Chapter 5 Whiplash
Whiplash
Two days after the unsettling and delightful encounter with Penelope at the Meridian’s lab, Lucia felt trapped.
She had plenty to do, from painting to prepping the mission, research, and all that came with it. And yet she lounged on the couch, staring into space.
Skye had a point—she was the forger at the Collective, not a skilled thief or field operative. She’d gone on a few missions after officially joining, but it hadn’t taken long to realize her real talent lay in the arts. Francesca made liberal use of it, and most days, Lucia didn’t mind.
This mission wasn’t her specialty, but Lucia hadn’t hesitated, not when Francesca asked. Not when Francesca trusted no one else.
It wasn’t just because she was grateful Francesca had offered her a home all those years ago—it also became a sort of calling.
Until it wasn’t.
The restlessness crawling over her like ants on a sugar rush wasn’t new. She wanted something, something more than just being good, following orders, taking commissions, painting whatever she was told.
And yet, she had no other options.
Blackwell’s words had taken up permanent residence in her thoughts, the talk about the soul in her art, the lovely work of the Alessi piece.
She hadn’t meant to flirt, but being around Blackwell left Lucia wired—restless, exposed. That disarming focus—like it was tuned to shake loose every hidden part of her—only deepened the taut limbo she’d landed in.
Her phone rang.
Lucia grimaced when Francesca’s name flashed on the screen. Not the call she wanted. She wouldn’t admit she was waiting for one specific phone call, or text. Although Blackwell struck her more as the phone call type.
“Get a grip,” she muttered as she answered the video call. “Hi, Francesca. What’s up?”
“How did the Meridian work out?”
Lucia stifled an eye roll. Francesca generally had no chill and tended to micromanage, but when it came to the Madonna, multiply that by infinity.
“It went well. They’re still in the process of authenticating the paintings. She clearly detected the Alessi as a fake, though I didn’t exactly make that hard.”
“Maybe we should have tested her with two difficult paintings.”
“Time was of the essence, no? It takes longer to create a high-level forgery than our schedule allowed, once your ‘trifecta from the heavens’ came to pass.”
A beat of stillness.
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not! I’m doing all I can to get your Madonna back, and while I’d have liked to test Blackwell on something more challenging, that wasn’t in the cards. Besides, the Bellini is as good as it gets and on the same level as my Madonna. If she calls that one fake, we’re screwed.”
Francesca drummed her fingers against the chair. “If she hesitates on the Bellini, befriending her might not be enough. Keep her attention on you. People get sloppy when they’re distracted. You need to play it up a little.”
“What do you mean?”
“Use your charm, flirt with her. I read her file again. She lives a pretty lonely life.”
Lucia frowned. “We don’t know enough to make judgment calls. She might be living exactly the life she wants to live.”
“Given her father? I highly doubt that. Something like that tears families apart and leaves scars. So, if she’s vulnerable, there might be quite the opening.”
“Blackwell didn’t seem particularly vulnerable. Besides, it’s not right to—” Lucia bit her lower lip.
“What? Gain the upper hand?”
“Manipulate people.”
Francesca laughed. “Seriously, Lucy? What has gotten into you lately?”
Lucia gritted her teeth. She hated the pragmatism of Francesca’s approach to people and relationships, as if you could eradicate emotions with logic. In her darker moments, it made her question Francesca more than she liked. “I’m just saying I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to act like—”
“Like you have a crush? Why not? I’m not asking you to sleep with her.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, struggling to keep her temper in check. “Have you found out more about Varnelli and what she’s currently up to?”
Silence.
Francesca pursed her lips. “No.”
“Maybe digging there is more useful than trying to charm the curator of the Meridian.”
“Are you telling me how to do my job, Lucia?” Her tone sharpened. “I’ve been running the Collective for over twenty-five years, and—”
“No, of course not.” She closed her eyes. “I just…worry. This is a lot, and I know how important it is to you. I want to do this right, but I also can’t…”
“Then stay focused. Everything else is set, but if Blackwell pushes to stabilize the painting on-site, we’re dead.
That’s why you’re there, Lucia. Keep her leaning our way.
” Francesca’s voice hardened. “With Varnelli in the mix, we cannot afford a single misstep. If keeping Blackwell’s attention buys us even a fraction more leeway, you’ll do it. ”
“I know, I know.”
They ended the call and Lucia let out a soft curse, curling her fingers into the couch cushion. Dealing with Francesca with the shadow of Varnelli looming over them was like trying to walk a tightrope over a nest of vipers. Zero out of five stars—she couldn’t recommend it.
She also hated the guilt, feeling like she wasn’t doing enough, didn’t put in enough effort to repay Francesca for all she’d done.
Before she could bring herself to get off the couch and get something done, her phone rang again. She sighed, bracing for another of Francesca’s calls reminding her of something she’d forgotten, but instead, Lucia straightened and rushed to answer when Blackwell’s name popped up on the screen.
“Dr. Blackwell! Hi. How may I help you?” She worried at her lower lip, annoyed by how breathless she sounded.
“Are we truly going to remain this formal, considering you invited me out for a cup of coffee?”
Lucia gave a faint smile. “Hmm, I don’t know. I see the appeal.”
“I suppose, but wouldn’t that stand in the way of getting to know each other?”
“Uh.” Lucia’s cheeks heated.
“Or did I misunderstand your motivation in asking me out?”
“I, uh, I didn’t realize meeting for coffee is a cue for dating.”
“Obviously not. I merely read the room.”
“I see.” Lucia rubbed the back of her neck.
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you still want to get that coffee? I know a quaint little place not too far from the Meridian. In case you want to keep pretending you want to meet with me for professional reasons.”
Lucia let out a harsh breath. Where was the woman who’d been flustered at the museum just two days ago? “Yes. I want to. Whichever place you’d prefer works for me.”
Again, she could picture Blackwell’s smile when she said, “All right, then. I’ll text you the location.”
“Wait. We didn’t say when,” Lucia blurted out.
“Oh, right. Yes, well, I’m free Wednesday and Thursday around five in the afternoon. Or we could meet on the weekend if you’d prefer.”
“Either way.”
“Thursday then, around five?”
“Yes. I’d love that.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.” She paused. “Ms. Rossi.”
Lucia hung up, unable to suppress the smile forming on her lips.
~ ~ ~
The following Thursday, Lucia arrived early (likely in vain) to calm her nerves from firing like she was about to go swimming in a thunderstorm.
She picked at the seam of her sleeve and took a seat in a corner spot.
She’d never visited this café before. Not a chain, it was more like a coffee shop of old, with nature paintings intermixed with coffee-themed images adorning the walls.
Sunlight-dappled potted plants everywhere, and comfortable chairs to sit back and relax in while enjoying your coffee.
She glanced at one of the paintings: a serene meadow with a stone well overgrown with lichen and moss. A bright, sunny piece meant to evoke tranquility.
A subtle scent of coffee and cinnamon hung in the air. Muted jazz trickled from hidden speakers—overall, an environment that should have relaxed Lucia, yet she still sat as stiff as a board.
It wasn’t just meeting Blackwell like this that caused her disquiet (it surely wasn’t a date); it was precisely because she was meeting Blackwell here.
Francesca’s suggestion to charm Blackwell hung like a fat rain cloud above her head.
The tension between the fact that what she wanted to do was also what she was supposed to do—but she didn’t want to do it for that reason—left her in a state of…mild panic?
She didn’t want to lie to Blackwell and be here under false pretenses, but she was—yet somehow wasn’t—and it was all starting to make her head throb.
Maybe that was why she didn’t notice Blackwell stepping up to her.
“Hi, are you all right?”
Lucia blinked rapidly. She shook her head and rose.
“Yes, yes. I’m fine.” Heat crawled up her neck.
“Hi.” She stuffed her hands into her pants pockets, stealing glances at Blackwell, who wore a navy-blue jacket over a soft beige blouse tucked into dark slacks, every detail precise yet effortless.
Her hair was pulled into a severe bun that only emphasized the delicacy of her features: understated makeup, elegant posture, and that familiar air of quiet authority—Lucia felt underdressed by comparison.
“Uh, want to go order?”
“No.” Blackwell dropped into the seat across from where Lucia had just sat.
Lucia did a double take.
Blackwell laughed. “Sit down. Someone will come and get our order.”
“They didn’t for me.”
“Well, considering how you were staring holes into space, I’m not shocked no one approached you.”
Lucia retook her seat. “But you are approachable?”
“Naturally.”
The moment the word left Blackwell’s mouth, a server appeared at their table.
Lucia really shouldn’t find Blackwell’s smug expression appealing.
“What can I get you, ladies?” he asked.
“I’d like a cappuccino and a serving of your tiramisu,” Blackwell said.
“And you?”
“Uh, the same?”
He nodded and left.
“All this time you were here and you didn’t bother looking at the menu?” Blackwell leaned forward.
“No. I was busy waging war with the air. But your choice sounded appealing. I love tiramisu.” Lucia shrugged.
“Hmm. Is that why you asked it like a question?”
“Well, you could have rejected me copying your order.”
“An interesting thought, though I’d be wary of people who’d take such ownership of a particular drink or dish.”
“And I shouldn’t be wary of you?” Lucia asked.
“I suppose that depends on your intentions.”
Lucia stilled.
Blackwell studied Lucia with that intense focus that made Lucia want to fidget.
“What are your intentions, Ms. Rossi?”
“I thought you wanted us to be less formal?”
“And I thought you liked it—a certain amount of formality.”
Lucia swallowed hard.