Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE COAT POCKET
Gemma looked from Dominic to Roman.
“No.”
Dominic did not blink.
“Yes.”
“My father repaired paintings.”
“He did more than that.”
Roman’s voice cut in.
“Dominic.”
But Gemma had already heard enough.
“What did my father do?”
Dominic’s eyes stayed on Roman.
It was a warning between two men who had survived too many consequences together.
Roman finally said, “Daniel Hart authenticated artwork for my family.”
Gemma laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“My father hated organized crime.”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“Most men who work for organized crime say that at home.”
Gemma turned toward him.
“Don’t talk about him like you knew him.”
“I did know him.”
That landed harder.
Gemma looked at Roman.
“You knew my father too?”
Roman shook his head.
“Not well.”
“Meaning?”
“He worked mostly with Matteo.”
Roman rarely said his brother’s name.
Dominic noticed.
So did Roman.
Gemma moved toward the door.
“I’m leaving.”
Roman stepped aside rather than blocking her.
She stopped, almost surprised.
“You’re not going to order me into another SUV?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“But you shouldn’t go home alone.”
Her anger returned instantly.
“There it is.”
“Gemma.”
“No.”
She pulled open the door.
“My father died seven years ago from a heart attack. He restored paintings, forgot birthdays, burned toast, and sang Motown songs badly while washing dishes. Whatever story you people have invented around him, keep it.”
She walked away.
Roman watched her cross the gallery.
Then Dominic said quietly, “You should have told her.”
“I told her enough.”
“That’s what Matteo used to say.”
Roman turned slowly.
Dominic regretted it immediately.
But he did not take it back.
Three hours later, Gemma was inside her apartment cutting thread from the damaged hem of the emerald dress.
She had sworn she would throw it away.
Instead, she had placed it beneath the bright restoration lamp on her kitchen table.
Her father had taught her to notice repairs.
Not just what had been changed.
How.
The hem contained two kinds of stitching.
The modern machine stitch used when the dress had originally been manufactured.
And a second row.
Hand-sewn.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
Gemma picked it apart.
Nothing else fell out.
She sat back, disappointed and relieved.
Then she heard something heavy slide from the black cashmere coat hanging behind her chair.
Roman’s coat.
Gemma froze.
She had forgotten to return it.
A small photograph lay on the floor.
She picked it up.
Four people stood outside a warehouse near the waterfront.
The picture was old enough that the colors had begun fading.
A younger Roman stood at the left, maybe thirty.
Beside him was another man with Roman’s eyes but an easier smile.
Matteo.
Gemma recognized him from newspaper photographs.
The third man made her knees weaken.
Her father.
Daniel Hart.
And beside Daniel stood Adrian Wells.
The gallery manager.
On the back, written in her father’s handwriting, were five words.
MATTEO WAS RIGHT ABOUT C17.
Gemma stared until the letters blurred.
Her phone was already in her hand before she admitted she intended to call Roman.
Then she stopped.
Roman had never given her his number.
Of course he hadn’t.
She looked again at Adrian’s younger face.
The photograph had fallen from Roman’s coat.
Why did Roman have it?
And why had he acted as though he barely knew Daniel?
Twenty minutes later, Gemma entered the Costa gallery through the staff entrance.
Roman was in his office.
She did not knock.
Dominic looked up from a chair.
Roman stood behind the desk.
Gemma threw the photograph onto the polished wood.
“You lied.”
Roman glanced down.
His expression changed.
Not guilt.
Confusion.
He picked up the photograph.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your coat.”
“That photograph wasn’t in my coat.”
Gemma stared.
“Then it crawled inside?”
Roman turned it over.
The moment he saw Daniel’s handwriting, his face hardened.
Dominic rose.
“Roman?”
Roman handed him the picture.
Dominic whispered something in Italian under his breath.
Gemma pointed at the image.
“You said you barely knew my father.”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re standing beside him.”
“This photograph proves we occupied the same sidewalk.”
“He wrote about C17 on the back.”
“I can see that.”
“And Adrian is there.”
Roman looked toward the outer gallery.
Adrian’s office was empty.
“Where is Wells?”
Dominic checked his phone.
“Left forty minutes ago.”
Gemma folded her arms tightly.
“What happened ten years ago?”
Roman was silent.
Gemma’s voice shook.
“My father spent the last three years of his life terrified of something. He checked the locks twice every night. He stopped taking jobs in Manhattan. He wouldn’t explain why.”
Roman looked at her.
“He never told you?”
“Told me what?”
Dominic walked toward the windows.
Roman remained still.
“Matteo discovered someone was replacing legitimate paintings with high-grade forgeries during transport.”
Gemma’s anger quieted.
“The Costa family was being robbed?”
“Not exactly.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“The legitimate paintings were being used to move money and favors. The forgeries remained in private collections where owners sometimes went years without realizing.”
“And C17?”
“The missing Bellini.”
Roman touched the brass marker.
“Matteo believed the painting had been switched before it reached us.”
Gemma glanced at her father’s picture.
“And my father?”
“He knew restoration materials. Pigments. Canvas aging. Brushwork. Matteo trusted him.”
“So Dad discovered the forgery.”
“Possibly.”
“Then Matteo died.”
Roman’s eyes changed.
“Yes.”
Gemma asked the question more softly.
“Was he killed because of the painting?”
“We never proved it.”
“But you believe it.”
Roman looked away.
That was answer enough.
Gemma stared at the photograph.
All her childhood memories rearranged themselves.
Her father changing subway cars unexpectedly.
Refusing unknown numbers.
Pulling curtains before dinner.
She had thought grief after her mother’s death had made him anxious.
Maybe it had been fear.
Dominic suddenly picked up the photograph again.
“Wait.”
He brought it beneath the desk lamp.
“What?”
Dominic pointed toward Daniel’s wrist.
He was wearing an old stainless-steel watch.
Gemma recognized it instantly.
“My father’s watch.”
“You still have it?”
“Yes.”
Roman looked at her.
“Where?”
“At home.”
Dominic and Roman exchanged another look.
Gemma lost patience.
“What now?”
Dominic tapped the photograph.
“Matteo gave that watch to Daniel.”
Gemma’s throat tightened.
“Why?”
“Because the back unscrewed.”
“So?”
Dominic looked at Roman.
Roman answered.
“Matteo used it once to carry a storage key.”
Gemma grabbed her purse.
Roman moved around the desk.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“This is my father’s apartment.”
“And someone hid Costa property in your dress.”
“It’s my apartment.”
Roman stopped inches from her.
Then, quietly, “Fine. You go first. I follow.”
“That is not better.”
“It’s the best offer you’re getting.”
Forty minutes later, Gemma stood at her kitchen table with the watch beneath her restoration lamp.
Roman remained several feet away.
No bodyguards inside.
No gun visible.
Just Roman.
Gemma placed a rubber grip around the watch back and twisted.
Nothing.
She tried again.
The metal shifted.
Her heartbeat quickened.
The back came free.
Inside was no key.
Only a tiny circle of paper.
Gemma unfolded it carefully.
It was part of an old commuter train ticket.
Grand Central to Beacon.
Stamped ten years earlier.
On the reverse, Daniel had written a single address.
Roman read it over her shoulder.
His face went hard.
Gemma whispered, “You know that place.”
Roman nodded.
“It belonged to Matteo.”
Then he looked at the date.
And stopped breathing.
May you like
Gemma saw why.
The ticket had been stamped the morning after Matteo was murdered.
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