The last of the men are pulling out in a battered old BMW, headlights sliding past the chain-link fence. For a minute, I stand there, watching the city beyond the warehouse, lights crawling over the skyline. The club districts, the old riverfront, the sprawl of brick tenements my father once called home.
The Brunos always liked to pretend they owned this town. Old money, old blood. But they’re cowards, every last one.
I know the stories: Enzo, slippery and loud, always running his mouth until he ran out of time. Vittorio, all polished manners and threats whispered behind silk curtains. I don’t trust a man who smiles too much.
I head back inside, boots echoing on the wet concrete. In my office, I wash the rest of the blood from my hands, lettingcold water run over my wrists until they’re numb. I don’t let myself think about the gallery.
Crowds make my skin itch; I hate the smell of perfume, the way every conversation sounds like a negotiation.
I pull out the battered suit I keep for events like this—black, no tie, the kind that lets me blend in without looking like I’m trying too hard. The jacket still smells faintly of gun oil and old cigarettes. I toss it over the chair and sit again, fingers drumming on the desk.
There’s work to do. Always is. I scan through the night’s receipts, double-checking the totals, making sure nobody else tried to skim while I wasn’t looking. My men know better, but trust is a fragile thing in this world. I’ve learned to count the money myself.
A little after two in the morning, I step outside one last time. The rain’s picked up, drumming against the corrugated roof. I light another cigarette, let the smoke curl between my fingers. Somewhere in the city, the Brunos are planning something.
Maybe they think they can slip in under our noses, move a few paintings, shift a few bills, pretend it’s all business. Maybe they think the Russians are growing soft.
They’ll find out soon enough.
My phone buzzes again. It’s probably one of the lieutenants reporting in. Everything’s quiet, at least for now. I grunt a reply and head back in, shutting the warehouse door behind me. Upstairs, I leave the suit on the chair and lie down on the old leather couch in the back room. My eyes fall closed, but sleep never comes easy.
I run through the plan in my head, every angle, every risk. I think about the Brunos, about Enzo’s broken smile, about the way Vittorio’s voice curdled when he tried to sound polite. I think about Lukyan’s warnings. About what happens when old debts come due.
When the sky starts to pale, I finally get up. I shower, shave, dress for war in the skin of a respectable businessman. I pocket my phone, my wallet, my gun. Last thing I do is glance at the bottle of vodka on the shelf. I leave it where it is.
Tomorrow night, the gallery will be a battlefield dressed in silk and gold. I’ll be there, same as always. Watching. Waiting.
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.
