Chapter 4 - The Black Onyx Ring Turns
The bedroom in the east wing felt less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage.
Maeve leaned her back against the thick mahogany door, listening to the heavy brass lock click into place. Her knees gave out. She slid down the wood until she was sitting on the cold floor, pulling her knees up to her chest, her fingers clutching the delicate fabric of Sienna’s green gown.
Her entire body was shaking. He knew.
The way his thumb had lingered over the rough skin at the base of her index finger wasn't an accident. It was a silent message: I see through you. Yet he hadn’t ordered Gabriel to drag her into the woods or put a bullet through her skull. Why? What kind of sadistic game was Elias Marchetti playing?
She looked around the room. It was vast, dominated by a four-poster king bed draped in charcoal silks, an antique fireplace burning low with embers, and tall French doors leading out to a stone balcony overlooking the misty forest. On the mahogany nightstand sat an antique brass desk lamp, an empty crystal decanter, and an internal telephone.
Maeve crawled to her feet and checked the clock above the mantle: 7:45 PM.
Fifteen minutes before her promised call to Northwestern Memorial.
She rushed to the nightstand, picked up the receiver, and heard the dial tone. She punched in the direct line to Room 412. It rang three times before an elderly, warm voice answered.
“Pediatric ward, Nurse Jenkins speaking.”
“Nurse Jenkins, it’s Maeve,” she whispered frantically, keeping her voice barely above a breath. “How is Leo? Is he awake?”
“Oh, Maeve, sweetheart! He fell asleep about twenty minutes ago. The doctors administered the pre-operative vascular stabilizer. His color is already looking better. And listen to me—the surgical board officially signed off on his bypass for the twenty-fourth. The billing department marked the account fully settled!”
A silent tear of pure relief rolled down Maeve’s cheek. She pressed her hand over her mouth to muffle her sob. “He’s really safe? No one called to cancel it?”
“Safe as can be. You just focus on your new work, honey. Leo made a crayon drawing of a tree for your room when you visit.”
“Thank you, nurse. Tell him… tell him I love him more than the stars.”
Maeve hung up the receiver and rested her forehead against the cool wood of the nightstand. The nightmare was real, the danger was absolute, but the deposit was locked. Her brother was going to live. If she had to play this terrifying masquerade for six weeks until Leo survived the surgery, she would do it—even if it killed her.
A sharp, metallic tap echoed through the quiet room.
Maeve froze.
Tap. Tap.
It wasn't coming from the hallway door. It was coming from the French doors leading to the balcony.
She slowly lifted her head. Outside, the rain had turned into a thick, swirling fog coming off the lake. Through the sheer lace curtains, a dark silhouette filled the glass panes.
Her throat seized. She looked around for a weapon, her fingers wrapping around the heavy brass handle of an antique letter opener on the desk. She crept toward the balcony doors, her pulse thumping violently in her ears.
With a sudden jerk, she pulled the curtain aside.
Standing on the rain-slicked balcony, sheltered beneath the stone overhang, was Gabriel Ferraro.
He didn't look armed, though she knew he was lethal with his bare hands. He gestured sharply toward the latch. Maeve, trembling, unlocked the French door and cracked it open two inches, the icy lake wind cutting into the room.
“What are you doing out there?” she whispered, terrified. “Mr. Marchetti told me to lock the doors!”
Gabriel stepped inside without asking, his wet leather shoes leaving dark imprints on the hardwood. He closed the door behind him and locked it with practiced ease.
“The Don sent me,” Gabriel said in a monotone voice, pulling a thick manila folder from inside his waterproof coat. He tossed it onto the desk beside the letter opener. “Memorize it.”
Maeve stared at the folder. “What is it?”
“Your life, if you wish to keep it through tomorrow evening,” Gabriel said coldly. “That file contains the full dossier on the Chicago Commission. Don Carmine Moretti of the North Side. Don Vincent Russo of the South Side docks. The heads of the Greek and Russian syndicates. Their wives, their businesses, their personal grievances with the Marchetti family.”
Maeve’s eyes widened. “Why are you giving me this? Sienna already knows who they are!”
Gabriel paused. He took a single, measured step toward her, his gray eyes narrowing until they looked like slits of flint.
“Sienna Ashford knows where they buy their diamonds,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. “She does not know which of them hired the truck that slammed into Don Elias on Lower Wacker Drive. She does not know which of them has three snipers waiting for him to show a single tremor of weakness.”
He pointed a thick, scarred finger at the folder.
“Tomorrow night, twenty-five heavily armed crime bosses and their capos will sit in the great hall downstairs. They believe Don Elias is an invalid. They believe his empire is ripe for carving. They will look at you to see if you flinch. If you look terrified, they strike. If you play the cold, unflinching Ashford bitch, they hesitate.”
Maeve looked at the manila envelope, her fingers twitching. “And what if I fail?”
Gabriel reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. He flipped it open. Inside sat the massive, twelve-carat emerald-cut diamond ring—the very one Sienna had dropped on the Ashford kitchen counter.
“Then the ring goes back into the vault,” Gabriel said simply. “And your brother loses his hospital bed.”
Maeve gasped, stepping back as if slapped. They know. They know about Leo.
Before she could speak, Gabriel grabbed her left wrist. His grip was an iron band. He slid the heavy diamond onto her ring finger. It was cold against her skin—a shackle disguised as an heirloom.
“Don Elias does not tolerate mistakes, Miss Donnelly,” Gabriel murmured, using her real name for the first time. The sound of it made the room spin. “Study the file. When the clock strikes seven tomorrow, you descend those stairs as the future Queen of Chicago. If you drop character for one second, neither you nor your little brother will survive the night.”
He turned, unlocked the balcony door, stepped back out into the swirling mist, and vanished into the shadows of the estate.
Maeve stood frozen in the center of the dark room, the heavy stone on her finger burning like acid.
Downstairs, in the soundproof sub-basement of Blackwood Hall, Elias Marchetti stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling tactical monitor.
He was wearing black trousers and a tight tactical shirt, completely unsupported. In his right hand, he held a customized Sig Sauer 9mm. With three blindingly fast pulls of the trigger, he emptied three rounds through the center of a paper silhouette thirty yards away.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
All three bullets passed through the exact same dime-sized hole in the target’s forehead.
Salvatore leaned against the armory counter, puffing on his cigar. “Gabriel gave her the dossier. She took the ring.”
Elias lowered the weapon, his breathing calm and steady. He ejected the magazine, caught it in midair, and slapped a fresh one home.
“Did she beg?” Elias asked quietly.
“No,” Salvatore grunted. “Gabriel said she was shaking like a leaf, but the second he mentioned the boy’s hospital bed, her spine turned to iron. The little maid has more guts than the entire Ashford bloodline combined.”
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Elias turned, his cold eyes gleaming under the fluorescent strip lights. He slowly rotated the black onyx ring on his pinky finger.
“Good,” Elias said, a dark, lethal edge curling around his voice. “Because tomorrow night, Carmine Moretti is coming to take my head. And I want the little imposter standing right beside me when I teach them what happens to traitors.”
