Betsey turned away from him and grabbed the specialized enzyme cleaner from her cart. She dropped to her knees on the carpet and began to scrub the blood spot. The chemical smell was sharp, masking the scent of the man's sweat and the metallic tang of blood.
The man watched her from the sofa. He had leaned back, his torn shirt hanging open, looking impossibly relaxed for someone who had just been stitched up by a housekeeper.
"What is your name?" he asked.
Betsey hesitated. Her hand paused in its scrubbing motion. "Betsey," she said finally.
"Betsey." He tested the name, rolling the syllables around in his mouth. "It sounds too innocent for you."
She felt a blush heat the back of her neck. It annoyed her. She scrubbed harder at the carpet.
Suddenly, a soft chime came from the staff-issued phone in her pocket. The alert made her jump.
All staff to positions. VIP Convoy entering the loading dock. ETA two minutes.
Panic hit her like a bucket of ice water. The Butcher was here. And she had a bleeding intruder on the sofa.
She looked at the man. "You need to leave. Now. The guest is arriving."
The man smirked. It was a lazy, arrogant expression. "Maybe I am the guest."
Betsey snorted. She stood up, clutching the spray bottle. "The Butcher of Wall Street doesn't break into his own room bleeding from a gunshot wound."
He shrugged, wincing slightly. "Fair point."
She assumed he was advance security, or maybe a corporate spy gone wrong. Either way, he was a liability.
"Hide in the closet," she ordered, pointing a finger at the wardrobe. "Or jump out the window. I don't care. Just don't get me fired."
She grabbed her cart and rushed toward the door.
The man watched her go. As the door clicked shut, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone.
"Lars," he said into the device. "Bring me a fresh suit. I'm in the suite."
Betsey sprinted down the service stairs, skipping steps. She burst into the lobby level, smoothing her hair and checking her reflection in a brass light fixture. She looked flushed, but presentable.
She joined the line of staff. Thomas was there, trembling slightly. Dani was pacing back and forth, checking her watch every five seconds.
The side VIP doors burst open.
Security guards with earpieces flooded the room. They moved with military precision, securing the perimeter.
Then, a man walked in.
He was tall, blond, and imposing. He wore a dark suit that cost more than Betsey made in a year. He looked cold, efficient, and scary.
Betsey thought, That's him. The Butcher.
Dani bowed so low she almost tipped over. "Welcome, Mr. Franklin. We are honored."
The blond man stopped. He looked at Dani, then at the line of staff. He looked confused.
Betsey stepped forward. She held a silver tray with warm, scented towels. She tried to be efficient, to make up for her tardiness.
"Mr. Franklin," she said, offering the towel.
The blond man looked at her. He looked at the towel. Then he looked at Dani.
"I am not Mr. Franklin," he said.
