Chapter 2 - The Counter-Trap
I pulled the blue ballpoint pen from Nora’s hand before she could process what I was doing.
The grease from my untouched hash browns had begun to congeal on the thick white plate, but I barely noticed. I flattened the forged bank document against the Formica tabletop, pressing the paper smooth with the heel of my palm.
Matteo watched me. He didn’t reach for his coat, he didn’t shift his weight, and he didn’t glance at the three dark SUVs idling outside Dottie’s Diner, their tinted windows reflecting the cold Chicago light. His hazel eyes, framed by dark lashes and that thin, sharp scar near his right eyebrow, remained fixed on my hands.
"Look at the second line," I said, my voice dropping an octave as I uncapped the pen.
Nora leaned in across the booth, her blue scrubs rustling. "Amelia, what are you doing?"
"This isn't a professional forgery," I said, heavy blue ink circling the tax identification number at the top of the page. "It’s a rush job by someone who had access to my old public filing from two years ago, but didn't check the state database."
Matteo leaned forward by a single inch. The faint scent of expensive leather and cold winter rain drifted across the table from his tailored wool coat. "Explain."
"The Rhodes Community Music Center updated its corporate dash-formatting with the Illinois Secretary of State six months ago when we applied for the municipal arts grant," I said, tapping the tip of the pen against the paper with rhythmic precision. Tap. Tap. Tap. "Anyone pulling our records from the public IRS portal today would get the nine-digit sequence with a double hyphen at the end. But this document uses the single-hyphen format from the 2024 cultural registry."
I looked up from the paper, meeting Matteo’s stare head-on.
"The only place that old format still exists in a private digital folder," I continued, "is on the co-sponsorship applications my board submitted to the Maro Cultural Foundation last April. Isabella’s family charity."
Silence settled over the booth, thick and heavy enough to drown out the low rumble of the diner’s coffee maker.
Nora let out a slow, sharp breath. "Isabella set you up."
"Isabella provided the raw data," I corrected, setting the pen down beside my cold hash browns. "But she didn't open this account at ten o'clock last night. She was too busy throwing a temper tantrum in the Astoria coatroom." I turned my gaze back to Matteo. "Your advisor did it. Victor Salazar. He’s the only person who had access to your corporate authorization stamps and the Maro Foundation’s grant archives."
Matteo didn't look surprised. That was the most terrifying thing about him. A normal man would have blinked, denied it, or reached for his phone to fire his lieutenant. Matteo simply absorbed the information, his eyes darkening like Lake Michigan before a nor'easter.
"Victor has been with my family for twenty-two years," Matteo said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that rattled the cheap salt shaker between us. "He managed my father’s freight ledgers before I was old enough to hold a steering wheel."
"Then your father had a thief for an accountant," I replied without flinching. "And you have a traitor for a right hand."
Nora choked on her own breath, shooting me a look that screamed he is a mafia Don, stop insulting his staff.
Matteo didn't reach for a weapon. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched—a fleeting, almost imperceptible shift that, on any other man, might have passed for a smile.
"You're very sharp, Miss Rhodes," he murmured. "Most women in your position would be crying into their tea or calling a criminal defense lawyer."
"I don't have money for a criminal defense lawyer, Mr. Falcone," I said, leaning over the table until I was looking straight into his eyes. "And I don't cry over men who don't know the difference between a concert pianist and their own fiancée. I have twenty-four children waiting for their eleven o'clock Suzuki violin class, a media circus parked on my sidewalk, and a fifty-thousand-dollar fraud flag sitting on my non-profit's credit score. I don't have time to cry."
Outside, a flash bulb burst against the diner window.
A young photojournalist from the Chicago Sun-Times had snuck past the SUVs and was holding his camera against the glass, capturing the image of Matteo Falcone sitting in a vinyl booth with a full-figured woman in a clearance-rack sweater.
Matteo didn't turn around. "My security team will handle the press."
"No," I said, sliding out of the booth and pulling my heavy wool coat over my shoulders. "If your security team handles them, they'll smash his camera, put him in the hospital, and tomorrow's front page will call me a mob mistress who hires muscle to silence the media."
"Amelia, sit down," Nora hissed, grabbing my sleeve. "There are three men out there built like brick walls."
"I've spent ten years dealing with angry parents who think their eight-year-old is the next Mozart," I said, buttoning my coat with steady fingers. "A kid with a Nikon doesn't scare me."
I walked toward the diner door.
I didn't hide my face behind my purse. I didn't duck my head. I pulled my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and stepped out into the freezing Chicago rain.
The photographer lunged forward, his microphone thrust toward my face. "Miss Rhodes! Are you dating Matteo Falcone? Was the ring an accident or a publicity stunt for his freight line?"
I stopped on the wet concrete, letting the rain hit my face. Behind me, the heavy glass door of the diner swung open, and Matteo stepped out onto the pavement. He didn't rush. He walked with the slow, terrifying grace of a man who owned the air everybody else was breathing.
"The ring was an administrative mistake by a distracted stage crew," I said, keeping my voice loud enough for every reporter across the street to hear clearly. "The fraud attempt on my music school’s account this morning was not. And if the person who forged my signature on the Salazar freight ledgers is watching this broadcast..."
I looked directly into the camera lens, letting every ounce of rage and pride I possessed burn through my eyes.
"...you picked the wrong piano teacher to frame. I keep better records than the IRS."
Behind me, I heard a quiet, low rasp of leather as Matteo stepped up directly behind my right shoulder. He didn't touch me, but his shadow fell completely over mine, shielding me from the driving wind.
"Get in the car, Amelia," he said quietly.
"I have a class at eleven," I replied without looking back.
"Your music school is currently surrounded by four news vans and two city building inspectors sent by Isabella’s father," Matteo said, his voice dropping right against the curve of my ear. "You aren't teaching violin today, Miss Rhodes. You're coming to my estate, where Victor Salazar is currently waiting for his morning report."
I turned my head slightly, catching the dark, murderous light in his hazel eyes.
"Is that an order, Mr. Falcone?"
"It’s an invitation," Matteo said, opening the door to the heavy black SUV beside us. "Unless you prefer to let Victor finish what he started."
I looked at the camera, then at the open door of the bulletproof vehicle.
May you like
I didn't know what waited for me at the Falcone estate. I didn't know if I was stepping into a trap or setting one of my own. But as I climbed into the leather interior, I knew one thing for certain:
I was done playing background music.
