Chapter 1 - She Threatened Her Noisy Neighbor With a Broom at 3 A.M.—By Sunrise, She Learned the Man Upstairs Was the Only Reason She Was Still AliveAt 3:12 in the morning, Elena Renner marched upstairs in pink bunny slippers carrying a broom and prepared to declare war on her neighbor.
For three weeks, the man above Apartment 4B had paced through the night.
Heavy footsteps.
Doors opening.
Low voices.
Once, Elena could have sworn something large enough to be a body hit the floor.
Management ignored every complaint.
Tonight, after sixteen hours restoring a seventeenth-century painting with hands that absolutely needed sleep, Elena was finished being reasonable.
The penthouse elevator opened.
She stopped.
Two enormous men in black suits guarded a pair of mahogany doors.
One wore an earpiece.
The other had a scar running down his face.
“Ma’am,” Scar-face said, “this floor is private.”
“So is my bedroom, and apparently your boss has been stomping over it for three weeks.”
She ducked past him and hammered on the door with her broom.
“Open up!”
The lock clicked.
Elena’s courage immediately developed second thoughts.
The man standing there was barefoot.
Black trousers. Half-buttoned white shirt. Tattoos and old scars across his chest.
Behind him sat six men around a table covered with documents, phones…and two guns.
Elena looked at the guns.
Then at her broom.
Common sense suggested retreat.
Exhaustion won.
She pointed the broom at him.
“You.”
His dark eyes settled on her fluffy slippers.
“Yes?”
“You need to stop walking.”
Silence.
Elena continued before fear could catch up.
“It is three in the morning. You pace around up here like a caged tiger with unresolved emotional problems.”
Someone behind him choked on a laugh.
The stranger’s gaze sharpened.
“I restore paintings for a living,” Elena said. “If my hands shake because I haven’t slept, I can destroy something that survived four hundred years, plague, war, and probably worse men than you.”
“Worse men than me?”
“I’m making an assumption.”
He considered that.
Then reached into his pocket and pulled out several hundred-dollar bills.
“Buy earplugs.”
Elena stared.
Then took the money.
Something almost satisfied appeared in his eyes.
She opened her hand.
The bills fluttered onto the marble floor.
His men froze.
“I don’t want your money.”
The satisfaction disappeared.
“I want five hours of sleep and one neighbor who understands that living above someone does not make you their emperor.”
She turned and left.
The next morning, both driver-side tires on Elena’s car had been slashed.
Clean cuts.
Deliberate.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Nice slippers.
Elena’s stomach dropped.
Another message arrived.
Your father owes people money.
Then a third.
Ask Marcus how much before you throw cash at men you don’t understand.
Elena called her father.
Voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
Marcus always answered her.
Always.
Her phone buzzed one final time.
Friday.
That was all.
Elena was still staring at the screen when a voice behind her said:
“You should come upstairs.”
She spun.
The barefoot nightmare from the penthouse was standing in the garage, fully dressed now, watching her ruined tires.
And this time, he wasn’t amused.
Elena held up her phone.
“You know something.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
His jaw tightened.
“Enough.”
For the first time, the man upstairs looked less like the cause of her problem…
and more like someone who had been expecting it.
Elena refused to move.
“You still owe me an apology.”
He stared at her.
Then, with visible discomfort, said, “I apologize for the noise.”
She blinked.
“Was that painful?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His mouth almost twitched.
Then he looked at the messages again.
“Upstairs.”
“First, your name.”
“You don't know?”
“Should I?”
One of the security men looked as though he wanted to disappear.
The stranger studied her.
“Adrian Vale.”
Nothing.
Elena waited.
His eyebrow moved.
“That means nothing to you?”
“Should it?”
Scar-face coughed.
Adrian almost smiled.
“Apparently not.”
“Wonderful. Now explain why someone who knows about my father's finances also knows about my slippers.”
Adrian's amusement vanished.
“Upstairs.”
This time Elena followed.
Not because he ordered.
Because she wanted answers.
The penthouse looked less like a home than a command center disguised by expensive furniture.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Chicago.
Three laptops sat open.
Photographs covered one table.
Elena stopped.
One photograph showed her father.
Marcus Renner.
Sixty-three.
Gray-haired.
Kind-eyed.
Former art dealer.
The man who called every Sunday even though Elena usually saw him twice a week.
Another photograph showed Marcus entering a warehouse.
A third showed him speaking to a man Elena didn't recognize.
“What is this?”
Adrian closed the door.
“Your father borrowed money.”
“How much?”
“Six million.”
Elena laughed.
Nobody else did.
Her smile disappeared.
“That's impossible.”
“Why?”
“My father lives in a two-bedroom condo and drives a twelve-year-old Subaru.”
“Debt doesn't require visible wealth.”
“Who gave him six million dollars?”
Adrian hesitated.
“My uncle.”
Elena stared.
“Your uncle?”
“Victor Vale.”
“And who exactly is Victor Vale?”
“A man you don't want knowing your address.”
“Too late.”
“Yes.”
Adrian's voice was grim.
“That's why I'm here.”
Elena looked around.
“You moved into this penthouse because of me?”
“Because of Marcus.”
Three weeks.
Exactly when noise began.
“You've been watching my apartment.”
“I've been watching anyone watching your apartment.”
“That's a politician's answer.”
“I'm not a politician.”
“No. Politicians usually button their shirts before opening doors.”
One of Adrian's men looked down quickly.
Adrian ignored it.
“Your father borrowed six million eighteen months ago.”
“For what?”
“He said he was acquiring a painting.”
Elena stopped.
“What painting?”
“Saint Cecilia at the Window.”
Her heart gave one hard beat.
“That painting disappeared in 1944.”
“You know it?”
“Everyone in conservation knows it.”
Painted around 1662 by obscure Flemish master Hendrik Vos, Saint Cecilia at the Window had belonged to a Jewish family in Antwerp before Nazi occupation.
Records suggested it was confiscated.
After the war, it vanished.
Its estimated modern value was somewhere between eighteen and thirty million dollars.
More importantly, ownership was contested.
“You're saying my father borrowed six million dollars from a criminal to buy looted art?”
Adrian's face remained still.
“You called him criminal.”
“You have armed men outside your living room.”
“Security consultants.”
“You're adorable.”
Scar-face made a strangled noise.
Adrian turned slightly.
The man immediately became fascinated with wall.
Elena folded arms.
“Where is my father?”
“We don't know.”
“We?”
“My people.”
“Your people who are apparently security consultants?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you really?”
Adrian considered.
“Depends who's asking.”
“Woman with broom.”
That finally got smile.
Brief.
Dangerous.
“My family controls several businesses that don't appear on public corporate filings.”
“That's an impressively elegant way to say organized crime.”
“I've had practice.”
Elena felt cold.
Everyone in Chicago knew Vale name, apparently.
She simply spent more time with dead painters than living criminals.
“Are you mafia?”
“I don't use word.”
“That wasn't answer.”
“No.”
“Meaning no, you're not?”
“Meaning no, it wasn't answer.”
Elena rubbed forehead.
“I need coffee.”
A cup appeared within two minutes.
She stared.
“You have people for coffee?”
“I have people for many things.”
“Do you have people for not pacing?”
Adrian looked mildly offended.
“I'm working on it.”
She drank.
“Why would your uncle lend my father six million?”
“He didn't lend it.”
“What?”
“He gave Marcus access to six million from an account used for acquisitions.”
“So Dad stole it?”
“That's what Victor believes.”
“And you?”
“I think Marcus discovered something.”
“What?”
Adrian walked to table.
Opened folder.
Photograph of Saint Cecilia.
Elena leaned closer.
Something wrong.
The image showed painting under ultraviolet examination.
Beneath upper paint layers were faint lines.
Numbers.
“What are those?”
“We hoped you could tell us.”
She studied.
“Not part of original composition.”
“No.”
“Restoration marks?”
“Maybe.”
“No.”
Elena looked closer.
Numbers formed repeating groups.
Account numbers?
Shipping manifests?
She looked up.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your father emailed it to me eight days ago.”
“You know my father personally?”
“Yes.”
Another shock.
“How?”
“Marcus worked for my family twenty years.”
Elena stepped back.
“No.”
“He never told you?”
“No.”
Adrian looked genuinely surprised.
“My father sells art.”
“He did more than that.”
“What?”
“He authenticated acquisitions.”
“For criminals?”
“For my father.”
Elena's voice sharpened.
“Your father was criminal.”
“Yes.”
No defense.
That stopped her.
Adrian continued.
“My father died nine years ago. Marcus left shortly afterward.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you ask?”
“Many times.”
“And?”
“He told me some doors are healthier closed.”
“That sounds like Dad.”
“Annoying man.”
“He'd like you.”
“He does.”
“Apparently everyone knows my father except me.”
Pain escaped.
Adrian noticed.
He didn't soften with pity.
Good.
Elena hated pity.
“What did he send with photograph?”
Adrian handed phone.
Email:
Adrian, if anything happens to me, Elena must not be allowed to restore the Cecilia. Victor cannot learn what is underneath the varnish. Do not tell her unless necessary. She deserves a life outside ours.
Elena read twice.
Anger replaced fear.
“Outside ours?”
Adrian said nothing.
“He lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“For twenty years.”
“Probably longer.”
“Not helping.”
“I wasn't trying to.”
She handed phone back.
“Where's painting?”
“We don't know.”
“Where's Dad?”
“We don't know.”
“Then what do you know?”
“Someone followed you home yesterday.”
Her anger vanished.
“Who?”
“Victor's men.”
“You stopped them?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Pause.
“Do I want answer?”
“Probably not.”
She stared.
“Are they alive?”
Adrian's expression changed slightly.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You care?”
“I care about not having people murdered because they followed me.”
“That's inconvenient.”
“For you?”
“For my profession.”
“Your profession is crime.”
“Among other things.”
“I'm going downstairs.”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Adrian immediately corrected.
“I don't think your apartment is safe.”
“Better.”
He noticed.
“You're training me.”
“Someone should.”
“I'm thirty-nine.”
“Never too late.”
She turned.
“What do you suggest?”
“Stay here.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Hotel?”
“No.”
“Friend?”
“My studio has apartment upstairs.”
“Address?”
“You don't need it.”
“Victor already knows.”
That frightened her.
“How?”
“He knows where you work.”
Elena sat.
For first time reality arrived fully.
Slashed tires.
Messages.
Missing father.
Six million dollars.
Lost painting.
Mafia family.
“Why Friday?”
Adrian crouched several feet away rather than looming.
“Victor believes Marcus will exchange painting for your safety Friday.”
“And if Dad doesn't?”
“Victor may use you to force him.”
Elena swallowed.
“Then we find Dad before Friday.”
Adrian looked at her.
“We?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She stood.
“Careful.”
He sighed.
“I believe involving you increases danger.”
“I'm already involved.”
“You're not trained.”
“Neither is Dad.”
“Marcus is more capable than you think.”
“That sentence is becoming increasingly irritating.”
“Elena—”
“You have photographs. I understand paintings. Dad sent you image specifically mentioning me restoring it.”
Adrian stopped.
She saw concession coming.
“I can identify things your men can't.”
“Possibly.”
“Definitely.”
“You're very confident.”
“You tried buying silence with four hundred dollars.”
“Five.”
“You counted?”
“You dropped it on my floor.”
“Your floor?”
“My penthouse.”
She smiled despite herself.
“Fine. Five.”
His eyes went to slippers.
“You're still wearing them.”
She looked down.
Pink rabbits.
One ear bent.
“Don't start.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You were.”
“I was thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
He stood.
“You can help under one condition.”
“No.”
“I haven't said it.”
“I don't accept conditions before hearing them.”
“That is literally what hearing condition is for.”
“Fine. Say it.”
“You do not go anywhere alone until Friday.”
She considered.
“Counteroffer. I don't go anywhere related to investigation alone.”
“All locations are related now.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Adrian.”
“Elena.”
They stared.
Scar-face whispered to another man:
“This is going to be a long week.”
Both turned.
He looked innocent.
Elena finally said:
“I choose security person.”
“Fine.”
“Not Scar-face.”
“His name is Luca.”
“I like Scar-face.”
Luca looked offended.
“I like Luca.”
Adrian almost laughed.
“Fine.”
“And nobody enters my apartment without permission.”
“Fine.”
“No tracking devices.”
“Fine.”
“No touching my phone.”
“Fine.”
“No buying my workplace.”
Adrian paused.
Elena narrowed eyes.
“Why did you pause?”
“No reason.”
“Adrian.”
“Fine.”
She held hand.
“Agreement.”
He looked at it.
Then shook.
His hand warm.
Strong.
Scarred.
Something moved between them.
Not romance yet.
Recognition.
Two stubborn people discovering equally stubborn opposition.
Then Luca's phone rang.
He answered.
Face changed.
“Boss.”
Adrian released Elena.
“What?”
“We found Marcus's Subaru.”
“Where?”
“Lower Wacker.”
“And Marcus?”
“Gone.”
“Blood?”
Luca looked at Elena.
That was enough.
“How much?” she asked.
“Not much.”
She closed eyes.
Adrian said:
“We'll find him.”
“Don't promise things you can't control.”
He stopped.
Then nodded.
“We'll try.”
Better.
Luca continued.
“There was something in trunk.”
“What?”
“A wooden transport crate.”
Elena's eyes opened.
“Painting?”
“No. Empty.”
Adrian frowned.
Luca held up photograph from scene.
Inside lid someone had written one sentence in red grease pencil.
ASK ELENA WHAT HER MOTHER HID BENEATH THE ANGEL.
Elena stared.
“My mother?”
Adrian looked at her.
“You said your mother died when you were fourteen.”
“She did.”
“What did she do?”
“She restored paintings.”
Silence.
Adrian's face changed.
“Elena.”
“What?”
“Who taught you restoration?”
“My mother.”
He looked again at photograph.
“Then this may not have started with Marcus.”
Elena felt suddenly cold.
Because one painting hung above her bed.
The last painting her mother ever restored.
A small nineteenth-century angel.
Marcus had insisted Elena keep it after mother's death.
And beneath the angel—
May you like
apparently—
was something people had already killed to find.
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