Chapter 2 - THE MAFIA BOSS TOOK THE INJURED ART EXPERT TO HIS PRIVATE ESTATE—BUT WHEN SHE OPENED THE STOLEN PROVENANCE FILE, SHE DISCOVERED HIS FAMILY HAD BEEN HIDING A MURDER FOR SEVENTY YEARS
I had never been inside a mafia boss's private estate.
I expected gold.
Marble.
Armed men.
Expensive furniture designed to make ordinary people feel small.
Callum Russo's house had all of those things.
But it also had books.
Hundreds of them.
Shelves reaching from floor to ceiling.
Old maps.
Framed photographs.
And a grand piano that looked as though someone actually played it.
That surprised me.
I arrived shortly after one in the morning.
A nurse named Elena helped me into a guest room.
She checked my ankle.
Changed the dressing.
Made sure I had water and pain medication.
Then she left me alone.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
The room was enormous.
The sheets were softer than anything I owned.
The windows overlooked a garden covered in rain.
I should have felt safe.
Instead, I felt trapped inside a mystery.
At two, someone knocked.
"Sadie?"
Callum.
I looked toward the door.
"Come in."
He entered carrying a laptop.
No jacket.
Sleeves rolled up.
He looked less like a mafia boss and more like a man who had forgotten how to sleep.
He stopped near the doorway.
"Can we talk?"
I nodded.
He sat in the chair opposite the bed.
Not too close.
I noticed that.
"Your scan," he said.
I swallowed.
"It's in my cloud archive."
He nodded.
"Can you access it?"
"Yes."
He placed the laptop on the table.
I opened the archive.
Entered my password.
Then found the file.
ROME_LEDGER_1946.
I clicked.
The scanned page appeared.
Old paper.
Faded ink.
Italian handwriting.
A list of names.
Dates.
Transfers.
At first glance, it looked like an ordinary provenance record.
Then I pointed to a line near the bottom.
"There."
Callum leaned forward.
"What's that?"
"A transfer dated June 1946."
I enlarged the image.
The name appeared.
GIULIA MORETTI.
Callum went still.
I looked at him.
"You know her?"
He swallowed.
"My grandmother."
I stared.
"What?"
He nodded.
"Giulia Moretti was my mother's mother."
I looked back at the screen.
The page recorded the transfer of the drawing from Giulia Moretti to a private collection.
But the signature was strange.
I enlarged it.
"Look at the ink."
Callum leaned closer.
"What?"
"The signature was added later."
He frowned.
"How can you tell?"
"The ink has a different oxidation pattern. The pressure is inconsistent. And the handwriting doesn't match the earlier entries."
Callum stared.
I continued.
"Someone forged the transfer."
Silence.
Then Callum whispered:
"My grandfather."
I looked at him.
"What?"
He closed his eyes.
"His name was Antonio Russo."
I swallowed.
He continued.
"He married Giulia Moretti in 1945."
I looked at the page.
The date.
June 1946.
One year later.
I frowned.
"What happened to her?"
Callum opened his eyes.
"She disappeared."
My stomach tightened.
"Disappeared?"
He nodded.
"Family story says she ran away."
I looked at the page.
The forged signature.
The transfer.
The missing woman.
Then I looked at Callum.
"Someone wanted her property."
He nodded slowly.
"And someone made sure she couldn't object."
***
We worked until dawn.
I searched the archive.
Callum contacted Gabriel.
Together, we traced the drawing through decades of private ownership.
The record showed transfers between collectors.
But every transfer before 1952 was suspicious.
Names changed.
Dates overlapped.
One dealer appeared to have sold the same drawing twice.
Then I found something strange.
A reference to a bank deposit.
Not money.
A sealed envelope.
Stored in a private vault in Rome.
The envelope had been deposited in 1946.
The same year Giulia disappeared.
I stared at the screen.
"Callum."
He looked up.
"What?"
I pointed.
"This."
He leaned forward.
I explained.
"The provenance page references a sealed deposit. It may contain the original ownership documents."
Callum studied the record.
"Where?"
"Rome."
He nodded.
"Then we go to Rome."
I stared.
"What?"
He looked at me.
"We need the documents."
I shook my head.
"Callum, I have a job. A mother. A life."
He nodded.
"I know."
I stared.
He continued.
"I'm not asking you to abandon any of that."
I looked down.
He softened his voice.
"But you're the only person who understands the records."
I swallowed.
"That's not fair."
He nodded.
"You're right."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he said:
"I'll pay for your time. Arrange proper medical care. And if you say no, I'll respect it."
I studied him.
He was dangerous.
Powerful.
Accustomed to getting what he wanted.
But he was asking.
Not ordering.
That mattered.
I looked back at the screen.
The forged signature.
The missing woman.
The stolen drawing.
Then I thought of my mother.
Of the stories she used to tell me about doing the right thing even when it was difficult.
I took a breath.
"Okay."
Callum looked up.
"Okay?"
"I'll help."
His expression softened.
"Thank you."
I nodded.
"But we do this legally."
He smiled faintly.
"Agreed."
***
Three days later, we flew to Rome.
My ankle was improving.
The bruises on my wrist had begun to fade.
But the mystery had grown.
Gabriel had discovered that Victor Bellini had recently purchased several documents connected to the Russo family.
He had also contacted a former employee of the Italian archive.
Someone who had access to the sealed deposit.
Callum listened carefully.
Then looked at me.
"Bellini knows we're looking."
I nodded.
"Then we should move quickly."
He smiled faintly.
"You're not afraid?"
I looked at him.
"Of course I'm afraid."
He studied me.
I continued.
"But being afraid doesn't mean we stop."
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he smiled.
"You're remarkable."
I looked away.
My cheeks warmed.
"Don't start."
He laughed softly.
It was the first time I had heard him laugh.
And I hated how much I liked it.
***
The archive stood inside a centuries-old building near the Tiber.
A curator named Sofia Bellandi greeted us.
She was in her sixties.
Sharp-eyed.
Impatient.
The kind of woman who treated historical documents like living relatives.
She reviewed my credentials.
Then led us into a private room.
The sealed envelope lay inside a protective box.
Yellowed paper.
Red wax.
A handwritten label.
GIULIA MORETTI.
My heart raced.
Sofia carefully opened the box.
Inside were three documents.
A letter.
A receipt.
And a photograph.
I picked up the photograph.
A young woman stood beside a dark-haired man.
The woman was beautiful.
Elegant.
Serious.
The man looked familiar.
Too familiar.
I looked at Callum.
Then back at the photograph.
"Callum."
He leaned closer.
His face changed.
The man in the photograph looked almost exactly like him.
Same eyes.
Same jaw.
Same expression.
Callum swallowed.
"My grandfather."
I looked at the back of the photograph.
A date.
May 1946.
And a handwritten note.
IF I DISAPPEAR, ASK ANTONIO WHAT HE DID TO MY SISTER.
My stomach dropped.
I looked up.
"Callum."
He stared.
I continued.
"Giulia wasn't the only woman who disappeared."
He looked at the note.
Then whispered:
"Her sister."
Sofia leaned forward.
"Lucia Moretti."
We both turned.
The curator's face had gone pale.
She continued.
"Lucia disappeared in 1945."
Callum stared.
"Why?"
Sofia looked at the photograph.
Then whispered:
"Because she knew what Antonio Russo was doing."
The room went silent.
May you like
And suddenly the missing provenance page was no longer just evidence of stolen art.
It was the beginning of a family crime that had remained buried for eighty years.
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