Chapter 1 - Eight Million Dollars and Blue Paint
Elena Brooks flung the loaded brush across Luca Moretti's white shirt and shouted:
"My studio isn't for sale!"
The most feared man in Chicago looked down at the blue paint while one of his lawyers still held the eight-million-dollar contract.
A handwritten number showed faintly beneath the paint on Elena's easel:
"11-17-98."
Then Luca saw the woman's face above it.
This was no longer about the building.
For three full seconds, nobody moved.
Blue paint slid down Luca Moretti's chest in thick uneven lines, dripping from the expensive cotton of his white shirt onto the old wooden floor.
Elena's heart slammed against her ribs.
She had imagined this moment differently.
For three weeks, Moretti Development had sent letters.
First came the polite offer.
Then the larger offer.
Then the notice informing Elena that almost every neighboring property on the block had already been purchased.
Yesterday, someone had taped a final envelope to her front door.
$8,000,000.
Enough money to clear the studio's mortgage, pay every supplier she owed, fix the leaking roof on her apartment, and live comfortably for the rest of her life.
Enough money to tempt almost anyone.
But the Brooks Studio wasn't almost anything.
It was the last thing Elena had from the only woman who had ever believed she could become an artist.
So when Luca Moretti entered that morning with two attorneys and four men who looked capable of carrying refrigerators under each arm, Elena had already decided what her answer would be.
She simply hadn't planned on throwing paint.
The bald bodyguard beside her tightened his grip.
"Easy," he warned.
Elena jerked her arm.
"Take your hand off me."
The man looked toward Luca.
Everyone did.
Luca had a reputation that traveled ahead of him.
Some people called him a developer.
Some called him a businessman.
People who lowered their voices called him something else.
Moretti.
In certain parts of Chicago, the name was enough.
Luca slowly wiped blue paint from the back of his hand.
He was taller than Elena had expected.
His sleeves had been rolled to his forearms, revealing black-and-gray tattoos that disappeared beneath the cuffs and climbed the side of his neck.
His expression contained no embarrassment.
That frightened her more than anger would have.
One attorney cleared his throat.
"Mr. Moretti, perhaps we should—"
"Quiet."
The single word silenced the room.
Elena swallowed.
Luca lifted his eyes toward her.
"You threw paint at me."
"You came here to take my shop."
"I came here to buy it."
"You bought every building around me."
"Legally."
"And now you're making sure I don't have a choice."
Luca stepped closer.
The bald bodyguard held Elena more firmly.
She refused to retreat.
"I'm giving you eight million dollars for a property assessed at less than one," Luca said.
"I'm not asking what it's assessed at."
"Then what are you asking?"
"For you to leave."
One of the men behind Luca made a low sound somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
Luca didn't smile.
"Nobody has told me to leave one of my own negotiations in a very long time."
"Congratulations. You can start the streak over today."
The bodyguard's fingers tightened.
Elena winced.
Luca noticed.
His gaze dropped to the man's hand.
"Marco."
The bodyguard released her instantly.
Elena rubbed her arm.
Luca turned toward the contract again.
"My company plans to redevelop this entire block. Hotel residences. Shops. Restaurants. Your building sits at the center of the project."
"Then build around me."
"The design doesn't work around you."
"Sounds like your architect's problem."
The attorney looked horrified.
Luca stared at Elena for several long seconds.
Then he did something unexpected.
He almost smiled.
It vanished immediately.
"Eight million," he repeated.
"No."
"Nine."
"No."
"Ten."
Elena stared at him.
Her knees nearly weakened.
Ten million dollars.
She thought about all the nights she had slept on the studio couch because she couldn't afford both heat at home and heat here.
She thought about the unpaid invoices hidden inside the bottom desk drawer.
She thought about the bank message she had ignored that morning.
Then she looked at the room around her.
Paint-covered tables.
Half-finished canvases.
Old brushes.
Framed portraits covering walls that needed repair.
Everything looked worthless to a developer.
To Elena, it was a life.
"No."
The word came out quietly.
Luca's face hardened again.
"You haven't even considered it."
"I considered selling this place every month for the last four years."
"Then sell it."
"Not to you."
His eyebrows lowered.
"Why?"
"Because you don't want a building. You want to erase everything on this block and replace it with something nobody who lives here can afford."
"That's business."
"Exactly."
Luca turned away from her.
For the first time, Elena believed the confrontation might actually end.
Then his eyes moved toward the easel.
He stopped.
Elena saw the change before anyone else did.
His shoulders became rigid.
His breathing changed.
The room seemed to shrink around him.
On the easel was a portrait Elena had begun six days earlier.
She didn't know the woman's name.
She hadn't even known the woman existed until an elderly stranger arrived with a damaged photograph.
The old woman in the photograph had been younger then, perhaps twenty-five.
Dark curls.
Strong cheekbones.
Serious eyes.
A simple cream blouse.
The photograph was cracked down one side and stained with something dark near the corner.
Elena had accepted the commission because the stranger had paid cash and asked no questions.
"Paint her the way she looked before everything went wrong," he'd said.
It was an unusual request.
But artists lived on unusual requests.
Luca walked slowly toward the canvas.
The attorneys watched him.
Marco shifted behind Elena.
"Luca?" one of the men asked.
No answer.
Luca stopped directly in front of the portrait.
His mouth opened slightly.
Color drained from his face.
Elena felt the first pulse of uncertainty.
"Do you know her?"
Luca didn't respond.
His eyes moved across the painted face.
The portrait was unfinished.
One eye was complete.
The other still lacked detail.
The blouse existed mostly as thin underpainting.
A faded date Elena had copied from the back of the damaged photograph sat near the lower corner of the canvas.
11-17-98.
Luca saw it.
His fingers curled.
"Where did you get this?"
Elena looked at the portrait.
"A client."
"What client?"
"I don't give out information about customers."
He turned so quickly that Marco moved forward.
"Who gave you that photograph?"
Elena straightened.
"Why?"
Luca stared at her.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed.
The polished businessman was gone.
There was something raw beneath it.
"Because that woman was my mother."
Silence.
Elena looked from Luca to the painting.
Then back again.
"Your mother?"
"Isabella Moretti."
The name meant nothing to Elena.
But it meant something to everyone else.
Marco's face changed.
One attorney looked down.
The other immediately closed his folder.
Elena noticed.
"What happened to her?"
Luca's eyes remained on the portrait.
"She died twenty-eight years ago."
Elena felt cold move along her arms.
"That's impossible."
Luca turned.
"Why?"
"The man who brought me the photograph said he saw her three weeks ago."
Nobody breathed.
Luca stared at her.
"What did you say?"
Elena hesitated.
"The client said he wanted the portrait finished before she came back."
Marco stepped closer.
"Who was he?"
"I told you. I don't know."
"You accepted a commission without a name?"
"He gave me cash."
"What did he look like?"
"Older. Seventies, maybe. Gray hair. Tall. He wore gloves."
"Name."
"He called himself Thomas."
Luca's jaw tightened.
"Thomas what?"
"I never asked."
Marco cursed quietly.
Luca ignored him.
"What exactly did he say?"
Elena tried to remember.
She could still see the stranger standing beside the easel.
He had stared at the photograph longer than necessary.
There had been sadness in his expression.
And fear.
"He said the woman in the photograph deserved to be remembered accurately."
"Anything else?"
Elena nodded slowly.
"He told me not to let anyone take the portrait before November seventeenth."
Luca glanced toward the date.
"That's tomorrow."
"I know."
"And you didn't think that was strange?"
"I'm an artist. Strange pays my electric bill."
Nobody laughed.
Luca reached toward the canvas.
Elena immediately stepped between him and the easel.
"Don't touch it."
His eyes met hers.
"Move."
"No."
"That is my mother's face."
"And until the client collects it, that's my work."
"Your client may know something about my mother's death."
"Then bring me a subpoena."
Marco whispered, "Elena, you really need to stop talking."
She turned toward him.
"You know my name?"
Marco's expression gave away too much.
Elena looked back at Luca.
Something shifted inside her.
"You knew my name before you came here."
"Of course I did."
"No. Your company knew my name. He knew my first name."
Marco looked away.
Elena's pulse accelerated.
"What is going on?"
Luca said nothing.
She stepped closer.
"Why did you personally come here?"
He glanced toward his attorneys.
"Take everyone outside."
One lawyer blinked.
"Mr. Moretti—"
"Now."
Within a minute, the room emptied.
Marco resisted longest.
Luca gave him one look.
Finally, he left too.
The studio door closed.
Elena and Luca stood alone.
She suddenly wished the bodyguards were still inside.
Luca took off his ruined white shirt.
Elena stepped backward.
"What are you doing?"
"Relax."
He wore a fitted undershirt beneath it.
He folded the paint-covered shirt and set it on a chair.
Then he walked toward the window.
"My mother didn't die in an accident."
Elena waited.
"Officially, she did," Luca continued. "Car off a bridge. November seventeen, 1998."
Elena looked at the date on the canvas.
"You were there?"
"I was fourteen."
His voice remained steady, but his hand tightened against the windowsill.
"My father told everyone she lost control of the car. There was a funeral. Closed casket."
"And you believed him."
"For years."
"What changed?"
Luca looked at her.
"I found out there was never a body."
Elena's stomach tightened.
The portrait suddenly felt like another person standing in the room.
"Then she might be alive."
"No."
"How can you know?"
"Because people who searched for her disappeared."
Elena stared at him.
"What does that mean?"
"It means this painting is no longer safe here."
She laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
"You're unbelievable. Ten minutes ago you wanted to bulldoze the building."
"Ten minutes ago I didn't know you had my mother's portrait."
"So what happens now? You steal it?"
"No."
"Buy it?"
"No."
"Threaten me?"
His expression changed.
"Someone already did."
Elena stopped.
"What?"
Luca walked toward a small worktable beside the easel.
He picked up an envelope she hadn't noticed.
It was lying beneath a stack of sketch paper.
There was no stamp.
No address.
Only Elena's name.
She stared.
"That wasn't there."
Luca handed it to her.
"Don't open it."
"Why?"
"Because whoever put it there came inside while we were talking."
Elena looked toward the locked front door.
Impossible.
Nobody had entered.
She turned the envelope over.
The flap wasn't sealed.
Luca said, "Elena."
She opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
Her own apartment building.
Taken last night.
From across the street.
On the back were five handwritten words.
FINISH ISABELLA AND YOU DIE.
Elena's fingers went numb.
Luca took the photograph from her hand.
His expression became almost frighteningly calm.
"You're coming with me."
She looked up sharply.
"No."
"That wasn't a request."
"You don't own me."
"No."
His gaze shifted toward the portrait.
"But somebody just threatened to kill you because of my mother."
Elena stepped away.
"I'll call the police."
Luca looked almost tired.
"If police could solve this, my mother would have been found twenty-eight years ago."
A sudden knock hit the rear studio door.
Three hard strikes.
Elena froze.
She never used that door.
Nobody knew it opened into the alley except delivery drivers.
Luca reached beneath his waistband.
Elena's breath caught when she saw the gun.
Another knock.
Then a man's voice came through the door.
"Elena Brooks?"
Luca silently moved between her and the entrance.
The handle began to turn.
May you like
It was already unlocked from the outside.
Someone was coming in.
