Seeing the name on the caller ID, she skipped her usual greeting—Shoreline Galleria, where art meets the sea—and answered, “Rhys. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Indeed,” he replied, in his smooth, slightly accented baritone. “A chat with you is always the highlight of my day. I haven’t spoken to you since your return. How was Florence?”
She stepped away from the counter as sunlight spilled through the tall windows. “Like a dream,” she answered, wistfully. “Lake Como nearly convinced me to stay forever. But you didn’t call about that. What’s up?”
A pause. Then—of course—he got down to business.
“I need your art expertise. What do you know about triptychs?”
“Quite a lot, actually,” she replied, pacing past a newly mounted canvas. “Traditionally, they’re painted trifold panels, although I’ve seen them in stone and even in modern-day photography. They were originally Christian altarpieces but made a resurgence during the Renaissance. One, theLe Virtùe la Caduta, was quite scandalous and mired in myth and secrecy.”
Across the gallery, Simone looked up mid-uncrating and lifted a brow. Cari, equally curious, offered a small shrug.
“Funny you should mentionLa Caduta,” Rhys replied. “I need to find the fourth panel.”
She stopped mid-stride, surprised. “That there is a fourth panel isn’t common knowledge.” She didn’t ask why he needed to find it. Men like Rhys didn’t chase art without reason. “But you’re in luck,” she replied. “I know the owner—from my Paris years.”
“Tell me about him.”
Sorting through memories, she said, “Richard Sabatini. An older gentleman from old European money. Once, he fancied himself a painter. When that failed—and I say this kindly, his work was dreadful—he decided legacy mattered more than talent.”
She glanced at Simone, who had resumed unwrapping the crate but was clearly listening.
“He reinvented himself as a benefactor—the kind who equates patronage with legacy,” Cari continued. “Now he’s convinced the artist he ‘discovered’ is a misunderstood genius and that ‘all the boy needs is exposure.’”
Silence stretched on the line before Rhys spoke again, tone carefully measured. “It would help Gaby—and me—if you could give it to him.”
“This is about her sister.” She lowered her voice. “Richard isn’t involved in trafficking. Tell me you’re not suggesting—”
“Not Sabatini,” Rhys cut in. “But someone who wants that panel badly enough may be. Would he sell it?”
A slow exhale left her lips as she calculated angles. “I’d have to ask. But it’s an ideal incentive. A rare offering draws seriouscollectors—and gives his protégé a platform he’d never get any other way.”
“Just as we hoped,” Rhys said.
Her mind raced ahead to logistics, invitations, and press positioning. “I’ll need to run it past Simone. And Dev—our silent partner.”
“I already briefed your husband.”
She smiled despite herself. “Husband.That still sounds unreal. In the best possible way.”
“Congratulations again, love,” Rhys said warmly. “About the showing?”
“Yes—sorry.” She reached the far wall and turned, pacing back the other way. “Richard will jump at this. He gets his exhibition, sells a piece that doesn’t suit his taste, and is revered for having launched the next Ikemura or Hockney.”
“And we help shut down a predator,” Simone said, coming closer, her tone decisive. “Count me in.”
Cari nodded, resolve settling in her chest. “We’ll need time, Rhys.”
“How much?”
“Ordinarily? Months.”
“Gaby’s sister may not have months,” Simone said evenly. “We have nothing scheduled for Saturday after next. Tell Sabatini we had a cancellation and, after that, it could be a year.”
Admiration bloomed in Cari’s chest as she looked at her partner.
“He’s wealthy enough to move mountains,” Simone added. “He’ll make it happen.”
