Chapter 2 - THE PAINTING WITH TWO SIGNATURES
Naomi arrived at the townhouse at 11:43 p.m., wearing a trench coat over pajama pants.
She looked at Gabriel, then at me.
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
“Has anyone prevented you from leaving?”
“No.”
“Do you want to leave?”
I hesitated.
“Not until I understand what's happening.”
Naomi nodded.
Then she turned toward Gabriel.
“Good. Now start explaining.”
Gabriel had known my mother.
That was the first truth.
He'd known her long before she became Evelyn Brooks, a widowed kindergarten teacher living in a narrow brick house in New Jersey.
Her birth name had been Isabella Costa.
She was Gabriel's older sister.
Which meant the man who'd thrown Spencer across the ballroom was my uncle.
I stared at him.
“No.”
Gabriel said nothing.
“My mother was an only child.”
“She told people that.”
“Why?”
“To protect you.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
Naomi leaned toward me.
“Shantel, you don't have to believe anything tonight.”
I nodded.
But my eyes stayed on Gabriel.
“If you're my uncle, why didn't you tell me when I restored your painting?”
His expression tightened.
“Because your mother made me promise not to.”
“She died eleven years ago.”
“I know.”
“Then you've had eleven years.”
Gabriel looked away.
“Yes.”
That answer hurt more than an excuse.
He brought out a photograph.
Three children stood on the steps of a stone house.
Two boys and a girl.
The girl looked about sixteen.
She had dark curls, a serious expression, and a small scar above her eyebrow.
My mother had the same scar.
I reached for the photograph.
My fingers trembled.
“That's her.”
Gabriel nodded.
“Isabella.”
“Who are the boys?”
“Me. And our younger brother, Luca.”
I stared at the smallest child.
“Where is Luca?”
Gabriel's face closed.
“He died.”
Something about the way he said it told me the story wasn't finished.
Gabriel explained that the Costa family had controlled shipping and import businesses in New York for generations.
Some were legitimate.
Others had been used to conceal criminal operations.
My mother had studied art restoration in Florence.
She wanted nothing to do with the family's business.
At twenty-four, she discovered evidence that a senior associate named Victor Sorelli had been using Costa shipping companies to transport stolen artwork.
She threatened to report him.
Soon afterward, Luca died in what the family was told was a boating accident.
Isabella believed Sorelli was responsible.
Gabriel had never been able to prove it.
“She disappeared after Luca's funeral,” Gabriel said.
“She was pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
He nodded.
I looked down at my hands.
“Who was my father?”
Gabriel hesitated.
“His name was Daniel Brooks.”
I closed my eyes.
That name I knew.
My mother had told me my father died in a car accident before I was born.
“Was that true?”
Gabriel looked at Naomi.
Then back at me.
“He died. But not in a car accident.”
My chest tightened.
“How?”
“He was killed.”
The room became silent.
I stood.
“I need air.”
Gabriel moved toward the door.
I held up a hand.
“Alone.”
He stopped.
“Of course.”
I stepped into the small garden behind the townhouse.
The night was cold.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
For eleven years, I'd mourned a mother who taught me to be honest.
Now I was learning she'd lied about nearly everything before my birth.
I understood why she might have been afraid.
But understanding didn't make the hurt disappear.
Naomi joined me.
She stood quietly beside the fountain.
“Do you believe him?” I asked.
“I believe there's enough here to investigate.”
I looked at her.
“Do you think he's dangerous?”
“Yes.”
The answer startled me.
Naomi continued.
“Dangerous people can tell the truth. Kind people can lie. Your job isn't to choose a hero tonight.”
I swallowed.
“Then what is my job?”
“To stay alive. And make your own decisions.”
When we returned inside, Gabriel was waiting.
I looked at him.
“If you're telling the truth, I want a DNA test.”
He nodded immediately.
“Done.”
“And I want access to the painting.”
“Yes.”
“And no more secrets.”
He hesitated.
Then said, “I'll tell you what I know.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“That's not the same thing.”
“No,” he admitted. “It isn't.”
Before I could answer, Mateo entered.
His expression was grim.
“Gabriel. We have a problem.”
Gabriel turned.
“What?”
“Spencer filed a police report.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course he did.”
Mateo looked at me.
“He's claiming you stole a painting worth six million dollars.”
My blood ran cold.
Because the painting Gabriel had brought to my studio was now missing.
May you like
And the last person officially recorded handling it—
Was me.
