Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Anthony
By the time I brewed my first cup of coffee, preparing for work, the sun had already pierced through the glass. Dawn’s light stretched long and captivating, reflecting off the bay as if it held a secret. In the distance, the yachts in the marina shimmered, their white hulls catching fire in the morning’s radiant glow.
Cracking open the balcony door, I let the humid breeze roll in—thick with salt, heat, and something else I couldn’t quite name. The metal railing was cool beneath my arm as I leaned into it, coffee warming my hand, the restlessness in my chest refusing to budge.
Sleep had been scarce—maybe two hours at best—and even those were broken by dreams that scattered the moment I opened my eyes, leaving only Gabrielle’s name lingering like a whisper I couldn’t swallow. I pictured her already at the gallery, head down, poring over documents with that quiet intensity she carried like armor.
I’d been avoiding her. I told myself it was the right thing to do—that keeping my distance would protect both of us. Professionalism. Boundaries. All the self-righteous excuses that sounded good in theory and hollow in practice. But avoiding her hadn’t made the need go away. It had only sharpened it.
I checked my texts again, hoping for something from Gabrielle. Still blank. I didn’t blame her. I’d started this thing and then slammed the brakes without warning. She had every right to be furious. Or worse—indifferent.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
Can we talk?
Can I see you?
Hell, even good morning would’ve been something.
Buzz.
A new message flashed across the screen, sharp and uninvited.
Unknown number: Private meeting. My chambers. ASAP. Come alone.
— Judge Valencia
The pit in my stomach dropped like an anchor.
So this was it.
I tossed back the last of my coffee and reached for my wallet and keys.
He was about to confront me about that electrifying encounter with Gabrielle—the one that had been replaying in my mind with an intoxicating intensity for days on end. I couldn't shake the memory of her breath catching against my skin or how we both satisfied each other as if speaking would only ruin it further.
I already knew what I’d say if the meeting was about that. I’d make a deal—resign if I had to. Walk away from the foundation, the gallery, and the entire restitution effort. Whatever it took to ensure Gabrielle’s name wasn’t dragged through this.
I’d take the fall. She wouldn’t get burned for it. Not if I could help it.
It was a promise I’d already made in silence—one I intended to keep, no matter the cost.
And as I drove, that vow settled heavily on my shoulders, pressing down with each passing block.
Soon, the courthouse loomed in front of me like something carved out of permanence—white stone, high arches, and too many windows watching the world below. Inside, it was hotter than it had any right to be in Miami. The air-conditioning fought hard against the tropical heat, but it wasn’t just the temperature that made a bead of sweat form on my brow. It was the stillness. The kind that warned you to keep your voice down, to measure your words before you spoke them aloud.
I checked in at the security desk, was cleared without a word, and was escorted by a court officer down a long, sterile corridor. Our footsteps echoed with every step, the kind of sound that made you second-guess your guilt.
The deeper we went, the thicker the air felt. Like truth lived here, somewhere behind all these identical doors, and it wasn’t inclined to be merciful.
The officer paused in front of a door near the end of the hall. On it, a simple plaque read Judge Diego Valencia . I knocked once, then stepped aside.
“Go on in.”
I pushed the door open, my heart already beating a little too fast.
Valencia sat behind an immaculately polished desk, hands folded, gaze steady. He looked like a man with all the time in the world—and no interest in wasting any of it.
“Mr. Moreau,” he said with a polite nod. “I appreciate your promptness. I tried to call you last night and got no answer.”
“Sorry. Thought it was a telemarketer.” I took the chair across from him.
He didn’t bother with small talk. “Let’s get straight to it.”
I waited for the blow—some veiled reference to Gabrielle, a warning cloaked in legalese. But when Valencia finally spoke, it wasn’t about her at all.
“What’s the current status of A Lady and Gentleman in Black ?” he asked as if he were inquiring about the weather.
It took me a second to catch up.
“The Frans Hals?” I asked, frowning. “It’s under review, like the others. Provenance research is ongoing. No red flags so far, but we haven’t completed the cross-checks yet.”
Valencia nodded slowly, like he already knew that part. “Yes, well… according to my sources inside the Monuments Men & Women Foundation, there are no surviving claims to the piece. No heirs, no restitution petitions. Nothing that would legally impede a sale.”
I kept my expression neutral, but my pulse kicked up a notch. His sources ? The foundation wasn’t in the habit of leaking internal research—especially not to sitting judges.
“If that holds,” he continued, “it’ll likely be cleared for public auction.”
I gave a cautious nod. “Eventually, yes. If no rightful owner comes forward.”
Valencia leaned back slightly in his chair, fingertips tapping once against the armrest before stilling.
“In that case,” he said smoothly, “I’d like to place a private bid. Discreetly, of course. Through the appropriate channels, if and when the time comes.”
I blinked.
Was he serious?
A judge directly overseeing the restitution process wanted to buy one of the recovered pieces.
“I—” I caught myself before I said something I couldn’t take back. “You understand that would raise certain… concerns.”
“Not if it’s handled properly,” he said, his tone maddeningly calm. “There’s no law against it, Mr. Moreau. Not if the piece is deemed free and clear for auction. I’m merely expressing interest. Quietly. In advance.”
“And if someone else expresses interest more publicly?”
His lips curved faintly. “Then I’ll compete like anyone else.”
A lie.
He had no intention of playing fair. This wasn’t about the love of art—it was about influence. About acquiring something rare before the rest of the world even knew it was up for sale.
“I believe in preserving cultural heritage,” he added, as if that settled things. “I'd hate to see a piece like that disappear into a vault or, worse—fall into the wrong hands. My offer would be generous.”
I said nothing. Not agreement, not protest. Just sat there while the air between us turned colder.
Then his tone shifted just slightly—a soft warning under the surface. “Of course, others are circling that vault. Individuals are less forthright. I trust you understand the value of… keeping the right company.”
The message was clear: whatever game was being played, I wasn’t the only one invited to the table.
I gave a measured nod. “Noted.”
But inside, something twisted. Not just at the possible corruption—but at how easily it was dressed up as something noble. And how far from noble this whole damn thing really was.
I started to rise, ready to put this entire meeting behind me—file it under Things I’ll Pretend Didn’t Happen —when Valencia spoke again, almost as an afterthought.
“Oh, one more thing,” he said. “You’ll be flying to Dallas today.”
I froze halfway out of my chair. “Today? No, I have a commercial flight booked for tomorrow morning?—”
“That’s been canceled,” he said, already stacking the folders on his desk as if we were done. “A private donor affiliated with the foundation has offered transport. You’ll leave from Opa-Locka Executive at noon.”
My brows pulled together. “Who arranged this?”
The judge didn’t look up. “Let’s just say someone with deep pockets and influence. The kind of donor we don’t tell no. His interests are honorable.”
I stood, trying to determine if this was a favor or a threat. “Do I at least get to know what I’m walking into?”
Valencia offered a faint smile, the kind that told me nothing and revealed even less. “Working with the foundation to move the restitution process along.”
My patience thinned. “And that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
He gave me a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching with faint amusement. “People like this rarely extend invitations—they tend to issue them. Be at the private terminal by 11:45. You’re wheels up at noon. Just bring the essentials.”
That was all he offered—no names, no itinerary, and certainly no opportunity to suggest otherwise.
“Right,” I murmured, already running through the possibilities in my head.
From what little I knew, I figured the donor wasn’t impatient as much as he was pragmatic—and if no rightful heir to the artwork surfaced. Perhaps he had several private collectors quietly expressing interest.
As I turned away, I found myself oddly relieved. Valencia hadn’t mentioned Gabrielle. Not the gallery. Not the night. Not yet, anyway.
“Right,” I muttered.
“Safe travels, Mr. Moreau,” he said without looking back up.
I stepped out of the chamber, the door shutting behind me with a soft, decisive click. The hallway felt longer this time. Too quiet.
I should’ve been thinking about the donor, Dallas, and what kind of strings were being pulled behind the foundation’s closed doors.
But I wasn’t.
All I could think about was Gabrielle.
I didn’t know if I’d see her before I left. If I even should . But I knew one thing for certain—whatever was unraveling here, she was already caught in the middle of it.
And I wasn’t sure if I could protect her.
I sighed and muttered, “I should’ve texted Gabrielle days ago. Should’ve found the words, no matter how messy they came out.”
But now, with this trip forced on me, it felt like the door had closed, and I hadn’t even touched the handle.
Still, I reached for my phone and texted:
Anthony: Didn’t plan to leave today, but I’ve been summoned to Dallas. I wanted to see you. I’m not sure what that means anymore, but I still do.
I stared at it for a second. Then hit send.
A few minutes passed. Then the screen lit up.
Gabrielle: I don’t know what it means either. But I wanted to see you too. Text me when you get to Dallas.
My chest tightened.
I moved to the closet and slipped my phone into the inside pocket of my blazer.
Suitcase zipped. Keys in hand.
I glanced once more out the window.
What the hell is going on in this city?