Blackwell scanned the painting. “You’re lucky. Alessi is one of my favorites.”
Lucia held back a smile. Indeed. Thatwasthe point.
“At first glance, it’s well made, but I’d bet it’s a fake.” Blackwell trailed a finger over the canvas. “The aging looks correct, though I’d need a more thorough analysis to be sure, considering forgers know how to fake that, too.”
Lucia stepped closer, her thoughts faltering when she caught a whiff of Blackwell’s perfume, a subtle, soft scent she couldn’t place but that made her want to lean in closer. “What gives it away?”
Blackwell met her gaze.
“I mean, how do you know it’s not real? It looks quite authentic to me.”
Tilting the canvas toward the light, Blackwell gestured near the figure’s sleeve. “Alessi’s known works have a more controlled, deliberate stroke, especially in how he painted folds of fabric.
“This is close, but here, see this flourish? It’s looser, more instinctual. Almost like the artist wasn’t copying Alessi so much as…channeling him.”
“Channeling?” Lucia asked, unmoving.
“Yes. The best forgers make the worst artists, in a way.”
Lucia’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
Blackwell chuckled. “To replicate a painting perfectly, the artist must disappear. Nothing, no personal style, no creative instincts, can creep in. But this one?” She tapped her fingernail lightly near the painted fabric. “It’s ambitious.”
“Because it’s not just a replica but a new painting in the artist’s style?”
“Exactly. It’s far easier to copy an existing piece than to create something from scratch and claim it’s a long-lost discovery.” Blackwell’s gaze lingered on the painting, something like admiration flickering behind her scrutiny. “But the irony is, a convincing forgery has to lack something…a soul, I suppose.”
Lucia’s stomach tightened. What did Blackwell see? “And this one doesn’t?”
“No. That’s what makes it fascinating. Whoever did this, they are too talented to forge.”
Lucia didn’t know what to make of such a strange blend of compliment and insult, though it caused a surge of pride to shoot through her, which she immediately quashed. This was only the first test.
Next came what counted: the Bellini. Lucia needed to make Blackwell believe it was real. The Collective needed this in.
Lucia shook her head. “If I may, I have one more painting to show you. It’s not new, more of a lost piece another one of my clients discovered in the estate of his late uncle.”
“You’ve got quite the illustrious clientele, Ms.Rossi.”
“I’ve been in the business for a while.”
Blackwell laughed. “Really? When did you start, grade school?”
“Good genes,” Lucia said. “Melanin helps, too.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“I’m thirty-three. Not exactly a spring chicken.”
“Agree to disagree. The painting?” Blackwell arched an eyebrow.
Lucia stifled a curse. “Oh, yes, of course.” Why couldn’t Blackwell be a boring old man?
She dug back into her portfolio and pulled out another, similar-sized canvas, this one secured in its own cloth wrap and slid into a custom sleeve.
Blackwell gasped, pulling the canvas closer.
Lucia stiffened. This was it. If Blackwell saw through this, they—
