Chapter 7 - Blood and Ebony
Three weeks later.
The autumn leaves in Lincoln Park had turned brilliant shades of gold and crimson, fluttering down onto the wet pavement as a cool breeze swept in off the lake.
The Rhodes Community Music Center was thriving.
With the four hundred thousand dollars recovered from the Maro Foundation’s court settlement, we had expanded the building, adding two new practice rooms, a digital recording studio for local high school kids, and an updated performance hall with new velvet seats.
It was four o'clock on a Friday afternoon. The sun was low in the sky, casting long, golden shafts of light through the high stained-glass windows of the main hall.
I stood near the stage, watching twenty young students unpack their violins for the weekend youth orchestra practice. Nora sat in the front row, holding a clipboard, organizing the concert schedule for the upcoming winter gala.
Suddenly, the side emergency doors of the auditorium burst open with a loud metallic BANG.
Four men in dark rain jackets stepped into the hall. They didn't look like reporters or building inspectors. They carried heavy assault pistols with thick suppressors attached to the barrels.
"Nobody move!" the lead man barked, his voice muffled by a dark ski mask.
The children screamed, dropping their violin cases onto the wooden floor. Nora scrambled out of her seat, throwing herself in front of two eight-year-old girls in the front row.
I stepped onto the edge of the stage, placing my body directly between the gunman and my students.
"Who are you?" I demanded, keeping my voice loud and steady despite the ice rushing through my veins. "There are children in this room!"
The lead gunman stepped forward, pulling down his mask to reveal a dark, scarred face I recognized instantly from the trial documents: Marco Maro, Isabella’s older brother, who had fled to Montreal three weeks ago to avoid federal indictment.
"Where is the master drive, Amelia?" Marco growled, aiming his weapon straight at my chest. "The drive with my family’s remaining Swiss account keys!"
"The FBI has the drive, Marco," I said, taking a slow step down off the stage, drawing his attention entirely away from Nora and the children. "It was submitted to the court two weeks ago."
"Liar!" Marco shrieked, his eyes wild and bloodshot with rage. "Isabella said you kept a backup copy on your private server in this building! Give it to me, or I start shooting these kids one by one!"
My heart hammered violently against my ribs, but I forced my expression into cold, rigid stone.
"Nora," I said softly, without looking back. "Take the children into the piano storage vault. Now."
"Amelia, no!" Nora cried out.
"Do it!" I barked.
Nora hesitated for a second, then quickly ushered the crying children through the reinforced steel door at the back of the stage, slamming the heavy lock shut behind them.
Marco lunged forward, grabbing my hair and shoving me against the side of the grand piano. My hip slammed into the dark wood with a sharp burst of pain, but I didn't scream.
"You ruined my family!" Marco spat into my face, the heavy barrel of his gun pressing painfully against the hollow of my throat. "You think you can wear a Falcone ring and play the queen of Chicago? You're nothing but a fat little maid who got lucky!"
"She's not lucky, Marco," a voice roared from the back of the auditorium. "She's protected."
Marco spun around, pulling me in front of his body as a human shield.
Matteo stood in the center aisle. He didn't have four guards with him. He was alone, wearing a black leather jacket, his eyes burning with a lethal, terrifying rage that made the air inside the auditorium freeze solid.
In his right hand, he held a sleek black pistol aimed with terrifying precision at Marco’s forehead.
"Drop the gun, Marco," Matteo said, his voice a low, terrifying growl that rattled the stained-glass windows. "Or I will scatter what's left of your brain across that stage."
"Step back, Matteo!" Marco screamed, pressing the barrel tighter against my throat. "One step, and I put a bullet through her heart!"
I looked at Matteo across the echoing hall.
I didn't see panic in his eyes. I saw a silent message—a quiet, absolute trust that passed between us in a fraction of a second.
Now, Amelia.
I didn't try to pull away from Marco's grip. Instead, I brought the heavy heel of my boot down with all my strength onto Marco’s foot, driving my knee backward into his groin at the same second.
Marco gasped, his grip loosening for a fraction of an inch as pain exploded through his body.
In that microsecond, I dropped flat to the wooden floor.
CRACK!
A single, muffled gunshot echoed through the auditorium.
Marco stiffened. A small, neat hole appeared in the center of his forehead. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed backward onto the wooden stage like a sack of wet flour.
Before his body even hit the floor, Matteo’s men—who had slipped through the rear fire exits—neutralized the remaining three gunmen with silent, lethal efficiency.
Matteo dropped his gun, sprinting down the aisle, sliding onto his knees beside me on the stage.
"Amelia!" he cried out, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate fear I had never heard in him before. He pulled me into his arms, lifting me against his chest, his hands trembling violently as he checked my neck, my face, my hands. "Are you hurt? Did he shoot you? Talk to me, please!"
"I'm okay, Matteo," I sobbed, wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face in the warm crook of his shoulder as tears finally spilled over my eyelashes. "I'm okay..."
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Matteo held me so tightly I could barely breathe, his body shaking with lingering adrenaline as he pressed kiss after kiss against my forehead, my hair, my cheeks.
"It's over, my love," he whispered against my skin, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "It's over. Nobody will ever touch you again."
