CHAPTER 33
Edoardo
I stumble out of the shower and drop face-first onto the bed, limbs splayed, every muscle buzzing with that hollow ache that comes after running on pure adrenaline for too long.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand - insistent, smug.
Clive: “Get your ass here, Edoardo.”
Of course. He’s been peppering me all day like a bored sniper. I roll onto my back, squinting at the screen. Every muscle registers the toll of the past few days, and right now, the mattress feels like gravity finally winning.
Me: I’m officially deceased. See you all tomorrow at noon for lunch. After that, I’m yours.
The week has been brutal with protocol overhauls, warehouses reshuffled like chess pieces, insurance dossiers thick enough to build a shed, and an endless parade of private client meetings where I smiled, reassured, and quietly calculated risk.
Clive: “Such a whiny baby.”
A flood of furious emojis detonates across the screen.
Xander: “Ignore Clive. Get some actual sleep.”
Stefano: “Four cities in a week isn’t light. See you tomorrow.”
My thumbs feel like they’re typing through molasses.
Vienna. Milan. Paris. Then back again. Because apparently, I don’t trust anything I haven’t seen with my own eyes.
Every critical warehouse, every hub, every contingency plan dissected in person.
If there was a weakness, I wanted to feel where it lived, not read about it in a report.
If we were going to close vulnerabilities, I wanted no abstraction between me and the problem.
Clive: “You lot are pathetic. He didn’t even lift anything. No forklifts. No trash duty.”
I snort softly. Honestly, I’d take physical exhaustion in a heartbeat. That kind you can sweat out, sleep off. Mental depletion just sits in your skull like wet cement, slowing every thought until even blinking feels optional. Every hour I patched the cracks with another coffee and kept moving.
The client briefings alone could qualify as psychological warfare. Then came the dance with authorities - requests for footage, leads, whispers of something actionable. The results were exactly as predicted: nothing. They didn’t think it looked like burglary.
Tanin, however, delivered substances. His independent investigation team flagged five parties of interest connected, directly or peripherally, to the warehouse incident.
Two were immediately recognizable: habitual rivals in site bids and repeat competitors for the same curators and emerging artists.
Strategically, it makes no sense for them to move against us.
Their scale can’t absorb our client base, and dismantling us would create more operational vacuum than opportunity for them.
A third is a true head-to-head competitor, very capable and disciplined. But I know the principal well. Her methods can be oblique, occasionally ruthless, but she doesn’t strike from behind. That isn’t her MO.
I cross the three off and leave the remaining two to Tanin for quiet scrutiny and even quieter investigation. No ripples, no signals.
Across the organization, I’ve mandated a strict business-as-usual posture: warehouses, galleries, back office.
The goal is simple: look stable, invite complacency, watch who relaxes first. Meanwhile, Tanin has the authority to scale hiring and reinforce every weak seam.
If someone moves again, we’ll see it immediately because we’ll already be waiting in the dark.
My phone buzzes again, dragging me back to the present.
Xander: “Clive just lost ￡500 to me. Tradition. He’s fuming.”
Clive: “I’m winning it back tonight. Watch.”
I huff a tired laugh, the sound barely making it out of my chest.
Me: “Mates, I’m crashing. Tomorrow and Sunday, I’m all yours.”
Xander: “Night.”
Stefano: “GiGi will be at brunch. Bring Caroline if she’s free. Night.”
Clive: “And ask if she’s bringing friends, since you stood us up, Edoardo darling.”
I stare at that for a second, smiling despite myself.
Me: “Caroline’s a maybe. Powering down. See you tomorrow.”
She’ll be here when I wake. The thought settles over me like a blanket I didn’t realize I needed.
Clients reassured. Strategy aligned. Trap quietly set.
Back in my London house at last, in my own bed. All the noise - the hum of decisions, the low static of vigilance, and the endless mental tallying of risks - finally fades. For the first time in days, I let my eyes close without bargaining for another hour of productivity.
Five hours. Maybe six if I’m lucky. And right now, that feels like the closest thing to luxury in the world.