When Shane and William Catterson returned to the Bristol Hotel, the crystal chandeliers in the lobby glowed with a warm amber light, casting reflections across the marble floor like fragments of molten gold.
A man in a dark grey three-piece suit rose smoothly from a velvet armchair in the lounge and approached them with quiet confidence.
"Mr. Cassidy," he said, bowing slightly. His English carried the melodic restraint of an Italian accent. "I am Antonio Ricci, private secretary to Mr. Castiglioni."
His voice was smooth and deliberate, every syllable polished.
"Mr. Castiglioni has entrusted me to extend a personal greeting—and an invitation."
Ricci withdrew a gilt-edged envelope from his leather briefcase and presented it with both hands.
The invitation was printed on fine ivory cardstock, an embossed grapevine motif curling elegantly along the borders. A deep red wax seal closed the flap—its impression the unmistakable silhouette of a Junkers F-13, the latest German passenger aircraft.
"Tomorrow evening at seven o'clock," Ricci continued, "Mr. Castiglioni will host a private salon at the Belvedere Palace. He wishes to discuss the future of new technology and the entertainment industry—and he hopes for your company."
He gave a subtle nod to an attendant, who stepped forward carrying an indigo Moroccan leather box.
Ricci lifted the lid to reveal a pair of platinum-plated cufflinks resting on black velvet. Under the warm hotel lights, the etched outline of the Junkers F-13 gleamed—sleek and modern, a symbol of postwar ambition.
"Mr. Castiglioni understands you have a taste for mechanical aesthetics," Ricci said with a courteous smile. "He hopes this small gift might add a touch of Continental distinction to your business attire in New York."
Catterson accepted the invitation, noticing the repetition of the aircraft motif on both seal and silver.
He glanced toward Shane, who was studying the gilt embossing on the jewelry box with quiet thoughtfulness.
"Please convey to Mr. Castiglioni," Shane said finally, closing the lid with a soft snap of leather, "that we are honored to accept."
Ricci bowed again, his movements smooth as clockwork, and withdrew. His silhouette briefly flickered across the mirrored columns of the lobby like a passing frame from a silent film.
Catterson turned the invitation over in his hand. "It seems our stay in Vienna just got longer. Do you think this aviation magnate truly cares about film technology—or something else entirely?"
Shane's gaze drifted toward the tall windows. Outside, a Mercedes-Benz 630K glided along the circular boulevard, its black enamel body absorbing the light, the curtains drawn tight over the rear windows.
"Perhaps," Shane murmured, brushing his fingers over the blue leather box, "he never only wanted to talk about technology."
As the elevator doors slid open with a chime, both men noticed a bouquet of white calla lilies placed in a crystal vase before their suite door—fresh, fragrant, and wordless.
June 19, 1927 – 7:30 p.m.
Marble Hall, Schönbrunn Palace, Vienna
The twilight sky blushed violet as the gilded gates of Schönbrunn Palace opened to a procession of motorcars. Engines purred over the gravel drive, headlights sweeping across the fountain's spray.
Footmen in dark blue livery stood in two immaculate rows, white gloves gleaming as they opened doors with perfect timing.
The first car stopped—a black Steyr XII sedan. Banker Emil Kiessler stepped out, the polished tips of his Oxfords tapping softly on marble. He turned and offered his hand to his wife, Gertrude, who descended gracefully in a silver-grey silk gown. Around her neck, the family's diamond heirloom glittered with restrained splendor.
Their daughter, Maria Kiessler, fourteen, followed in a pale blue taffeta dress with a Venetian lace sash. As she ascended the steps, the crystal embroidery of her gown caught the light like a field of tiny stars. Her wide eyes lingered on the frescoed gods above the Baroque portico—until her father gently touched her shoulder.
"Straighten your back, my dear," he murmured.
Inside, two hundred candles burned in the chandeliers, scattering light like spilled champagne.
At the far end of the hall stood Signor Castiglioni, framed by mirrored walls and Venetian gilt moldings. His gold watch chain glimmered beside the Order of Franz Joseph medal pinned to his lapel—a remnant of another empire.
"My dear Emil!" he exclaimed warmly, clasping the banker's hand. "Even the gardens of Schönbrunn would pale beside your daughter's beauty."
As he bowed toward Maria, the black onyx of his cufflinks caught the light—an elegant gesture polished by years of salons and state dinners.
A murmur spread through the room. Guests turned toward the entrance as Baron Louis von Rothschild and his wife appeared, moving with the quiet assurance of old nobility.
The Baron wore a midnight-blue tuxedo from Savile Row, a Roman coin pin gleaming at his collar. Beside him, Baroness Hilda shimmered in a silver-grey gown by House of Worth, embroidered with iris motifs of Chantilly lace and pearls.
"My God," whispered one banker's wife, clutching her pearls, "that's pre-war French lace…"
The Countess beside her lifted her fan, but not quickly enough to conceal her envy.
By the mirror, playwright Hugo von Hofmannsthal observed quietly, then leaned toward a younger companion.
"Do you see how Baroness Rothschild holds her fan? That angle means restraint. Every smile here," he murmured, "is a negotiation."
At that moment, the great chandeliers cast their golden fire upon a new arrival: Alma Mahler, arm in arm with her daughter Anna. The egret feathers in Alma's wide hat quivered softly, haloed by candlelight.
Across the room, Anna's gaze met young Maria Kiessler's between the champagne tower and the floral arch. A faint conspiratorial smile passed between them; Maria raised her mother-of-pearl fan to conceal it.
Waiters moved silently through the crowd, trays glinting with Bohemian crystal filled with Veuve Clicquot. The mingled scents of honey, citrus, and Imperial caviar drifted like a luxurious fog.
A string quartet played an adapted Strauss waltz, the melody silken and perfectly restrained. The tempo, the pitch—everything measured; in Vienna's upper salons, music existed to serve, not dominate.
When the final note faded into the gilded arches, Castiglioni clapped softly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he declared, "if you will follow me to the banquet hall."
His gesture was practiced—almost theatrical—the same commanding grace as Toscanini conducting Aida at La Scala.
The dining room was a masterpiece of proportion and symmetry. A twelve-meter mahogany table stretched beneath a canopy of chandeliers. Its surface gleamed beneath a linen cloth embroidered by Hungarian artisans, every lace motif a whisper of handwork and heritage.
Down the center, white roses and gardenias from the Schönbrunn greenhouse gleamed with dew, their fragrance mingling with the beeswax and wine.
Each place was a study in precision—gold-rimmed Meissen porcelain, silver-plated cutlery aligned to perfection, linen napkins folded into delicate crowns.
Three crystal glasses stood at each setting in a graceful curve: a Rhine glass for Riesling, a rounded Bordeaux for red, and a slender flute awaiting champagne. The candlelight turned each into a vessel of refracted fire.
Castiglioni personally guided the guests to their places, following Viennese etiquette to the letter: gentlemen and ladies alternated, and every man was expected to attend to the lady on his right.
Shane, in his dark blue tailored suit, stood out among the tuxedos—a subtle reminder of the Atlantic distance between him and these gilded heirs of an empire.
His seat was between Baroness Rothschild and Gertrude Kiessler. As the orchestra began a soft overture, he adjusted his cufflinks—the platinum gleam catching the candlelight like a prelude to a story yet to unfold.