She Thought the Ruthless Mafia Boss Was Following Her Because He Wanted Her

Roman Costa had been awake since four in the morning.

His penthouse occupied the upper floors of a tower overlooking the East River. Its windows offered a spectacular view of the city, but he rarely appreciated it. He had chosen the apartment for security, not beauty. Every entrance was monitored, the private elevator required several forms of authentication, and the walls surrounding his bedroom had been reinforced after an assassination attempt eight years earlier.

Nothing in the apartment had been selected because it made him happy.

Everything had been selected because it made him difficult to kill.

At seven thirty, Dominic Bellini entered the dining room carrying a tablet and two cups of coffee.

He had known Roman since they were teenagers, back when survival meant knowing which streets to avoid and which men to never meet alone. Dominic was one of the few people who could walk into Roman's home without an appointment.

He was also one of the few who could tell when Roman was lying.

"You didn't sleep," Dominic said.

"I slept."

"How long?"

Roman opened a file.

"Long enough."

"That's what people say when they didn't sleep at all."

Roman ignored him.

Dominic placed the tablet on the table. The first photograph showed the small silver device recovered from the gallery. Beside it was an enlarged image of the black component embedded inside the metal.

"Our technical people confirmed it's a miniature tracking transmitter," Dominic said. "Not something a contractor would leave lying around. It was clipped to the seam of the woman's dress."

"Can you identify whoever installed it?"

"Not yet. The gallery security footage was interrupted for eleven minutes shortly before the event. Someone used a maintenance credential to access the rear corridor."

"Whose credential?"

"An assistant employed by the gallery manager."

"Find him."

"We already did. He disappeared last night."

Roman's expression did not change.

Dominic continued.

"His apartment is empty. His car is still parked outside. His phone went dead around six."

"Dead phones don't walk out of apartments."

"No. People do."

Roman looked at another photograph.

This one showed Gemma entering the SUV in his coat, her hair pulled back, her face turned toward the driver.

He disliked the angle of the photograph. It was taken from across the street.

"Who took this?"

"One of our people. We needed to confirm she reached home safely."

"Did she notice him?"

"No."

"Good. No one follows her unless I authorize it."

Dominic leaned forward.

"Roman, somebody planted a tracker on a woman who has no obvious connection to our organization. If they wanted to follow us, they could have attached it to one of our cars. If they wanted to threaten you, they could have sent a message."

"They wanted to follow her."

"Why?"

Roman set down the photograph.

"I don't know."

Dominic studied him.

"Then why are you acting like she's already your responsibility?"

Roman's gaze sharpened.

"Because someone selected her."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"It answers the only one that matters."

Dominic said nothing for a moment.

Then he slid another file across the table.

"We checked the gallery's employee records. Gemma Vale. Twenty-six. Art conservation degree from a state university. Contract worker, hired six weeks ago. No criminal record. No obvious family connections to our organization."

Roman opened the file.

Gemma lived alone. Her mother had died when she was nineteen. Her father, Elias Vale, had been listed as deceased following a warehouse fire when Gemma was sixteen.

Roman stopped turning pages.

"What warehouse?"

Dominic noticed the change in his expression.

"Pier Forty-Seven. Why?"

Roman looked up.

"Who signed the incident report?"

"I don't know. I'll find out."

"Do that."

Dominic took back the tablet.

"You're thinking about Elias Vale."

"I am."

"That's impossible."

"Why?"

"Because Elias died ten years ago."

Roman stared at him.

"People die. Records remain. Someone placed a tracking device on his daughter last night. I want to know whether those facts are connected."

Dominic's face grew serious.

"Do you think she knows anything?"

"No."

"You sound certain."

"If she knew something, she would not have walked into my gallery carrying a crate and worrying about the subway."

"People can pretend."

"So can you."

Dominic's mouth tightened.

"Fine. I'll investigate the father."

Roman stood and walked toward the windows.

Outside, ferries crossed the river, leaving white trails behind them. Far below, thousands of people were moving through lives that seemed simple from this height.

For the first time in years, he wondered whether a person could become dangerous to him without intending to.

"Find out everything about the dress," he said. "Who supplied it, where it came from, and who had access to it before she wore it."

Dominic nodded.

"And Roman?"

"What?"

"If this connects to the family, you need to consider the possibility that she isn't the target."

Roman turned.

"What do you mean?"

Dominic lowered his voice.

"Maybe she was only the message."

At twelve fifteen, Gemma stood inside the lobby of Roman's building with the cashmere coat folded over her arms.

The doorman examined her with professional suspicion.

"I'm here to return something to Mr. Costa."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"Then I'm afraid I can't let you upstairs."

Gemma nodded. She had expected as much.

"Could you tell him Gemma Vale is here?"

The doorman's expression changed so slightly that another person might have missed it.

Gemma did not.

He picked up the lobby telephone and spoke quietly. Then he put the receiver down.

"Mr. Costa will see you."

Of course he would.

The elevator traveled upward without stopping. Gemma watched the numbers climb and wondered whether she had made a terrible mistake.

When the doors opened, a woman in a tailored gray suit greeted her.

"Miss Vale? I'm Elena. Mr. Costa is expecting you."

"That was quick."

"He's good at receiving messages."

Elena led her through a corridor lined with dark wood and contemporary artwork. The apartment was enormous, but there were few personal objects. No photographs of family. No books scattered across tables. No evidence that anyone lived there except the expensive coffee machine and a pair of black shoes placed neatly beside the door.

Roman stood near the windows in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.

He turned when she entered.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then Gemma held out the coat.

"I came to return this."

"You could have sent it through a courier."

"I don't know your address."

"You found the building."

"I know how buildings work."

A hint of amusement crossed his face.

"I noticed."

She placed the coat across the back of a chair.

"There. Thank you again for last night. I appreciate what you did, but I'd prefer we leave it there."

Roman watched her carefully.

"Sit down."

"No, thank you."

"I have information you should hear."

"Then you can say it while I'm standing."

He accepted that.

"Someone attached a tracking device to your dress."

Gemma stared at him.

For several seconds, she genuinely did not understand the words.

"What?"

"The metal fragment I recovered from the gallery was part of a miniature transmitter. It was attached to the seam of your dress."

Her face drained of color.

"That isn't funny."

"I'm not joking."

"Why would someone track me?"

"That's what I'm trying to discover."

She took one step backward.

"Did you put it there?"

"No."

"How am I supposed to believe you?"

"You aren't required to believe me. You're required to take the information seriously."

The cold precision of his answer frightened her more than a dramatic denial would have.

Gemma looked toward the elevator.

"Did you follow me home?"

"My driver took you home."

"That isn't what I asked."

Roman did not look away.

"I had someone confirm you arrived safely. He did not enter your building or approach you."

"You had someone watch my apartment?"

"For one night."

"That's still watching my apartment."

"Yes."

She laughed in disbelief.

"You understand how disturbing that sounds, don't you?"

"I do."

"And you did it anyway?"

"Someone put a tracker on you. I wasn't going to assume the danger disappeared when you got home."

Gemma pressed her fingers against her forehead.

She wanted to dismiss him as a criminal playing games, but his expression held no satisfaction. He looked irritated, focused, and genuinely concerned.

That did not make him trustworthy.

It made the situation harder to understand.

"Do you know who did it?"

"Not yet."

"Why me?"

"I don't know."

"Then you don't actually have information. You have a device and a lot of assumptions."

Roman nodded once.

"That's fair."

His willingness to agree unsettled her.

She had expected him to become angry.

Instead, he walked to the desk, opened a drawer, and removed a sealed plastic evidence pouch. Inside was the tiny metal component.

Gemma leaned closer.

"Where did you get that?"

"From the gallery floor, beneath the place where your dress caught."

She studied the device.

Then she remembered something.

"The dress wasn't mine."

Roman looked up.

"Explain."

"I bought it from a secondhand clothing store near my apartment. The original zipper was broken, so I took it to a neighborhood tailor. She repaired the zipper and shortened the hem because it was too long."

"When?"

"Last Thursday."

"Did you leave the dress with her?"

"For two days."

"Did she mention anyone else handling it?"

"No."

Gemma looked at him.

"You're going to investigate a tailor now?"

"If necessary."

"This is ridiculous."

"It's also dangerous."

She reached for the evidence pouch, but Roman moved it out of her reach.

"Don't touch it."

"Why?"

"Because we don't know what else may be on it."

She stepped back.

"Then you can investigate it without me. I don't want to be involved."

"I agree."

That answer surprised her.

Roman continued.

"But until we know who placed it there, you should avoid wearing the dress again. If someone has been using it to track you, they may assume you're still wearing it or that you know something about the device."

Gemma stared at him.

"So the title of this entire disaster is that my dress is dangerous?"

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Roman almost smiled.

"That's one way to describe it."

"Wonderful. I've always wanted to be threatened by an item of clothing."

"Gemma."

The humor faded from his face.

"If anyone approaches you about the gallery, your father, or anything you worked on during the past six weeks, call me."

She became very still.

"My father?"

Roman realized he had revealed too much.

"Your employment file listed Elias Vale."

"My father has been dead for ten years. Why are you bringing him into this?"

"Because he died at Pier Forty-Seven."

Gemma stared at him as the room seemed to shift around her.

"How do you know that?"

"I have people investigating the tracker. They found your father's name."

"Why would they be investigating my father?"

"Because someone wants to know where you go. I want to know why."

She shook her head.

"No. You don't get to turn my father's death into an excuse to pull me into whatever world you live in."

"I'm not asking you to enter my world."

"Then stop bringing it to my door."

She turned toward the elevator.

Roman did not follow.

"One more thing," he said.

She stopped but did not turn around.

"The gallery's security system was interrupted shortly before the opening. Someone with access to the building helped install that transmitter. That person is now missing."

Gemma's fingers tightened around the strap of her handbag.

"I don't know anything about that."

"I believe you."

"Then leave me alone."

"I will, unless the person following you comes looking for you."

She faced him.

For the first time, she saw something beneath his composed expression that she could not easily name.

Fear was too simple a word for Roman Costa.

But it might have been close.

"Why do you care?" she asked.

His answer came after a long silence.

"Because I know what happens when dangerous men decide an ordinary person is useful."

Gemma left without another word.

She did not make it to the street before her phone rang.

The number was unknown.

She considered ignoring it.

Then she noticed a message beneath the incoming call.

Do not trust Roman Costa. Your father died because of him.

Gemma stopped in the middle of the lobby.

Her heart began beating violently.

The phone rang again.

She answered.

"Hello?"

A man's voice came through, distorted and low.

"Gemma Vale?"

"Who is this?"

"You don't have much time."

"Who are you?"

"Your father hid something before he died. Something the Costas have been searching for. They think you can find it."

Gemma gripped the phone.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You will."

The call ended.

She lowered the phone slowly.

Through the glass entrance, she could see the black SUV waiting at the curb. A dark sedan was parked behind it, its windshield reflecting the sunlight.

For a moment, Gemma thought she saw someone watching her from the driver's seat.

Then the sedan pulled away.

She hurried outside and headed toward the subway station.

She did not look back.

She did not notice that, high above the street, Roman Costa stood at his windows watching the same sedan disappear into traffic.

His phone rang.

Dominic was calling.

"We found the tailor," his underboss said. "She's terrified. She says a man paid cash to inspect several garments at her shop last week."

"Did she identify him?"

"She gave us a description."

"Send it to me."

A moment later, Roman's phone vibrated.