Chapter 9 - The Final Thread
The rain had returned to Chicago with violent fury, lashed against the tall glass windows of the Fulton Market studio by fifty-mile-an-hour wind gusts.
It was 2:00 a.m.
Maeve stood in the center of her dark studio, holding a silver antique fabric shears in her right hand.
The front door of the studio had been kicked open, its brass lock shattered onto the floorboards.
Standing near the display case of historic silk threads was Brandon Hayes.
He looked horrific. His orange prison scrubs were torn and covered in mud, his face bruised and swollen, his hair wild, and his eyes bloodshot with pure, unhinged desperation. In his hand, he held a dark, heavy revolver he had stolen from a guard during his escape.
"You ruined me, Maeve!" Brandon screamed, his voice cracking hysterically over the sound of the thunder shaking the building. "You ruined my life! You gave everything to that mobster!"
Maeve didn't step back. She didn't scream. She stood behind her heavy wooden cutting table, her tall frame steady, her dark eyes tracking his every frantic movement.
"You ruined yourself, Brandon," Maeve said, her voice as smooth and sharp as glass. "You stole from my family, you lied to my face, and you used Gemma to cover your tracks. You did this to yourself."
"I deserved that money!" Brandon yelled, waving the gun wildly in the air. "I was building an empire! You were just supposed to stay in your little shop, stitch your little dresses, and sign the papers I gave you! You were supposed to be obedient!"
"I was never obedient, Brandon," Maeve said softly, taking a slow, quiet step around the edge of the table. "I was just patient."
"Shut up!" Brandon roared, pointing the gun directly at her chest, his hand shaking violently. "Where is the safe? Where did Duca put the offshore keys? Give me the codes, or I swear to God I’ll put a bullet through that fat chest of yours!"
Maeve’s eyes turned to liquid ice.
"You always did hate my body, didn't you, Brandon?" she murmured, her thumb sliding along the cold, heavy metal of the fabric shears. "You always wanted me smaller."
Before Brandon could pull the trigger, the massive factory windows along the street wall exploded inward in a shower of brilliant, glittering glass.
Two smoke canisters smashed onto the wooden floorboards, instantly filling the room with thick, white fog.
Brandon screamed in terror, firing two blind shots into the smoke—BANG! BANG!—the heavy lead bullets burying themselves harmlessly into the exposed brick wall.
Out of the white smoke, a shadow moved like a phantom.
Mateo Duca materialized beside Brandon with terrifying speed.
With one swift, brutal motion, Mateo grabbed Brandon’s wrist, twisting it upward with a sickening CRACK!
Brandon shrieked in agony, dropping the revolver onto the floor.
Mateo didn't stop. He slammed his knee into Brandon’s ribs, throwing the smaller man violently across the room. Brandon crashed into the wooden restoration frame, shattering the antique timber, falling onto his back in a bloody, sobbing heap amidst the torn silk threads.
Mateo stepped out of the smoke. His face was a mask of pure, murderous rage. He pulled a silver, suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster, walking steadily toward the sobbing man on the floor.
"No! Mateo, wait!" Maeve’s voice cut through the room like a silver blade.
Mateo froze mid-step, two feet from Brandon. He didn't lower his gun, but his gray eyes flicked toward her.
Maeve walked through the fading smoke, her boots crunching on the broken glass. She stepped right beside Mateo, looking down at the broken, weeping man who had once tried to destroy her life.
"Don't kill him," Maeve said quietly.
Brandon looked up through his bloodied eyes, gasping for air. "Maeve... please... please tell him..."
"Don't kill him, Mateo," Maeve repeated, her voice dripping with absolute, cold disdain. "Because if you shoot him, he dies quickly. If you let the federal marshals take him, he spends the next thirty years in a maximum-security prison cell in Colorado, thinking every single day about how a size-twenty seamstress tore his entire life to pieces."
Mateo looked from the sobbing man on the floor to the woman standing beside him.
Slowly, a dark, wicked smile spread across Mateo’s handsome face.
He lowered his pistol, engaged the safety, and tucked it back into his jacket.
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"You have a terrifying mind, my love," Mateo whispered.
Outside, the red and blue lights of fifty police cruisers swept over the wet pavement of Fulton Market, sirens wailing into the rainy night.
