Chapter Eight
Isabella
I sat in my apartment, staring at the file on my laptop. Shipping manifest AQ-2878: The Museum of Modern Art’s Water Lilies . Document after document detailed its journey from New York to London, its multimillion-euro price tag, and its carefully controlled transport conditions.
One small problem: I’d been at MoMA last week. The original Monet was still there.
My fingers traced over the documents, gliding past the weight specifications, temperature controls, customs forms.
Everything a lie.
I took a sip of wine, flipping back through my files on Devereux Private Bank’s recent acquisitions. Paintings purchased from museums and collectors who still had them. Art moving through shipping lanes with weights that defied possibility. Money flowing like water through expertly crafted documentation. Documentation that I had helped authenticate.
I was sickened with what I saw, what I had helped contribute to without knowing.
My phone buzzed—a text from Charles at Christie’s:
Devereux’s head counsel asking questions about recent acquisitions. Anything I should know?
Moreau. Of course he was starting to pull at the threads too. I’d noticed him at the bank today, moving through the corridors with that contained power he wore like his tailored suits. But there’d been tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes.
I knew he had been seeing the patterns, too. And after our meeting, he was even more disturbed.
Just like I knew he would be. He might be insufferable, but I knew his moral compass would direct him to my side. I’d seen it for the past five years.
Sighing, I opened my father’s old notebooks, their familiar leather binding worn smooth from years of use. Antoine Delacroix had documented everything, every major sale, every private collection, every whispered rumor of art moving through shadows.
An entry caught my eye: Devereux, from five years ago. A series of sales that had made my father uncomfortable enough to document in detail.
Something not right about the manifests , he’d written. Weights inconsistent. Routes circuitous. Money moving but no art actually changing hands.
The same pattern. Five years ago.
My hands shook slightly as I reached for my wine. Outside, I could just make out the London Eye, its slow passage through the fog seeming to mimic my tired mind.
Another file, another claimed acquisition: The Louvre’s Belle Ferronnière. Legit documentation showing its purchase and transport. But Moreau had flagged that one in his audit, meaning he’d thought it was bogus as well.
I pulled up the bank’s records, cross-referencing dates and locations. Eight hundred million euros in art acquisitions over six months. Art that, as far as I could tell, had never actually moved.
But something had moved. The shipping weights proved that.
My doorbell rang, making me jump. It was probably just my neighbor, Mrs. Hudson, wanting to borrow tea again. I checked the security camera, but the hallway was empty.
Goosebumps prickled along my arms. I double-checked the locks, then called building security. “Has anyone come up to the penthouse level?”
“No, Miss Delacroix. All quiet tonight.”
I forced my voice to stay steady. “The doorbell just rang.”
“We’ll check the cameras. Want us to come up?”
“No, it’s fine.” But it wasn’t. “Just wanted to verify.”
I returned to my desk, but the files suddenly felt dangerous. Evidence of something I wasn’t supposed to see. Something bigger than art fraud or money laundering.
My phone rang, Moreau this time. I was surprised to see his call come through.
“Are you at home?” There was no greeting, no pretense. His voice was tightly controlled.
“Yes. Why?”
“Stay there. Don’t open any files for a few hours. System maintenance.”
I was smart enough to read between the lines. He was issuing me a warning. Someone was watching the servers.
“Understood.” I kept my voice professional. “Will the maintenance affect tomorrow’s acquisition reviews?”
“No, we’ll discuss the reviews then.” More code. He wanted to meet and dig further in this giant hole I was unearthing.
The line went dead. I sat in my darkened apartment, staring at my father’s notebooks. At shipping manifests that moved phantom art. The documentation so perfect it could only be hiding something terrible.
With careful, steady movements, I closed my laptop. Locked my father’s notebooks in my safe. Poured another glass of wine I had no intention of drinking.
But as I got ready for bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d stumbled onto something far darker than missing art. That the false paperwork and fake paintings were hiding something worse than money laundering.
Tomorrow, then. Maybe then we’d start understanding what we were really uncovering.
I checked my locks one more time, then lay in bed listening to the fall of rain. Somewhere in the city, money was moving through accounts, documenting art that didn’t exist. Somewhere, cargo that wasn’t paintings was being shipped with false but impeccable paperwork.
Somewhere, someone was watching.
And I had a feeling they weren’t going to let us keep pulling these threads much longer.
Sleep was a long time coming.
The next morning, the bank’s pristine lobby felt…different. As if every secret I uncovered peeled away the elegant interior and seemed to poison the very structure of the building. I nodded to security as I crossed to the elevators, my eyes taking in the imported stone that probably cost more than most people’s homes. Everything about Devereux Private Bank whispered perfection, but I was starting to see the rot and mold beneath its immaculately polished surface.
“Isabella.” Rodger Ross’s voice made me pause at the elevators. He approached with a fluid grace I’d never quite registered before…too powerful for a simple board member. “A word about the Vermeer authentication?”
Something in his tone made my skin crawl, though his expression remained cordial. “Of course.”
“Excellent work on the documentation.” He gestured me into the elevator, which was empty, thankfully. Or maybe not…
His cologne was expensive but held a metallic undertone that reminded me of gunpowder. “Every detail precisely recorded. Rather like your father’s work.”
The casual mention of my father made my pulse jump, but I kept my voice steady. “High praise. His standards were legendary.”
“Quite.” Rodger studied me like a predator sizing up their next meal. “He had quite the eye for...irregularities.”
The elevator felt smaller with each floor we climbed. His presence had shifted somehow, became less bureaucratic, more predator-like.
“Some of the board members have questions about our recent acquisitions,” he continued smoothly. “Perhaps we should discuss them. Privately.”
The threat beneath his corporate courtesy was clear. My father had asked questions, too.
“I’m rather busy today,” I managed, silently willing the elevator to move faster. “But I’m happy to review any specific concerns—”
“Oh, I insist.” His smile was frozen in place. “We wouldn’t want any...misunderstandings about our operations.”
The elevator dinged as it stopped on my floor, thank god.
“This afternoon,” he said as I stepped out. “Don’t keep me waiting, Isabella. Meetings like these are rather time-sensitive.”
I managed a slight nod before escaping to my office. Only then did I let my hands shake with unbridled fear.
Rodger wasn’t questioning the acquisitions. He was warning me.
Just like he’d probably warned my father.
I sat down at my desk, fighting the urge to tremble.
My father’s voice echoed in my memory: “Follow the money, ma petite . Art moves, money moves, but truth leaves traces.”
I opened another file, documentation for a Degas we’d supposedly acquired last month. The paperwork was flawless, showing its transport from a private collector in Geneva. Humidity readings, insurance forms, everything normal.
But the weight. Nearly twice what it should be.
A knock made me look up; Sari was peering behind my door with her knowing eyes. “Miss Delacroix? These just came for you.”
She set a thick folder on my desk. Customs documentation for next week’s shipments. All stamped, signed.
All lies.
“Thank you, Sari.” I waited until she left before opening the folder. More forged papers. More impossibilities.
My phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number:
Your father asked too many questions too.
A chill rippled through my body and settled in my core. I deleted the message with trembling fingers, then pulled up my father’s old notebooks on my tablet. The encrypted ones I’d scanned after his death.
There it was, five years ago. Notes about a series of art shipments that had bothered him. Weights that didn’t match manifests. Routes that made no sense.
Asked Geoffrey about temperature controls , he’d written. Why keep the cargo so cold? Art needs stable temperature, yes, but this...
The next entry was dated three weeks later. The last one before his heart attack.
My office door opened without so much as a knock. I jumped instantly, my heart leaping to my throat.
Moreau filled the doorframe, emitting restrained strength in a pressed navy suit. “Miss Delacroix. A word?”
His tone was professional, but his eyes...they were darker than normal, wider…something was wrong.
“Of course.” I gestured to the chair across from my desk, but he shook his head slightly.
“Walk with me?”
Understanding hit. Someone was watching my office. Watching me.
I grabbed my tablet, leaving my father’s notebooks locked in my desk. Colton’s hand brushed my back as we left—steadying, a slight warning. Maybe even a hint of possessiveness. I felt the warmth of his large palm through my blouse, and an unexpected tingle traveled down my body.
We took the elevator to the twentieth floor, the client storage level, where climate-controlled vaults held the bank’s legitimate collections. Our footsteps echoed off of steel and concrete.
“Your office is being monitored,” he said quietly.
“I know.” The text message burned in my memory. “Yours?”
“Probably not. I’m the bank’s own counsel. I’ve also been watching and I can’t find anything. I have my own security system in my office.” He guided me past the vaults, to a small viewing room used for client presentations. “But they’re definitely not watching client areas. Too boring.”
He closed the door, checked his phone, then set it facing down. “Let me see what you found.”
I pulled up the shipping manifests on my tablet. “The Vermeer transaction. Look at the payment structure.”
He studied the documents, his jaw tightening. “Multiple accounts. All under reporting limits.”
“Classic money laundering. But that’s not what concerns me.” I swiped to another file. “The shipping weights. The temperature controls. None of it matches what we’re supposedly moving.”
“And this.” He picked up his own phone. For a brief moment, an adorable gap-toothed little girl smiled up from his lockscreen, offering a rare glimpse of the man behind the power suit. I knew he wasn’t married, didn’t have children. The dark-haired girl must be a relative. But before I could ask, he quickly swiped and switched to his email. “Confirmation of receipt for the Monet. Dated this week, but signed by a customs officer who died three months ago.”
My hands shook slightly as I zoomed in on the signature. “They’re getting sloppy.”
“Or overly confident.” His voice hardened. “Your father. He investigated them before, didn’t he?”
I looked up quickly, confusion in my eyes.
“I’ve been reading old case files. Five years ago, Antoine Delacroix raised concerns about art shipments. Temperature-controlled cargo that didn’t match manifests.” His eyes met mine. “Three weeks later, he had a heart attack.”
“I’m beginning to think it wasn’t a heart attack.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
“I’m drawing the same conclusions.” He moved closer, close enough that I caught the slight scent of his aftershave. I realized I’d never seen him with a hint of stubble. He was always impeccably clean-shaven. “And I know you’re being watched. That text this morning? They’re sending warnings.”
“How did you—”
“Because I’m watching you now, too.” His hand came up, almost touching my shoulder before dropping away. “Miss Delacroix...what we’re uncovering...it’s bigger than art fraud. Bigger than money laundering.”
“The weights,” I whispered. “The temperature controls. They’re moving something else.”
“Someone else.”
The word hung between us, heavy and horrible with its implications. With horror.
Trafficking.
In my heart, I knew. But my mind didn’t want to connect the dots.
“We need more proof,” I said. “Documentation. Evidence that will stand up in court.”
“Evidence gets people killed.”
“So does silence.” I met his gaze, unflinching. “I think my father died because he saw the same pattern. Because he asked questions. I won’t let that happen again.”
Something shifted behind his eyes, and I thought I saw respect or fear, maybe both. “Then we do this carefully. Secretively.”
“Like everything at Devereux Bank?”
“Exactly.” His lips curved slightly. “Hidden in plain sight.”
“Perfect lies.”
“Perfect truth,” he corrected. “That we’ll uncover.”
Outside the viewing room, footsteps echoed off the concrete. We stepped apart smoothly; nothing to interest anyone who might be watching.
“Let’s meet again tomorrow night,” he said at a normal volume. “We’ll review the authentication protocols.” More code. He wanted to dig into this further tomorrow after hours.
I nodded, gathering my tablet. But as I turned to leave, his hand brushed mine. Just for a moment.
“Be careful,” he murmured.
Then he walked away with measured steps, acting like everything was completely normal.