Chapter 2 - The Mafia Boss Took Alex to a Safe House After Someone Shot Through His Window—Then Her Father’s Eighteen-Year-Old Secret Connected a Missing Roman Bust to the Death of Roman Costa’s Own FatherAlex watched the video seven times.
The first time, she cried.
The second, she searched her father’s face for evidence of manipulation.
The third, she listened only to the background.
Fourth, the objects.
Fifth, shadows.
Sixth, clothing.
Seventh, the date stamp.
Roman sat across from her.
He had not interrupted once.
Finally:
“What do you see?”
Alex wiped her face.
“My father recorded this in a conservation laboratory.”
“How do you know?”
“The lamp. Humidity gauge. Archival trays.”
She enlarged the frame.
“There.”
Behind Jonathan Carter sat a painted wooden panel.
Gold leaf.
Blue robe.
A saint’s hand.
Alex knew it.
“The Bellini Madonna.”
Roman frowned.
“Meaning?”
“It disappeared from a private chapel outside Naples in 2008.”
“The year your father died.”
“Yes.”
She looked at Roman.
“My father was investigating looted antiquities.”
“And mine?”
“I don't know.”
Roman leaned back.
His father, Lorenzo Costa, had died twelve years earlier.
Officially cardiac arrest.
Roman had been twenty-eight.
He took control of the Costa organization immediately afterward.
“What did Lorenzo know about antiquities?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
Roman looked at her.
“No.”
There it was again.
A man learning to admit uncertainty.
They inspected the flash drive.
More files appeared after decryption.
Photographs of looted artifacts.
Shipping manifests.
Insurance certificates.
Shell corporations.
One company appeared repeatedly.
AURELIAN CULTURAL TRUST.
Alex recognized it.
“They lend objects to museums.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“Who controls it?”
“Anonymous board.”
“Nothing is anonymous.”
He called Niko.
Twenty minutes later:
Aurelian was linked through layered corporations to Kensington Strategic Holdings.
Malcolm Kensington.
Preston’s future father-in-law.
But another shareholder existed.
Costa Maritime Mediterranean Holdings.
Roman swore.
“My father created that subsidiary.”
Alex stared.
“Then Lorenzo was involved.”
“Or framed.”
“Maybe.”
He looked at her.
“You don't soften conclusions.”
“No.”
“Good.”
Roman stood.
“Pack.”
Alex looked up.
“Excuse me?”
“Someone shot into my house.”
“Your house.”
“They left a drive addressed to you inside a fake antiquity placed there weeks ago.”
“And?”
“You're not returning to your apartment.”
“That sounded like an order again.”
Roman closed his eyes briefly.
“Would you consider staying somewhere secure tonight?”
“Better.”
“I hate this.”
“Practice.”
He almost smiled.
The safe house was a penthouse above a private medical office in Tribeca.
Alex received her own bedroom.
Lock on the inside.
No cameras.
Mara verified it.
Roman stayed two floors below.
Also good.
At 3:00 a.m., Alex couldn't sleep.
She found Roman in the kitchen.
No jacket.
White shirt.
Coffee.
“You don't sleep?”
“Rarely.”
“Healthy.”
“So I'm told.”
She poured water.
“Tell me about Lorenzo.”
Roman stared at the cup.
“My father believed fear was efficient.”
“That sounds diplomatic.”
“He was violent.”
Alex waited.
Roman continued.
“He loved my mother. Loved us.”
A bitter smile.
“He also believed love gave him permission to control everyone.”
“And you?”
“I spent years becoming him because I thought that was what survival required.”
Alex leaned against the counter.
“What changed?”
“My sister left.”
“Because of you?”
“Yes.”
He didn't hide.
“She told me she couldn't tell the difference between my protection and a prison.”
Alex studied him.
“Where is she?”
“Boston.”
“You speak?”
“Now.”
“Good.”
“She has two daughters.”
Roman smiled faintly.
“They think I'm a boring shipping executive.”
Alex laughed.
“You?”
“They're six and eight.”
“Fair.”
He looked at her.
“Your father?”
Alex's smile vanished.
“Kind.”
“Really?”
“Too kind, according to my mother.”
She looked toward the window.
“He took me to museums every Sunday.”
“He taught me to look at the backs of paintings because ‘truth usually lives where people don't bother decorating.’”
Roman smiled.
“That sounds useful.”
“It became my career.”
“What did your mother tell you about his death?”
“Car accident near Delphi.”
“Body?”
“Closed casket.”
Roman and Alex looked at each other.
“No,” she whispered.
Roman said nothing.
“He could be alive.”
“Possibly.”
“Or he survived long enough to record this.”
“Yes.”
Alex pressed her palms against the counter.
“I spent eighteen years believing…”
Her voice broke.
Roman moved instinctively.
Then stopped.
“Can I?”
Alex looked at him.
His arms.
He was asking permission to comfort her.
She nodded.
Roman held her.
Nothing romantic.
Nothing possessive.
Just warm.
Steady.
Alex cried into the shirt of a man half of New York feared.
He said nothing.
That was exactly right.
Morning brought disaster.
Sabbes suspended Alex.
News outlets reported she was under investigation.
A photograph from the gala showed her leaving with Roman.
Headline:
AUCTION EXPERT LINKED TO COSTA MONEY-LAUNDERING PROBE.
Preston gave a statement.
“I care deeply about Alex and hope she receives the help she needs.”
Alex nearly threw the television through a window.
Roman took the remote.
“May I?”
“Do what?”
“Break it.”
She laughed despite herself.
“No.”
“Unfortunate.”
Mara arrived with federal defense attorney Daniel Cho.
They reviewed everything.
Alex turned over her devices voluntarily through counsel.
Roman provided the fake bust.
Then Daniel said something unexpected.
“Do not release Jonathan Carter’s video.”
Alex frowned.
“Why?”
“Because whoever made it wants you moving.”
“Moving where?”
“That's what we need to discover.”
Alex returned to the video.
Background.
Bellini Madonna.
Conservation lab.
She searched old exhibition records.
The Madonna had resurfaced once.
A private showing in Geneva.
Then disappeared.
But one conservation photograph included a storage number.
C-417.
Roman recognized the format.
“Costa Maritime warehouse code.”
“Where?”
He checked.
“Red Hook.”
Warehouse 4.
Section 17.
C-417.
They went with federal agents.
Not Roman’s soldiers.
Alex insisted.
Inside the warehouse sat a crate untouched for eighteen years.
Roman stared at the seal.
His father’s personal mark.
They opened it.
The Bellini Madonna.
Original.
Behind it:
Files.
Hundreds.
Jonathan Carter and Lorenzo Costa had been working together.
Not as criminals.
As informants.
Lorenzo, despite everything else he had done, had discovered Malcolm Kensington was using Costa ships to traffic stolen antiquities and launder proceeds.
He wanted the operation stopped because it threatened his empire.
Jonathan wanted it stopped because cultural treasures were being stolen.
Different motives.
Same enemy.
They gathered evidence.
Then both men “died.”
Alex found a letter.
Jonathan to Lorenzo.
If anything happens to me, protect Alexandra. She knows nothing.
Her knees weakened.
Roman caught her.
Another document.
Lorenzo to Roman.
Son, if you ever find this, do not trust Gideon Vale.
The dealer who delivered the fake Hadrian.
Roman’s jaw hardened.
Then Alex found a third envelope.
Her name.
Inside:
Alex,
If you are reading this as an adult, then I failed to return.
Malcolm Kensington knows who I am.
He also knows about the catalog.
Do not trust provenance that begins with a photograph.
Trust the object.
Your eyes have always been better than mine.
Dad.
Alex cried.
Then she noticed one sentence written in a different ink.
Added later.
PRESTON HAYES IS NOT THE ARCHITECT. HE IS THE BAIT.
Roman read it.
“If Preston is bait…”
“Who are they trying to catch?”
Roman looked around the Costa warehouse.
“Me.”
That evening, Preston called.
Alex wasn't supposed to answer.
Daniel authorized recording.
“Alex.”
She remained silent.
“I need to see you.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Interesting word.”
“I'm in trouble.”
“So am I.”
“You don't understand.”
“I heard enough at the Pierre.”
Preston breathed.
“Sabrina isn't safe.”
Alex paused.
“What?”
“Her father knows she talked to you.”
“I haven't spoken to Sabrina since the gala.”
“He doesn't know that.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Preston.”
“She disappeared this morning.”
Roman looked at Alex.
Niko checked.
True.
Sabrina Kensington had not used her phone or credit cards in twelve hours.
Preston continued.
“Malcolm thinks she took a ledger.”
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
Alex heard something in his voice.
Real fear.
“Why frame me?”
Silence.
“Preston.”
“I owed money.”
“To Roman?”
“No.”
Roman's eyes narrowed.
“To Gideon Vale.”
“How much?”
“Eight hundred thousand.”
“Why?”
“Trading losses.”
Alex closed her eyes.
“And he offered to erase it if you used my credentials.”
“Yes.”
Three years.
Reduced to debt and cowardice.
“Did you ever love me?”
Roman looked away, giving her privacy even while recording.
Preston whispered:
“Yes.”
“That makes it worse.”
“I know.”
“Did Sabrina know?”
“Some.”
“The engagement?”
“Her father arranged it.”
“Did you want it?”
Silence.
Alex laughed sadly.
“Of course.”
Then Preston said:
“Alex, Malcolm has someone inside Sabbes.”
Her expression changed.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Who cloned my credentials?”
“I never did.”
She looked at Roman.
“Then who?”
“I only delivered the documents they gave me.”
“Who?”
“Gideon.”
A noise sounded behind Preston.
He gasped.
“Alex—”
Gunshot.
The line went dead.
Preston survived.
Barely.
Found in a parking garage.
One bullet.
Federal protection.
His phone contained a photograph sent ten minutes before the shooting.
Sabrina tied to a chair.
Behind her:
Shelves of antiquities.
Alex enlarged the image.
Roman watched.
“What?”
“That amphora.”
“Which?”
“Behind her left shoulder.”
Alex zoomed.
“It's from Sabbes.”
“Stolen?”
“Supposedly destroyed in a warehouse fire nine years ago.”
Another object.
A bronze Etruscan horse.
Also supposedly destroyed.
Another.
Missing.
Alex understood.
“This isn't just money laundering.”
Roman waited.
“They've been replacing real objects with copies.”
“Then declaring originals destroyed?”
“Sometimes.”
“Where are the originals going?”
“Private collectors.”
Roman’s expression darkened.
“How much?”
“Potentially hundreds of millions.”
Niko entered.
“We traced the photograph.”
“Where?”
“An estate outside Greenwich.”
“Owner?”
Niko looked at Roman.
“Gideon Vale.”
Roman stood.
Alex did too.
“No.”
Roman turned.
“No?”
“You are not storming the estate.”
“He has Sabrina.”
“And possibly twenty years of evidence.”
“He shot Preston.”
“Which means he's expecting you angry.”
Roman stared.
Alex continued.
“My father wrote Preston is bait.”
She stepped closer.
“They want Roman Costa, Mafia boss.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Don't give them one.”
The FBI entered first.
Roman stayed in command vehicle.
He hated every second.
Alex sat beside him.
Sabrina was rescued.
Alive.
Gideon escaped.
But the estate contained hundreds of stolen works.
And one room filled with photographs.
Alex.
Roman.
Jonathan.
Lorenzo.
Preston.
Sabrina.
Malcolm.
At the center was a photograph taken three days earlier.
Jonathan Carter.
Older.
Gray-haired.
Alive.
Standing beside Gideon Vale.
Alex stared.
“No.”
Roman said nothing.
Beneath the photograph was a handwritten note.
ALEX WILL LEAD ROMAN TO THE CATALOG.
Alex backed away.
“My father is working with them.”
“Maybe.”
“He's alive.”
“Yes.”
“He never came back.”
Roman looked at her.
“We don't know why.”
Alex turned.
“You defended me when the evidence looked bad.”
“Because I knew your work.”
“You don't know him.”
“No.”
“Then don't make excuses.”
Roman nodded.
“You're right.”
She stared at her father’s photograph.
Eighteen years.
No call.
No letter.
Nothing.
Then Sabrina, wrapped in a blanket, entered.
She saw the photograph.
Her face changed.
“You know him?”
Alex turned.
Sabrina whispered:
“That’s the man who helped me escape.”
Silence.
“What?”
“He cut my restraints.”
“Then why is he with Gideon?”
Sabrina shook her head.
“He said he had been waiting eighteen years for someone to finally bring Roman Costa close enough to destroy the whole network.”
Alex looked at Roman.
Roman looked at the photograph.
And for the first time, they understood something terrifying.
Jonathan Carter had not abandoned his daughter.
He had gone undercover.
May you like
For eighteen years.
And now that Alex and Roman had found each other, his final operation had begun.
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