Chapter 5
Sera
Six weeks.
Six weeks since Gabe disappeared, and I'm starting to think that's a good thing.
More importantly, six weeks have passed, and nothing has happened.
At first, I'd held my breath, waiting for the men Gabe owed money to come and find me.
I was so paranoid that I added a secondary set of locks to my apartment and started changing my schedule.
I made it so I didn't need to go out as often, and I could hide.
Then, after two weeks, I started going back to my favorite coffee shop. By week four, I started to assume Gabe set me up and was full of shit, and now, after six weeks, I am sure of it, and I'm back to my normal schedule.
Today, I'm completely engrossed in a new manuscript.
A first edition Hemingway, water stained, the binding barely holding. It's the type of project I love to sink my teeth into, especially because I know if I can restore it, we can sell it for thousands, and a bonus with my name on it.
If being the operative word. This manuscript is one of the worst I've seen in a long time, which is why I've been so focused on it that I barely hear the bell above the door chime.
I don't look up immediately. Tuesday mornings are slow, and most customers browse for a while before asking for help. I'm at a delicate point in the restoration—one wrong move and I'll make the damage worse.
"Excuse me."
I cringe but look up.
A man stands at my worktable. Tall, expensive suit, blonde hair, and dark blue eyes that seem to see right through me. He's handsome, but in a way that sets me on edge.
"Can I help you?" I set down my tools carefully. My fingers itch to press the security button, which is silly considering this man has done absolutely nothing to me.
"I'm looking for something specific." His voice is smooth, controlled. The kind of voice that's used to getting what it wants. I see men like this often—collectors who don't appreciate literature but want acquisition.
"Oh?" I say, trying to put on a friendly smile as I put my tools down. "Anything specific?"
"A first edition. Early twentieth century. Pristine condition."
A collector. They're always the same—more interested in possession than appreciation. But collectors keep Mr. Chen in business, so I keep smiling.
"Any specific author?"
"Fitzgerald. The Great Gatsby, if you have it."
Of course. Every new money collector wants one.
But I maintain my professional smile. "We have a few." I stand, wiping my hands on my apron. "Can I get your name?"
"Artem." He doesn't offer a last name, and I don't ask. It doesn't matter. As long as he can pay, we can work together.
And yet...something about the way he's looking at me makes my skin prickle. Not threatening, exactly, and not sexual. It's something that I can't put my finger on, but I know it makes me uncomfortable.
"Let me bring our copies," I say. "I can walk you through them."
He nods, and I walk towards the back. With gloved hands, I pull out three copies of The Great Gatsby, all in pristine condition.
I walk back to my table. The man, Artem, is looking at the Hemingway I was working on.
"This is excellent work," he says, not looking up. "The water damage was extensive. You're stabilizing the pages without compromising the integrity of the original binding."
I blink. Most customers can barely tell a first edition from a reprint.
"Thank you. It's been challenging."
"I imagine." He finally looks at me. "You have a steady hand. And patience. Both rare qualities."
"In book restoration or in general?"
A slight smile. "Both."
There's a pause. He's still looking at me, and I can't shake the feeling he's not here for a book at all.
"This first book is our finest copy," I say, gesturing to the top volume. "The dust jacket is immaculate—no tears, no fading. The pages had minor foxing that I was able to stabilize. It's a fifteen-thousand-dollar volume."
"I'll take it," he says, interrupting me.
I stare at him. "You haven't even examined it."
"I trust your assessment." He pulls out a black card.
"You should still take a look at it, and the other editions..."
"No need," he says, sliding the card towards me. His blue eyes are intense. "I am a man who knows what I want, and I want the best."
I swallow. "Of course," I say. I lean down to take his card. "I'll need to take some information from you." I grab my notepad. "It's standard procedure for a purchase this large, and we won't be able to release the book to you until payment clears completely."
"Of course," he says. "What do you need from me?"
I hand him the document and a pen. "Just fill this out."
He takes the pen from me and begins writing. "You work with rare books. You must have connections in the antiquity’s world. Auction houses. Private collectors."
"Some. I'm building my network. Why?"
"I'm always looking for quality pieces. Perhaps your brother could make an introduction. Gabriel Romano, correct? I understand he's very well connected in certain circles."
I carefully set the book down on the padded surface. My hands suddenly aren't steady enough to hold fifteen thousand dollars worth of paper and leather.
"How do you know my brother?" There's a quiver in my voice.
His expression doesn't change. "New York is a small world. Especially in certain industries."
"What industries?" My heart is pounding now.
"The buying and selling of valuable things."
It's not gambling debt, Sera. It's bigger than that.
"I don't know where my brother is." The words come out too fast. "I haven't seen him in weeks."
"Hmm." Artem slides the paperwork back to me. "That's unfortunate. When he surfaces, tell him we need to have a conversation."
"I know he owes you money..."
Artem smirks. "He owes a lot of people a lot of things."
He says it pleasantly. Like he's discussing the weather. But there's something underneath. Something cold and dangerous.
"If you see him," he continues, "tell him time is running out. For everyone involved."
He takes his card back, and my hands are shaking too much to look at what he wrote on the paper immediately.
"You should be more careful, Seraphina. Beautiful things get broken in this city. Especially when they're connected to the wrong people."
Then he's gone.
I stand frozen behind the counter, my mind racing.
He knew my name. My full name. I never told him.
He knows Gabe. Knows what he's involved in.
And he came here. To my work. To deliver a message.
I look down at the paperwork. The moment the door closed, my eyes drop to the page.
The name field is blank. The address field is blank. Contact information—blank.
In the middle of the page, in neat, precise handwriting:
Tell Gabriel I'll be in touch.
My hands start shaking so badly I have to set the paper down.
I grab my phone with trembling fingers and step into the back room.
I dial Gabe's number. It goes straight to voicemail like it has for six weeks.
"Gabe, it's me. Call me back. Now. Someone came to the shop asking about you."
I hang up. Try again. Voicemail.
Again. Voicemail.
On the fourth try, he picks up.
"Gabe, thank God—"
"What." His voice is flat. Cold.
"Someone came looking for you. At the bookshop. He knew who I was, he knew about you, he said—"
"Did he threaten you?" He sounds bored.
"Kind of—"
"Is he still there?"
I want to scream at the question. "Of course not."
"Then I don't care." I hear noise in the background. Music. Voices. He's at a bar or club. "Is that why you called? To tell me someone asked about me?"
"Gabe, he knew my name. He said you owe debts, and this isn't the first time that—"
"Sera." He cuts me off. "Unless you're calling to tell me you have money, I don't want to hear it."
"What?" I slam my hands on the desk in front of me, sending the lamp rattling. "Gabe. Someone just came to my job!"
"And?"
"And they threatened me and you."
Gabe shakes his head. "These guys don't issue vague threats," he says. "If they wanted you dead, you would be."
"Jesus, Gabe."
"You made it clear you're not going to help me. So, I'm handling my own shit. Which means you're out of it."
"I'm not out of it if people are coming to my work—"
"Do you have money?"
The question stops me cold.
"I... no. I'm barely making rent, you know that."
"Then you're useless to me."
The words hit like a slap.
"Useless?" My voice cracks. "Gabe, I've been worried sick. I've been calling you for weeks—"
"And saying the same thing every time. 'I can't help you. I don't have money.' So, stop calling. Stop worrying. Just stay out of my way."
"Who is Artem?"
"Someone you don't want to know." He laughs, but there's no humor in it.
My blood runs cold.
"Gabe—"
"I gotta go. Don't call me unless you have cash."
He hangs up.
I stand in the back room of the bookshop, phone pressed to my ear, trying to process.
I look down at my hands. They're trembling.
What have I gotten myself into?
More importantly: what has Gabe gotten me into?
And why do I have the terrible feeling that Artem appearing in my bookshop was just the beginning of something I'm not prepared for?
I glance at the door. The street beyond.
He's out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting.
For what?
I don't know.
But I'm suddenly very sure I'm going to find out.
Whether I want to or not.