto the ring. His face drained of all color in a fraction of a second.
"That... that crest..." Hale stammered, his arrogant posture collapsing immediately.
"My grandfather built this hotel in 1952," Luca said softly, stepping into Hale’s personal space until the manager was forced to lean backward over a glass side table. "My father expanded it across twelve countries. And I hold seventy percent of the voting shares in the Bellandi Hospitality Group."
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Luca reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick black titanium card stamped with the master administrative code, and dropped it onto Hale’s chest.
"You just kicked the owner out of his own house," Luca whispered. "And you insulted the woman who showed my daughter the only humanity she has seen all day."
