Chapter 3 A Crumpled Past
A Crumpled Past
A week after attending the Meridian’s lecture, Lucia sat in her art studio, staring at the blank canvas. Blackwell’s words replayed in her mind: forgeries lacked soul, but her take on a “new” Alessi painting hadn’t.
The thought gnawed at her. It also made her almost wary of her own art. What did she reveal, and could people actually see it?
At least she’d already finished the Madonna. If Blackwell were to consider her Madonna authentic, too, would that mean it lacked soul as well?
Lucia refused to contemplate why this notion settled so heavily in her stomach.
Then there was the Bellini, which Blackwell had bought as real, with caution.
If she’d ever bled her soul into something, it was the Bellini piece—days had blurred into nights until she could see the brushstrokes in her sleep. But that didn’t mean she wanted anyone, least of all Blackwell, to see what it revealed.
Maybe that was why Francesca always came back to her for forgeries. She was talented enough to draw the masters, yet also original to the point where her forgeries breathed.
Lucia had done her first real forgery at seventeen, hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped the brush. Francesca had watched in silence, then simply nodded. Her approval had been more terrifying than any scolding could have been.
But she’d been enamored. Not just with art and being wanted, needed, for her art, but also with the mission of the Collective: replacing stolen or hoarded works with flawless fakes so the originals could be reclaimed. It seemed so noble.
Maybe it still was, if she didn’t think too hard about the rest.
While Lucia had accepted that it was impossible to create art without imbuing it with a part of herself (no matter what Blackwell said about forgeries only being good if they lacked precisely that), the notion of being seen or recognized in some way still left her feeling untethered.
Recognition had always been a double-edged brushstroke.
A message from Francesca pulled her from her thoughts.
Stop by. We need to talk.
Sighing, Lucia packed away her art supplies and headed for Francesca’s estate.
~ ~ ~
She rolled her shoulders before ringing the doorbell of Francesca’s art deco villa. The carved glass reflected her in fragmented pieces—like the rest of her life.
“Hello, Lucy,” Francesca said. “Skye is on her way over, too, but you beat her to it.”
Lucia grimaced. “Fantastic.”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what it is with you two again. I don’t trust anyone else on this, so I need you to get along.” She ushered Lucia inside and busied herself at the coffee machine.
The interior was as carefully curated as Francesca herself: sleek lines, muted colors, and striking modern art, offset by antique furniture that hinted at old money and older tastes. Nothing felt random. Everything had intent.
“The usual?”
“Thanks. And I’m not the one with issues.”
Francesca only hummed, preparing two espressos and bringing one to Lucia before settling onto the couch, dressed in a muted wrap dress—flattering, refined, and clearly tailored—her natural curls pulled back from her face today, accentuating the elegance of her deep brown skin.
“It usually takes two, dear. Trust me. I know.” A shadow fell over Francesca’s face.
“Not this time. I don’t know what her problem is these days.” She paused. “Are you OK?”
“Yes, of course.”
Lucia nodded, swirling the liquid in her cup before taking a sip. She generally preferred tea, but Francesca’s espresso was impossible to resist.
Skye, as Francesca’s right hand, would naturally be included in whatever this was about, but that didn’t mean Lucia had to like it. Their past, if you could call it that, was complicated. And for a while now, Lucia seemed to be the only one willing to leave it there.
“Your report on Blackwell was a bit vague, but we should wait for Skye to—”
The doorbell rang.
“There she is.” Francesca rose to open the door, and moments later, she returned with Skye at her side.
Lucia barely glanced up. “Hey.”
Skye grunted in response before dropping into the seat across from her, one hand running through her unruly blonde hair.
Charming as ever. Still couldn’t be bothered to use a brush.
Francesca didn’t waste time. “All right. Now that we’re all here, let’s discuss our little enterprise. Lucia, tell us more about Blackwell. How is that avenue shaping up?”
“She’s sharp, like I said. But she seemed to concede the Bellini could be real. She’s got both pieces now. Maybe she’s easier to fool with an old copy than a ‘new discovery,’ but…”
Francesca arched a brow. “But?”
“She asked if I could convince the ‘owner’ of the Bellini to loan it to the Meridian.”
Francesca leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming. “That’s perfect. What did you say?”
“That I’d ask him. It shouldn’t be too easy or too quick, but she gave me her number, so I thought we could—”
“Did she now?” Skye cut in, an almost goading smile on her lips.
Lucia ignored her, turning fully toward Francesca. “It could be a test. They authenticate the Bellini, and we see how it holds up. I could ask to observe the process firsthand.”
“Yes.” Francesca’s expression sharpened. “That’s more than I’d hoped for. Contact her before the end of the week. We’ll prepare the paperwork for your client. Let me know if you need help with that.” She paused. “And remember, this stays between us.”
Lucia hesitated. “What about Jules?”
“Yes, yes. She’s a part of it, but she couldn’t make it today. Aside from her, the full story doesn’t leave this room.” Francesca gazed between Lucia and Skye until they both nodded.
“There’s something I want to show you.” Francesca pulled out a folder and handed each one a stapled collection of pages.
“What am I looking at?” Skye asked.
“Reading helps,” Lucia muttered, not looking at Skye but knowing she’d heard her and was likely glowering in her direction.
“All the information I gathered about my painting and the security of the Meridian, courtesy of Jules. You need to keep your eye on Blackwell. Try to befriend her. If she signs off on your Bellini, we’ll be set to exchange the Madonna during the Luminary Ball.”
“Right.”
The Madonna in Red. Not the Bellini or the Alessi trial piece, but the real target. The one Francesca had been chasing for decades.
“It really is the perfect trifecta: the new director’s reevaluation plan, the security update, and the ball.” Francesca leaned back in her seat. “It’s like a sign from the heavens. My Madonna is returning home.” Her face hardened. “After all she did…”
Francesca didn’t need to say the name for Lucia to feel the gravity that existed between them.
Some sort of betrayal Francesca couldn’t recover from.
She had once caught Francesca staring at an old photograph of the Madonna hanging above a bed, Francesca younger, radiant, and unguarded beside it.
She’d snapped the album shut when she noticed Lucia watching, but the image had stayed with her.
The painting wasn’t just art—it was a relic of a life Francesca had lost, one that still seemed to haunt her, even if she buried the details behind her teeth.
She hoped she’d never contract such a heavy obsession, one that might not loosen its grip even if they managed to get the Madonna back.
Lucia sighed.
“Getting cold feet?” Skye asked before turning to Francesca. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea to send her in. She might be a decent forger, but the exchange requires finesse and—”
“She is right here,” Lucia ground out.
“That’s enough,” Francesca’s tone hard, brokering no disagreement. “Lucia is an excellent forger, but her talents don’t end there. And Skye, I appreciate your protectiveness, but let this one go.”
“Fine. What about Blackwell, though? Don’t you think it’s odd she handed out her cell like that?”
“I’m charming.”
Skye snorted.
“We will keep an eye on her, but our research indicates Blackwell to be a strait-laced, hard-working career-focused woman,” Francesca said.
“Nothing in her past that could give us trouble? No secret lover stalking her?” Skye caught Lucia’s gaze. “No drowning in debt to fund a secret gambling addiction?”
“She seems solid,” Lucia said.
“Is she pretty?”
Lucia’s cheeks heated. “That’s irrelevant.”
“Right,” Skye drawled.
“You guys are impossible,” Francesca said. “We will be prepared. We have three months before the ball, so both of you better get to the listed tasks on the last sheet.” She rose. “I’ll be right back.”
Lucia longed to just get up and return home, but she couldn’t. She turned another page, blueprints, then a staff roster, reading for a moment before Skye spoke.
“This is important. Just…watch yourself.”
“You think I don’t know that?” She’d heard the woes of the lost Madonna from the moment Francesca took her in. Back then, she’d been a half-feral teenager on the street, ready to give up on ever belonging anywhere until Francesca offered solace and a sanctuary.
“Perhaps, but you have the tendency to get in over your pretty little head, Gracie.”
Lucia narrowed her eyes. “Better than getting stuck in yours.”
Skye smirked, and as much as she exasperated Lucia, that expression still got to her, drawing her back a decade when she thought Skye intriguing and charming. She must’ve been high on paint fumes and espresso. Francesca returned, and so both women fell quiet.
“Uh, I think I’m heading back home,” Lucia said. “Lots left to do.”
“Oh, OK. I thought we could order food and just…spend some time together.”
Francesca’s hopeful lilt tore at Lucia, and even though she had zero interest in spending more time with Skye, she shrugged and stuffed her hands into her pants pockets. “Sure. Why not? I could eat.”
“Great. Let me grab the take-out menus.” And with that, she disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Lucia once more alone with Skye and the loaded silence that liked to spread between them when they weren’t bickering.
~ ~ ~
The next evening, Lucia sat curled sideways on her worn couch, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, one leg tucked under her. A blank spiral sketchpad lay open on her lap, pencil already in hand. Her fingers kept twitching to move, but her brain wasn’t cooperating.
With a sigh, she grabbed her phone and tapped the screen. Blackwell answered on the third ring.
“Yes?”
“Hi, this is Lucia Rossi. We met at your lecture the other day, at the Meridian. You gave me your number, and I left two paintings with you.”
“Yes, of course. Hello, Lucia. How are you?”
“Good, good. I spoke with my client, and he’s willing to loan the Meridian the Bellini—that is, if you’re still interested.”
“Yes, most definitely. Although we’ve only started the authentication. Our processes have changed with our new director.”
“Right. That’s actually another reason I’m calling. I was wondering if I might be able to observe part of the process. Just as a learning experience. It’s not often I get to see that side of things.” Lucia shifted the phone to her other hand, suddenly too aware of her breathing.
Blackwell laughed. “I suppose that can be arranged. You’d have to sign in and follow our protocols, of course.”
“No problem. When should I stop by?”
“Well, I’m sure I’m not the only busy person. I take lunch every day at half past noon. So, you could drop by right after any day this coming week. Maybe at one?”
Lucia fumbled the pencil, nearly dropping it. “You only have half an hour for lunch?”
“You sound so scandalized.”
“Yes! That’s not long enough! It’ll give you indigestion.”
“I’ll take that into consideration.”
Lucia sighed. “Don’t mind me. I likely spend too much time around Italians. Or one Italian.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I see.”
She pressed the pencil tip to the page and finally let her hand move—light, distracted lines forming without thought.
Lucia hesitated. “But maybe we could find some time to grab a cup of coffee?”
The following pause sped up Lucia’s heartbeat. Her palm started sweating, and she wiped it on her thigh.
“I’d like that.”
Lucia exhaled too fast and bit the inside of her cheek as warmth flushed up her neck. She really hadn’t expected that answer.
She imagined seeing Blackwell smile, and when she hung up, she had to shake her head. What was she even doing? Getting closer to Blackwell meant being friendly, not flirting.
This was ridiculous. She had no time for distractions, least of all one that made her hands tingle and stood in the way of her mission. Still, trust was easier to build when someone liked you. Or thought they did. But Lucia wasn’t sure she liked the idea of using Blackwell that way.
She glanced down and froze. The face she’d been sketching was unmistakable.
“Seriously?” she huffed, crumpling the page and tossing it in the trash.
The last thing she needed was her own obsession.