Chapter 3
RAVEN
It's not even noon, and I'm already on my fifth potential client of the day. My temples throb as I force a polite smile, gesturing to the painting in front of us. Papers clutter my desk—restoration quotes, shipping manifests, invoices I haven't had time to read.
"As you can see, the varnish has significantly yellowed," I explain, pointing to the murky sky in the painting. "We'll need to carefully remove it layer by layer—"
A phone rings. My client holds up a hand. "Sorry, I need to take this," she says, stepping away.
I glance at the door leading down to the basement workshop.
It has become a constant reminder of the mountain of work I have to do.
Nine restoration projects already past deadline, four more arriving tomorrow.
Staff interviews this afternoon. And somewhere in this mess, I need to figure out why fifty grand vanished from the gallery accounts last month.
I press my thumb against the small raven tattoo on my wrist, tracing its outline. Keep me strong, Mom.
"There's a potential buyer asking about the Picasso," Steven, my sales rep, says from the doorway.
"Take a message," I murmur, rubbing my forehead. "I'm with someone."
Morgan, my head curator, sticks her head out of her office. "The Degas shipment arrived, but there's a problem with the crating."
Of course, there is.
Before I can respond, a delivery man steps through the door with a stack of packages. The phone at the front desk starts ringing.
It's non-stop. I need a moment. Just one fucking moment to think.
The client reappears, still mid-call. "Can you have this done by next Friday?"
I almost laugh. Sure, let me just pause time real quick.
But we need the money, and it's ten grand to the bottom line.
"Absolutely," I say with a forced smile.
She nods, relaying the confirmation into the phone before hanging up. "Alright, let's do it."
"Great," I say, gesturing toward Steven. He appears—like he always does—ready to close the sale. As they walk off, I turn to the delivery man, sign his slip, and head toward Morgan's office.
"The shipment?" I ask, already bracing for bad news.
Morgan picks up some papers. "Painting's fine, but we're missing some crates," she says, holding up the documents.
"Your father had ten crates that were supposed to have arrived, but they're not here. What's weird is we have the shipping paperwork as if they were delivered, but they're missing. It's strange."
I grab the papers, scanning the documents. "And it doesn't even list what's in them. Perfect."
Before I can fully process this, a hesitant voice cuts in. "Ms. Carvello? I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a gentleman here asking for you. Says it's about an acquisition."
I close my eyes, silently cursing. Another meeting. Another distraction. My workshop downstairs is drowning in unfinished work.
But I smooth my blouse and nod. "Tell him I'll be right out."
As I head for the door, I pause. "The intern. What's her name again?"
"Jessica."
I nod, then step into the chaos waiting for me.
I spot the man Jessica mentioned immediately. He stands out among the eclectic artwork. His expensive suit and ridiculous amount of jewelry tell me he's exactly the kind of person I think he is. An I'm-better-than-you rich snob.
He's probably in his late forties, with blond hair and a grin that gives me an unpleasant feeling.
As I approach, his gaze rakes over me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
"Ah, you must be the lovely Ms. Carvello," he says, extending his hand.
"I'm Edward Clarence Blackwell. I worked with your dad before he, uh, left, I guess.
Anyhow," he says, looking me up and down for the second time, "he's told me so much about your talents, but he failed to mention how drop dead gorgeous you are. "
I shake his hand briefly, forcing a polite smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blackwell. I understand you're interested in discussing an acquisition?" I ask, not even acknowledging his slimy vibe.
He nods, that unsettling smile still in place. "Indeed. I have my eye on a particular piece. Perhaps we could discuss it this evening when you're more available. Perhaps over dinner?"
Is he trying to make me throw up in my mouth?
I feel my smile falter for a moment before I catch myself.
"I appreciate the offer, Mr. Blackwell, but I'm afraid I'm quite busy taking over the gallery.
I just don't have any free time for the foreseeable future.
Plus, it's not smart business to date customers," I say and turn toward the showroom.
"Why don't we take a look at the piece you're interested in? "
I start to walk, intending to lead him toward the main gallery space, but I feel his hand on my shoulder, stopping me.
"Come now, Ms. Carvello," he says, his voice lowering. "Surely you can spare an evening for a potential high-value client? I assure you, it would be worth your while," he says and starts rubbing my shoulders. "I know how to treat a woman."
My skin crawls where his hand touches me, and I have to hold back the urge to shrug it off. And just when I think of tell him exactly where he can shove his dinner invitation, a deep voice cuts through the gallery.
"I think the lady isn't interested," someone says behind me.
I turn to see a tall, muscular-built man walking toward us. His dark hair is brushed back perfectly, and his green eyes are fixed on Mr. Blackwell with a look that could freeze hell itself.
"Excuse me?" Mr. Blackwell sputters, his hand still on my shoulder. "This is a private conversation. You have no idea who I am, so mind your own damn business."
The man flashes a dangerous smile. "I don't give a fuck who you are, but this is my business. When I see a lady being harassed, it becomes my business."
I try to speak, but no words come. There's something about this man that both terrifies and fascinates me. As he approaches us, his towering presence is fully felt, and the air around the three of us feels stiff, barely able to contain impending violence.
Mr. Blackwell puffs up his chest, clearly not realizing the danger he's in. "I don't know who you think you are, but—"
In a blur of motion, the tall, dark-haired man moves. One moment, Mr. Blackwell's hand is on my shoulder; the next, he's being yanked away from me with such force that he stumbles.
"I think it's time for you to leave," the man growls, his voice low and menacing.
Mr. Blackwell stands there for a moment, and the other man feels it's too long.
I watch, wide-eyed, as he grips Mr. Blackwell by the collar and practically drags him toward the gallery entrance. Mr. Blackwell struggles and protests, but he might as well be trying to resist a force of nature.
"Let me go! Get your hands off me!" Mr. Blackwell shouts, his face turning an alarming shade of red.
The man doesn't respond. He reaches the door, yanks it open, and in one swift motion, shoves Mr. Blackwell onto the sidewalk. He tumbles to the ground.
"Don't come back," the tall, dark-haired man says, his voice low but carrying effortlessly. He turns to someone I can't see—probably outside the door—and adds, "Make sure this piece of shit doesn't set foot back in here."
A muffled "Yes, sir" comes from outside before the man closes the door and turns back to face me.
That same intense look is now locked on me, and my heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Shit, he's coming toward me.