Chapter 3 - Blood on the Velvet
Norah was on her feet before the sound had finished echoing off the brick walls.
"Stay behind the bench," Sebastian said.
He didn't draw a gun; he simply stood up, his coat falling open just enough to reveal the matte-black grip of a custom SIG Sauer holstered at his ribcage. His movement was so fluid, so devoid of panic, that Norah felt an instinctive chill. He had done this hundreds of times.
The door handle rattled violently, then a muffled voice called out: "Norah! Norah, open the damn door!"
Norah frowned, the adrenaline suddenly souring in her throat. "Julian?"
Sebastian’s hand remained resting lightly against his lapel. "Julian Vale? Your manager?"
"Yes." Norah stepped around the bench, but Sebastian caught her forearm.
His grip was firm, warm, and entirely unyielding. "Wait."
He walked ahead of her, his steps making no sound on the floorboards, and pulled back the small brass viewing hatch set into the thick wood. He looked out into the rain for two seconds, then unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
Julian Vale stumbled into the workshop.
The immaculate store director from Laurent & Vale looked unrecognizable. His camel-hair coat was soaked through, his silk tie crooked, and his face the color of damp parchment. When he saw Sebastian standing there, Julian let out a choked gasp and took an involuntary step backward into the rain.
"Mr. Romano—I... I didn't know you were already here—"
"You're out of breath, Julian," Sebastian said smoothly, closing the door behind him and re-engaging the heavy brass bolt. "And you're thirty blocks away from your salon during business hours."
Julian looked frantically toward Norah. "Norah, you have to pack your things. You have to leave. Right now."
Norah crossed her arms, her jaw set. "Why would I leave my own shop, Julian?"
"Because men came to the salon twenty minutes ago," Julian stammered, his fingers trembling as he tried to wipe rain from his forehead. "Not Mr. Romano’s men. Others. They didn't ask for the necklace. They asked for your work orders. They wanted every digital scan, every microscopic photograph you took of the Romano piece before you brought it upstairs yesterday."
Sebastian took one step toward Julian. The temperature in the room plummeted again.
"Who were they?" Sebastian asked.
"I didn't recognize them!" Julian cried, his voice pitching high. "They carried badges, but they weren't Chicago PD. They were private security—the kind corporate conglomerates hire out of Zurich. They had an order signed by the county probate court demanding all assets associated with the Romano estate be seized for secondary appraisal."
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Carlo."
"Your uncle?" Norah asked, catching the name.
"My uncle hasn't set foot in Chicago in six months," Sebastian said, more to himself than to them. "He runs our maritime shipping contracts through Montreal. If he has lawyers filing probate petitions in Cook County this morning, he knew the necklace was at Laurent & Vale before I even picked it up."
"What did you tell them?" Sebastian demanded, turning back to Julian.
"I told them Norah took the files home!" Julian said desperately. "I lied to buy her time! I knew if they found out she was analyzing the piece off-site, they would—"
The front window shattered.
A heavy, muffled *thump* punched through the glass, followed instantly by the crack of high-caliber rifle fire splintering the wood frame of the clerestory window above their heads.
Norah didn't have time to scream.
Sebastian moved with terrifying speed. His arm hooked around her waist, lifting her off her feet as he dragged her down behind the massive six-foot maple workbench. Julian dropped to his knees, sobbing, hands over his ears as another round tore through the acoustic ceiling tiles, raining white plaster down upon them.
"Down!" Sebastian shouted, his voice cutting through the ringing in her ears like a whip.
Glass rained onto the floor. The monitor on the bench exploded into a shower of plastic and sparks as a third bullet tore through its center.
"They aren't trying to seize the evidence," Norah gasped, pressed flat against Sebastian’s chest beneath the bench. She could feel the steady, rhythmic hammering of his heart against her cheek—not racing with terror, but pumping with cold, predatory rage. "They're trying to destroy it."
"They're trying to destroy you," Sebastian corrected, his hand pressing the back of her head down against his shoulder.
He drew the SIG Sauer from his holster with his right hand, racked the slide with one crisp motion against the heel of his boot, and looked at Julian, who was curled into a ball beneath a drying rack three feet away.
"Julian," Sebastian whispered.
The manager looked up, his eyes white with terror.
"Is your car parked in the alley?"
"Y-yes. A silver Audi."
Sebastian tossed a small ring of keys toward him. "Take mine. The black Mercedes at the curb. The armor will take twelve high-velocity impacts before the glass stars. Drive straight to the Fourth Precinct on 35th. Do not stop for lights. Do not look back."
"What about you?" Julian wept.
"Go."
Sebastian leaned around the edge of the maple leg and fired three rapid, deafening shots through the fractured window toward the rooftop opposite the alley. A sharp grunt echoed from the alleyway, followed by the clatter of a rifle scraping across wet tin.
"Now," Sebastian commanded.
Julian scrambled across the glass-covered floor like an animal, threw open the back service door, and vanished into the rain.
Norah scrambled to her knees, reaching toward the bench top.
"What are you doing?" Sebastian hissed, grabbing her wrist.
"The fragments!" she snapped, pulling against his grip. "If they take the clasp, we have nothing!"
Sebastian stared at her. For a split second, amid the smell of cordite and the sound of distant sirens, something wild and fiercely respectful flickered in his eyes.
"You're out of your mind, Collins."
"I’m a jeweler," she said fiercely, yanking her wrist free. She reached onto the scarred leather pad, swept the platinum pieces and the rubies into her apron pocket, and rolled her tool kit into her leather wrap in under four seconds. "And I don't let bastards ruin my bench."
Sebastian caught her hand as another shot tore through the oak rafters above them.
"My car is gone," he said, pulling her toward the back service door. "We take the service tunnel to Fulton."
"I don't have a service tunnel!"
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"You do," Sebastian said grimly, kicking open an old cast-iron coal hatch in the corner of the back room. "Every bootlegger in this district built one in 1924. Move."
***
