Chapter 2 - THE SILVER LOCKET IN THE CANVAS
The ballroom was so quiet you could hear the ice melting in the champagne buckets.
Camille’s perfect, porcelain face flushed a dark, angry red.
She stared at the authorization paper in Alessandro’s hand as if it were a venomous snake.
“Alessandro, darling,” she started, her voice dropping an octave to that soothing, manipulative tone she used when she wanted her way. “You’re misunderstanding the document. My brother was simply doing an inventory. To protect the estate.”
“An inventory,” Alessandro repeated. His voice was dangerously calm.
“Yes. For insurance purposes.”
“The authorization explicitly grants him permission to broker private sales, Camille. To international buyers.”
Camille stepped forward, reaching for his arm. “It’s a standard legal template, sweetheart. You know how careless lawyers can be with boilerplate language.”
I watched Alessandro step back, just enough so her fingers grasped only empty air.
“You told me the gallery needed the painting for a light dusting,” he said, his dark eyes entirely devoid of warmth. “You lied to Harold. You lied to the insurance adjusters. And you just tried to humiliate my employee to cover your tracks.”
“She’s a maid!” Camille snapped, the mask finally slipping. “Are you really going to take the word of some girl who scrubs our toilets over your future wife?”
“She’s the only one in this room who told me the truth today,” Alessandro said.
He turned to his security chief, a massive man named Rossi who had been standing silently near the exit.
“Rossi. Escort Miss Hart to the guest wing. Have her pack her things. The engagement is over.”
A collective gasp echoed through the ballroom.
Camille’s eyes widened in sheer panic. “Alessandro, you can’t do this! The merger with my father’s development firm—you need that riverfront property!”
“I’ll buy the property,” Alessandro said quietly. “But I will not marry a thief.”
He didn’t look at her again as Rossi stepped forward, gently but firmly guiding a sobbing, furious Camille out of the ballroom.
The guests were murmuring, shifting uncomfortably. Alessandro walked up to the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the disruption. The auction will be postponed until the original painting is securely returned. Please, enjoy the rest of the evening. The foundation will still receive my personal donation tonight.”
As the jazz band hurriedly started playing again, Alessandro turned back to me and Mr. Bennett.
“Harold, take a week off. With full pay. Go see your grandkids,” Alessandro said gently.
The old man nodded, wiping his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Thank you, sir.”
When Harold left, Alessandro looked down at me. He was standing too close. I could smell his cologne—cedar and black pepper.
“Show me the duplicate frame,” he said softly.
I led him behind the stage, where the fake painting leaned against the velvet curtains.
“It’s a good fake,” I explained, pointing to the backing paper. “But they used modern staples. Your grandmother’s original had flathead nails. That’s how they did it in the seventies.”
Alessandro reached out, his large fingers tracing the edge of the frame.
“My grandmother loved that painting,” he murmured. “It was the only thing she brought with her from Sicily.”
He gripped the wooden edge, his knuckles turning white. Suddenly, there was a sharp crack.
The cheap wood of the duplicate frame snapped under his immense grip.
“Sorry,” he muttered, pulling his hand back.
But as the bottom piece of the frame broke away, something fell out from behind the canvas and clattered onto the hardwood floor.
I knelt down and picked it up.
It was a heavy, antique silver locket. The chain was broken.
“Mr. Romano,” I whispered, handing it to him.
Alessandro’s face drained of color as he opened the small clasp.
Inside was a photograph of a little boy with dark curly hair.
“That’s my nephew. Leo,” Alessandro said, his voice completely hollow.
I frowned. “I didn’t know you had a nephew.”
“Nobody does. He’s six years old. We keep him hidden at a safe house in the suburbs for his protection.” Alessandro looked at me, a terrifying darkness settling into his eyes. “This locket belongs to Camille. She wears it every day.”
My heart hammered in my chest.
If Camille’s locket was hidden inside the fake frame, she hadn’t just orchestrated the theft of the art. She was sending a message.
And then, Alessandro’s phone vibrated.
May you like
He answered it on speaker.
“Mr. Romano,” a panicked voice yelled over the line. It was one of his security guards. “Sir, it’s the safe house. The gate is breached. The boy is gone.”
