Chapter 3 - THE DEGREE EVERYONE CALLED USELESS
Sadi's mother waited until they reached the country-club hallway.
“What was that?”
“A toast.”
“Do not be cute.”
Chloe followed.
“Sadi, Dad's guests are asking if Madison's father is a criminal.”
“I didn't call him one.”
“You practically accused him of stealing church art!”
Sadi looked at her younger sister.
“I said the painting might have questionable provenance.”
Her mother threw up both hands.
“This is exactly why I seated you near the kitchen.”
Silence.
There it was.
No subtlety.
Roman stood ten feet away.
He heard.
Sadi's face burned.
Chloe whispered:
“Mom.”
“What?”
Her mother continued.
“Sadi always makes everything about herself.”
Roman moved before Sadi did.
She stepped in front of him.
“No.”
He stopped.
Her mother blinked.
Sadi looked directly at her.
“For once, you're going to let me finish.”
The hallway became quiet.
“You put Derek and his fiancée at table four.”
Her mother looked uncomfortable.
“You put me near the kitchen.”
“Sadi—”
“You told me not to mope.”
“I was protecting you.”
“No.”
Her voice remained calm.
“You were protecting the photographs.”
Her mother's face changed.
Chloe looked down.
Sadi continued.
“I spent my whole childhood being told I'd look better if I lost weight.”
“Sadi, please.”
“You bought Chloe dresses and bought me shapewear.”
“Sadi.”
“You told me my degree was a waste.”
Her mother crossed her arms.
“It didn't lead anywhere.”
Sadi glanced toward the ballroom.
“The degree you called useless just identified a potentially stolen painting worth millions of dollars.”
Her mother had no answer.
Sadi's voice softened.
“I am tired of behaving like my life is an apology.”
Then she walked away.
Roman followed.
Outside, cold air hit her face.
For several seconds she fought tears.
Roman said nothing.
Good.
Then:
“Your mother is terrible at strategy.”
Sadi laughed unexpectedly.
“That is your comfort?”
“Yes.”
“It needs work.”
“I employ specialists for emotional tasks.”
She wiped her eyes.
Roman's phone buzzed again.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“Price's storage unit.”
“And?”
“Thirty-seven works.”
Sadi stared.
“Stolen?”
“Potentially.”
“From where?”
“Italy. France. Austria. Two from private collections in New York.”
Her stomach tightened.
Roman continued:
“My freight subsidiary moved six crates.”
“You didn't know?”
“No.”
“Who authorized them?”
He looked at her.
“Carlo Moretti.”
“Using your company?”
“Yes.”
“And Arthur Price sold them?”
“Likely.”
Sadi exhaled.
“That's bad.”
“Correct.”
Then Roman said something surprising.
“I need you.”
Her heartbeat changed despite herself.
“For?”
“Do not enjoy that sentence.”
“Too late.”
“I need someone who can identify what we're looking at before the internal records disappear.”
“I am not a certified appraiser.”
“I didn't ask you to value them.”
“I haven't worked in the field since college.”
“You recognized that painting from ten feet away.”
“Eight.”
Roman stared.
“Sadi.”
She sighed.
“What exactly are you asking?”
“Consult.”
“Paid?”
His eyebrows rose.
“Obviously.”
“Contract?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing criminal.”
“Define criminal.”
She glared.
“Fine.”
He smiled slightly.
“Agreed.”
That night, she reviewed photographs of the recovered works.
Her forgotten education returned piece by piece.
Styles.
Schools.
Provenance.
Old catalog numbers.
Restoration marks.
Her art-history degree had never been useless.
She had simply spent years around people who didn't value it.
At three in the morning, she found something.
A small landscape.
Italian.
Late nineteenth century.
Insignificant compared with the religious paintings.
Except for one mark on the stretcher.
A handwritten code.
R.R.-17.
Sadi looked toward Roman.
“What's R.R.?”
He went still.
“Rosa Rossi.”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
Sadi stared.
Roman's mother had died fifteen years earlier.
“What does seventeen mean?”
His face changed.
“Her private collection had seventeen paintings.”
“And?”
“After she died, six disappeared.”
Sadi slowly turned the photograph toward him.
“One of them may have just come back.”
Roman looked at the screen.
For the first time since she'd met him, the most controlled man in Chicago looked genuinely shaken.
May you like
Then he whispered:
“My father told me those paintings were destroyed.”
