Chapter 3 - The Man from Elena's Past
Caterina Marino entered the library wearing a black coat over her nightclothes.
She was sixty-two, elegant even at three in the morning, with silver threaded through dark hair and the unnerving composure of a woman who had spent decades watching powerful men lie.
She looked at Adrian.
Then Elena.
Then Dante.
"You found the diary," she said.
Elena's blood ran cold.
Dante didn't move.
"How do you know about the diary?"
Caterina's eyes closed briefly.
That was answer enough.
Dante crossed the room.
"Mother."
"Don't use that voice with me."
"I'll use whatever voice I want until you explain why you know about my wife's private journal."
Caterina looked at Elena.
"I'm sorry."
Elena stared at her.
"For what?"
"More than one thing."
Dante's patience vanished.
"Start talking."
Caterina sat.
Not because Dante ordered her to.
Because she suddenly looked tired.
"I knew about Adrian."
Elena glanced toward him.
Adrian looked equally surprised.
"How?"
"I had you investigated before the wedding."
Dante's face changed.
"You did what?"
"You were marrying my son."
"She was marrying me," Dante said. "Not applying for employment."
"I needed to know whether someone could use her against you."
Elena's cheeks burned.
"Did you find something?"
"Yes."
"What?"
Caterina looked toward Adrian.
"The engagement. The institute complaints. Bellweather."
Elena's voice became quiet.
"And you never said anything."
"I believed it was your past."
"Then why the diary?"
"I didn't read it."
Elena looked skeptical.
"I found it once. Months ago. It fell when I moved a canvas."
"Why were you in my studio?"
Caterina hesitated.
Another answer.
Dante's anger sharpened.
"You've been searching her things."
"No."
"Then why?"
"I was looking for the original Bellweather ledger."
Elena stared at her.
"What original ledger?"
Caterina reached into her coat.
She produced an old brass key.
Elena recognized it.
It belonged to a nineteenth-century French writing desk in the studio.
A desk Caterina had given her as a wedding present.
"The lower drawer has a false back," Caterina said.
Dante looked at his mother as if seeing a stranger.
"What did you hide there?"
"Nothing."
"Then who did?"
"My husband."
Dante stopped.
His father had been dead seven years.
Elena whispered, "Vittorio?"
Caterina nodded.
"Before he died, Vittorio discovered that someone was laundering money through art foundations. Bellweather was one of them."
Adrian sat slowly.
"Philip."
"I don't know."
"You do," Dante said.
Caterina looked at her son.
"I suspect."
"That's not the same."
"No."
"Who?"
Caterina's eyes shifted to Elena.
"Your father."
Elena stared.
"My father died when I was nineteen."
"I know."
"He taught high school history."
"That was his profession."
"What are you saying?"
"He also advised federal investigators on provenance fraud."
Elena shook her head.
"No."
"Quietly."
"No."
"Your father was the person who first connected Bellweather to stolen art."
Elena stood.
The room seemed unstable.
Her father, Samuel Rossi, had been gentle, funny, perpetually underpaid, forever bringing home secondhand history books.
He had died in a car accident.
Nothing mysterious.
Nothing dramatic.
A wet road.
A truck.
A funeral.
Her mother had never recovered.
"You are lying."
"I wish I were."
Caterina placed the key on the table.
"Vittorio met Samuel twice."
Dante stared at his mother.
"You knew this for years?"
"Yes."
"And said nothing."
"Vittorio made me promise."
"He's dead."
"And Samuel was dead."
Elena flinched.
Dante saw it.
"Enough."
But Elena raised her hand.
"No. Finish."
Caterina looked at her.
"Your father believed someone inside Bellweather was moving stolen works through legitimate restoration channels. Before he could prove it, he died."
Elena's throat tightened.
"Are you saying his accident wasn't an accident?"
"I don't know."
"That's not good enough."
"It's the truth."
Elena walked away.
Her father's death had divided her life into before and after.
Now a woman she had called family was suggesting the line itself might have been a lie.
Dante approached carefully.
Elena turned toward him.
"Did you know?"
"No."
"Swear."
"On everything I have."
She believed him.
That almost made it worse.
Because now Dante had been betrayed too.
Adrian stood.
"Samuel Rossi."
Everyone looked at him.
"I know that name."
Elena's heart pounded.
"From where?"
"Old institute records."
"What records?"
"An inquiry."
"When?"
"About sixteen years ago."
The timing matched.
Adrian rubbed his forehead.
"I was a junior conservator. Philip ordered boxes removed from storage after an investigator requested them."
"What boxes?"
"Restoration reports. Acquisition records."
"Where did they go?"
"I don't know."
Dante looked toward Caterina.
"The desk."
She nodded.
They went upstairs.
Elena reached the French writing desk first.
She knelt.
Her hands shook as she inserted the brass key.
The drawer opened.
Empty.
She pulled it fully outward.
Dante crouched beside her.
"False back."
Elena ran her fingers along the wood.
A small catch released.
The panel shifted.
Behind it lay a thin ledger wrapped in yellowed cloth.
Nobody spoke.
Elena removed it.
Inside were handwritten entries.
Dates.
Painting titles.
Shipping numbers.
Initials.
One set repeated dozens of times.
P.M.
Philip Mercer.
Another appeared less frequently.
V.M.
Vittorio Marino.
Dante's face hardened.
Caterina whispered, "No."
Dante looked at her.
"My father was involved."
"He was investigating."
"How do you know?"
"He told me."
"And you believed him."
"Yes."
Dante laughed without humor.
"Apparently everyone in this family enjoys trusting dead men."
Elena touched his arm.
He looked at her.
This time she was the one offering steadiness.
They turned another page.
A photograph slipped out.
Elena picked it up.
Three men stood outside a warehouse.
Samuel Rossi.
Vittorio Marino.
And Philip Mercer.
On the back, Samuel had written:
If anything happens to me, ask Vittorio about Gallery 17.
Elena's eyes filled.
She knew her father's handwriting.
There was no doubt.
Dante took the photograph.
"Gallery 17."
Adrian looked up.
"The institute used to have numbered storage galleries."
"Where?"
"The old annex."
"Still there?"
"Condemned."
"Accessible?"
Adrian hesitated.
"Technically no."
Dante gave him a look.
"Realistically?"
"Yes."
Elena stood.
"I'm going."
"No."
She looked at Dante.
He immediately corrected himself.
"I would strongly prefer you didn't."
Despite everything, she almost smiled.
"I'm going."
"Then I'm going with you."
Caterina stood.
"So am I."
Dante looked at her.
"No."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Was that an order?"
Elena actually laughed this time.
Dante looked betrayed.
"This is not funny."
"It's a little funny."
For three seconds, the fear loosened.
Then Marco entered.
He was holding a laptop.
"Boss, we found something else."
Dante turned.
"What?"
"Someone accessed Mrs. Marino's studio cameras three times this week."
Elena's smile disappeared.
"From outside?"
"No."
Marco rotated the laptop.
"The access credentials belonged to household staff."
"Whose?"
"Maria's."
Elena frowned.
Maria Alvarez had worked for the Marino family for eighteen years.
"Maria wouldn't—"
"We asked her."
"And?"
"She says she hasn't used the security system in months."
Dante understood immediately.
"Stolen credentials."
Marco nodded.
"There's more."
He opened a video.
Security footage showed Elena's studio two nights earlier.
Empty.
Timestamp: 2:13 a.m.
A figure entered.
Baseball cap.
Dark coat.
Gloves.
The person walked directly to the portrait.
Directly to where the diary had been hidden.
Elena covered her mouth.
"They knew."
Dante watched the figure.
The intruder moved the portrait.
Searched.
Then froze when footsteps sounded outside.
The person turned toward the camera.
For one frame, the face became visible.
Adrian whispered, "Impossible."
Elena leaned closer.
She recognized him.
Philip Mercer.
He had been inside their home.
Searching for her diary.
But the footage continued.
Philip wasn't alone.
A second person entered the studio.
The face remained outside the frame.
Philip turned toward them.
Even without sound, his fear was obvious.
The second person handed him something.
A photograph.
Philip looked at it.
Then at the camera.
He reached upward.
The footage went black.
Marco closed the laptop.
"There's one thing you need to see."
He reopened the final frame.
The photograph in Philip's hand was blurry.
But one face could be recognized.
Elena's.
And beside her was Dante.
A red circle had been drawn around Elena's head.
Underneath was tomorrow's date.
September 5.
Elena looked at Dante.
"What happens tomorrow?"
Nobody answered.
Then Adrian's phone rang.
He checked the screen.
His face drained of color.
"Philip."
Dante nodded.
"Answer it."
Adrian did.
He put it on speaker.
Philip Mercer was breathing hard.
"Adrian, listen to me. Don't trust anyone in that house."
Dante's eyes narrowed.
Philip continued.
"Especially not—"
A crash sounded.
Philip gasped.
Then another voice came through the phone.
A voice Dante recognized.
His expression changed.
Elena saw it.
"Dante?"
The call disconnected.
May you like
Dante stared at the dead screen.
He knew exactly who had been standing beside Philip.
