Chapter Three - Isabella
The gallery doors aren’t even open yet, and already I’m running on nerves. Every inch of the place smells like fresh paint, lemon polish, and the sharp tang of expensive perfume that clings to the air no matter how wide I throw open the windows.
Spotlights flicker overhead, turning canvases into little stages; I move from one to the next, nudging frames half an inch, tilting lamps, fussing with wires behind the plinths until my hands ache.
“Plaque’s crooked, Izzy,” Clara teases, coming up behind me. Her laugh bounces off the marble and lands squarely between my shoulders. “That’s the third time you’ve checked it.”
I force a smile, but my fingers keep moving, straightening the collector’s name. —Dr. M. Weber, Zurich—so it sits just right under the shimmer of the lights.
“If it’s off by a hair, someone will notice.”
Clara bumps her hip into mine. “Let them. I think the chaos is charming. Makes the millionaires think we’re authentic.”
She ducks as our boss, Mr. Grayson, stalks past with a clipboard clutched in both hands, muttering about name cards and guest lists.
“Rossi!” he barks, and for a moment I flinch before remembering he means me.
Tonight I am Isabella Rossi, art restorer, daughter of no one special, and not the niece of New York’s most notorious Italian.
I meet his eyes, careful to keep my voice bright. “What do you need?”
“Someone switched the DeLuca plaque with the Kim one. Move them back, would you?” He’s gone before I can answer, storming off in a cloud of nerves. I sigh, but Clara just grins wider.
“See? They can’t do anything without you,” she says. “Honestly, Izzy, you should put on a dress tonight and join the fun. Just this once?”
I shake my head, fighting a laugh. “Not a chance. I’ll be elbow-deep in solvents and cleaning cloths by then. Besides, this crowd’s not my scene.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s nobody’s scene, that’s the point. One night of free champagne and pretending to care about sculptures. Come on. You’re owed a little fun.”
I keep my answer noncommittal, ducking away to swap out the plaques. She means well—she always does, but tonight isn’t about fun. Tonight is about watching, listening, piecing together stories nobody wants to tell.
The Art each conversation carries a current I can’t quite catch, only feel. People drift through the halls, their laughter edged with calculation.
Clara materializes at my side, pressing another glass into my hand, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “You’ll regret it if you don’t at least pretend to enjoy yourself, Izzy,” she whispers, her eyes already tracking the nearest waiter for more canapés.
I manage a tight smile, but the knot in my chest only winds tighter. I can’t shake the feeling that every surface—every glittering statue, every pristine plaque—hides something rotten underneath.
I scan the crowd. Russian, Italian, American, old money and new. Faces I’ve seen at half a dozen events, all of them on their best behavior. It’s the kind of night where a fortune can change hands with a nod, where an insult might mean something sharp later, in a back room or on a dark road.
The glass is cool in my palm. I try to focus on the taste—crisp, a little dry—but I can’t settle. My eyes keep drifting to the corners, hunting for that flash of silver, the emblem I memorized from Enzo’s photos. A dozen rings glint in the light, but none of them are right.
“Earth to Isabella,” Clara murmurs, nudging me with her elbow. “You’re somewhere else entirely tonight. Anyone I should be worried about?”
I shake my head, half laughing. “Only my own nerves.”
She arches a brow, unconvinced. “Well, your secret’s safe with me.” Then, quieter, “Let yourself have a little fun, Izzy. You look like you’re waiting for a firing squad, not a party.”
Before I can answer, a familiar voice floats over the crowd. Mr. Grayson, calling for my help near the west exhibit. I slip away, glad for the excuse, but even as I cross the room, I keep scanning faces.
Every time a tall man turns, my heart jumps, only to fall flat again when I see the wrong profile, the wrong hands, the wrong ring.
I’m not sure when I spot him, only that the world seems to slow around the edges when I do.
He stands in a shadowy alcove near the sculpture garden, half turned toward the wall, a glass of amber whiskey dangling from long fingers.
His suit is black, perfectly cut, but there’s nothing delicate about his shape; broad shoulders, sharp jaw, hair slicked back carelessly.
The silver ring catches the light. My breath stalls. That’s it, the same crest etched in black, unmistakable even from across the hall. He’s saying something to the man beside him, voice too low to catch, but the others listen carefully, nodding at whatever verdict he gives.
I feel Clara at my elbow again, following my gaze. “New collector?” she jokes, misreading my stillness. “Looks like he eats art dealers for breakfast.”
I don’t answer. My mouth is dry. The man lifts his glass, eyes scanning the crowd, and then he sees me.
For one suspended second, the air seems to vanish.
His gaze is a punch: cold, deliberate, not a flicker of surprise or curiosity.
Assessing. Dangerous. I remember the photo from Enzo’s drawer: that same jaw, the crooked scar, the weight in his posture like he expects trouble and knows he’ll win.
My hands tremble around the stem of the glass.
He doesn’t look away. The crowd moves between us, bodies drifting past in waves of laughter and cologne, but his focus never wavers.
My chest tightens, heat crawling up my neck.
I force myself to breathe, to hold his stare, but it’s like standing on the edge of a ledge. One wrong move and I could fall.
Clara whispers, “Izzy?” but her voice is just background noise.
Every nerve is tuned to the man across the room. His eyes flick down, almost lazy, as if cataloging every detail—my dress, the way I hold the glass, the little badge clipped to my jacket. For a moment, I wonder if he knows me already, if this is some twisted echo of a meeting I’ve forgotten.
Then I see it—a faint twist of his mouth, not quite a smile, more of an acknowledgment. A warning, maybe.
He turns back to his companions, saying something that makes the men around him stiffen, then move. Two of them drift into the crowd, scanning the exits. I realize I’m holding my breath. I let it out, slow, careful, and try to swallow the rising panic.
Is this him? The man Enzo met on that rainy night—the one with the ring, the Russian connection, the reason my uncle started locking the doors?
I watch as he slips his phone from his jacket, glances at the screen, and then back at me. Something in my gut twists. If he’s involved, if he’s the reason Enzo…
No. Not here, not now.
I duck away before he can catch my eyes again, letting the tide of the crowd swallow me. Clara tries to follow, confusion etched on her face, but I wave her off with a weak smile.
“Just need a breath of air,” I lie.
I step into the hall, heart pounding, the sounds of the party muffled by thick glass doors.
I grip the rail and count backwards from ten, trying to steady the riot in my chest. I force myself to replay what I saw: the ring, the scar, the set of his shoulders.
It matches, all of it. The man from the photograph. The ghost in my nightmares.
He isn’t a ghost. He’s flesh and blood, standing in the same room as me, and if I’m right, he knows exactly who I am.
I close my eyes. My skin feels hot, my head light. I want to run, to scream, to march across the hall and demand the truth, but I don’t move. Instead, I let myself breathe in the city air leaking through the door, the distant rumble of Manhattan outside, and try to remember why I came here at all.
I came for answers. For Enzo. For the truth, no matter how sharp it cuts.
Tonight, I think, the hunt finally begins.