Chapter 2 - The Eleven Paintings She Planned to Steal|
"Camille, why does your brother have authorization to sell a collection I never agreed to put on the market?"
Alessandro Romano's question echoed through the ballroom.
Eighty-four wealthy guests were watching.
The auctioneer had abandoned his podium. Two waiters stood frozen beside the champagne fountain. And Harold Bennett, the elderly caretaker who had been accused of stealing an eighty-five-thousand-dollar painting, was holding the back of a chair as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.
Camille Hart looked at the paperwork in Alessandro's hand.
Then she smiled.
It was the kind of smile beautiful women use when they believe the world will forgive them for anything.
"Darling, you're misunderstanding."
Alessandro didn't move.
"Then explain it."
"I was arranging a surprise."
"A surprise?"
"For the foundation."
She gestured toward the painting.
"Your grandmother's collection has appreciated enormously. My brother thought selling a few pieces privately could generate enough money to fund the arts program for another decade."
Alessandro looked down at the document.
"Eleven paintings."
"Yes."
"Three sculptures."
Camille hesitated.
"Possibly."
"And a nineteenth-century silver icon that belonged to my grandfather."
Her smile faltered.
"Alessandro—"
"That icon has never been included in any charitable auction."
She laughed nervously.
"Well, I assumed—"
"You assumed wrong."
The room went silent.
I stood beside the champagne table, my fingers tightening around the silver tray.
I had spent eight months working in Alessandro's mansion.
Long enough to know that he rarely raised his voice.
Long enough to recognize the expression he wore when someone had exhausted his patience.
And long enough to understand that Camille Hart had just made a very expensive mistake.
"Claire."
I looked up.
"Yes, Mr. Romano?"
"Please bring me the original maintenance photograph."
I carefully set down my tray and retrieved my phone.
My hands trembled as I opened the image I'd taken three days earlier.
It showed the back of the original painting.
The old walnut stretcher.
A handwritten inventory label.
The repaired hanging wire.
And, near the edge of the frame, a tiny blue paint mark that had accidentally touched the inner gilding decades earlier.
Alessandro studied it.
Then he turned toward the painting displayed for auction.
"Harold."
The elderly man approached.
"Yes, sir?"
"Can you identify this frame?"
Harold examined the photograph.
"Of course. Your grandmother had it custom-made in Florence in 1982."
"And the frame on the painting here?"
Harold leaned closer.
His expression collapsed.
"That's not hers."
Camille threw up her hands.
"Honestly, this is becoming ridiculous. Frames get replaced all the time."
"Not without documentation," Harold whispered.
She turned sharply.
"Nobody asked you."
Alessandro looked at her.
"Don't speak to him that way."
Camille's cheeks reddened.
"I am your fiancée."
"And Harold has served my family faithfully for eighteen years."
The words landed harder than a shout.
A few guests exchanged glances.
Camille noticed.
Her voice became sweeter.
"Alessandro, darling, perhaps we should discuss this privately."
He held up the sales authorization.
"You made it public when you accused Harold of theft."
She opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Alessandro turned to his security chief.
"Daniel, secure the gallery records and contact our attorney. Nobody moves any artwork until ownership has been verified."
Daniel nodded.
"Understood."
Then Alessandro looked toward me.
"Claire, did you inspect anything else when you repaired the frame?"
I hesitated.
"Only the backing, sir."
"What did you see?"
I swallowed.
"There was an old handwritten note beneath the dust cover."
Harold looked suddenly startled.
"What note?"
I glanced at him.
"I thought you knew about it."
He shook his head.
I continued carefully.
"It was written in Italian. I didn't remove it, but I photographed part of it before replacing the backing."
Alessandro's expression changed.
"Do you still have the photograph?"
"Yes, sir."
Camille stepped forward.
"That's enough."
Everyone turned.
She looked at me with open hostility.
"You've already disrupted an important charity event. There is no reason for you to keep inserting yourself into family business."
I felt my face burning.
Then Alessandro spoke.
"Claire is answering my questions."
Camille stared at him.
"You're seriously choosing the maid's word over mine?"
"No."
His voice was dangerously calm.
"I'm choosing evidence over excuses."
I opened the photograph.
Alessandro studied the faint handwriting.
His eyes narrowed.
He read the first line aloud.
"Per il bambino che non ho potuto tenere."
He translated quietly.
"For the child I could not keep."
Harold made a strangled sound.
I looked toward him.
His face had gone completely white.
"Mr. Bennett?"
He slowly reached for the table.
Alessandro noticed.
"Harold, what's wrong?"
The older man's lips trembled.
"Sir, that note wasn't supposed to be found."
A chill traveled down my spine.
Alessandro stared at him.
"What do you mean?"
Harold looked toward Camille.
Then toward the painting.
Finally, he whispered, "Your grandmother made me promise never to remove the backing."
Camille suddenly grabbed her handbag.
"I'm leaving."
Daniel stepped toward the exit.
"Miss Hart, investigators may need to speak with you."
She stopped.
Her expression changed from anger to something much closer to fear.
Alessandro looked back at Harold.
"Why would my grandmother hide a note inside a painting?"
The elderly caretaker closed his eyes.
When he opened them, tears were running down his cheeks.
"Because it wasn't just a painting, sir."
Alessandro frowned.
"Then what was it?"
Harold looked directly at me.
May you like
And whispered something that made my heart stop.
"It was the only proof that your grandmother had another child."
