Chapter 2 - The Painting That Should Never Have Existed
Anthony didn't sleep that night.
Neither did I.
At six the next morning, someone brought breakfast.
I wasn't hungry.
Anthony entered ten minutes later.
He placed a folder on the table.
“Elias Moretti.”
I opened it.
Photographs.
Auction records.
Museum records.
Private sales.
He had been tracking Elias for years.
“He specializes in historical forgery,” Anthony said.
“That explains the painting.”
“No.”
He tapped one document.
“This explains something else.”
I looked down.
The document showed a string of shell companies.
Different names.
Same bank.
Same attorney.
Same warehouse.
I traced one company name.
My stomach dropped.
“I know this.”
Anthony watched me.
“Where?”
“Graduate school.”
“Explain.”
“A professor brought in several paintings for evaluation.”
“Whose?”
“Elias.”
Anthony's eyes hardened.
“Did you meet him?”
“Once.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked whether I could identify pigments used before 1880.”
“And?”
“I said yes.”
“What else?”
“He asked how much I knew about restoration chemicals.”
Anthony leaned back.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“No.”
He stared at me.
I held his gaze.
After several seconds, he nodded.
“You're telling the truth.”
I closed the folder.
“Why am I still here?”
“Because I have a problem.”
“You have many.”
“This one involves you.”
I looked at him.
He turned toward the window.
“There is a collection worth approximately seventy million dollars.”
“Private?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
“My family’s.”
“Real?”
“Most of it.”
“And?”
“Three pieces have been replaced with forgeries.”
I stared.
“You think Elias did it.”
“I know he did.”
“Then why not arrest him?”
Anthony smiled without humor.
“People like Elias don't leave fingerprints.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“Find what he replaced.”
I folded my arms.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then nothing happens.”
I stared.
That surprised me.
He continued.
“You will remain here until your father's debt is resolved.”
“Which is when?”
“When the person who owes the money pays it.”
“My father doesn't have four hundred thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
I stood.
“Then you're holding me indefinitely.”
Anthony looked at me.
“No.”
He paused.
“You're free to leave after thirty days.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“If you still want to leave after thirty days, I'll arrange transportation and protection.”
“You'd just let me go?”
“Yes.”
“Even though my father owes you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn't create his debt.”
That answer confused me.
For the first time, I wondered whether Anthony was as ruthless as everyone said.
Then he added,
“But during those thirty days, you work with me.”
I smiled bitterly.
“So I still serve as payment.”
“No.”
His eyes held mine.
“You serve as the only person who can help me.”
The distinction should not have mattered.
It did.
He took me downstairs to the private gallery.
Twenty-seven paintings.
Twelve sculptures.
Six antique books.
Four antique clocks.
I moved slowly.
I looked.
I didn't touch.
Anthony stood behind me.
“Which ones are fake?”
I pointed.
“Those three.”
He stopped.
“Why?”
“The brushwork.”
“Be specific.”
“The artist used lead white in shadows. This contains titanium.”
He stared at me.
“Titanium?”
“Yes.”
“When was titanium white commercially used?”
“Twentieth century.”
He looked at another.
“And that?”
“Wrong canvas.”
“And the sculpture?”
“Modern machining marks.”
Anthony looked at me.
“How did you know?”
“My mother taught me to look closely.”
“Your mother?”
“She restored antique frames.”
“Is she alive?”
“No.”
He didn't ask another question.
I noticed the silence.
It wasn't pity.
It was respect.
Later that evening, Anthony brought me to the archive.
Thousands of boxes.
Documents.
Photographs.
Transaction records.
He showed me a ledger.
“This was my grandfather's.”
I opened it.
Names.
Payments.
Dates.
Then I saw something.
A notation beside one transaction.
E.V.
I looked up.
“Who is Evelyn Vieri?”
Anthony's face changed.
“My grandmother.”
“She dealt with art?”
“No.”
“This says she did.”
He took the ledger from me.
I pointed to the line.
“This is not a normal purchase.”
Anthony stared.
“What do you mean?”
“She bought a painting through Elias Moretti fourteen years ago.”
“That can't be right.”
“It's here.”
He read the page.
Then he turned it.
A folded photograph fell out.
An older woman.
Anthony's grandmother.
Standing beside my mother.
I stopped breathing.
“My mother knew your family.”
Anthony looked at the photograph.
“How?”
“I don't know.”
Then he saw the back.
A date.
The year before my father began gambling.
Anthony looked at me.
“Maybe your father's debt isn't the reason you ended up here.”
I swallowed.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe someone wanted you here.”
My blood went cold.
“Who?”
He looked at the photograph.
“I'm going to find out.”
That night, I lay awake.
At three in the morning, my door opened.
Anthony stood there.
“There was an attempt to access the archive.”
I sat up.
“Did they take anything?”
“No.”
“Then why wake me?”
“Because they were looking for your mother's name.”
My heart stopped.
Anthony looked at me.
“Emma, what exactly do you know about your mother?”
I swallowed.
May you like
“Not enough.”
“Then we're going to change that.”
