As such, she should be able to erase the image of Lucia’s soft smile from her mind, ignore the anticipation coiling inside at the notion of the woman contacting her again.
Some roads needed to be blocked off, lest she fall into a snare of her own making. Between Valentina’s schemes and Lucia’s smile, she wasn’t sure which was the more dangerous.
Chapter 3
A Crumpled Past
A week after attending the Meridian’s lecture, Lucia sat in her art studio, staring at the blank canvas. Blackwell’s words replayed in her mind: forgeries lacked soul, but her take on a “new” Alessi painting hadn’t.
The thought gnawed at her. It also made her almost wary of her own art. What did she reveal, and could people actually see it?
At least she’d already finished theMadonna. If Blackwell were to consider herMadonnaauthentic, too, would that mean it lacked soul as well?
Lucia refused to contemplate why this notion settled so heavily in her stomach.
Then there was the Bellini, which Blackwell had bought as real, with caution.
If she’d ever bled her soul into something, it was the Bellini piece—days had blurred into nights until she could see the brushstrokes in her sleep. But that didn’t mean she wanted anyone, least of all Blackwell, to see what it revealed.
Maybe that was why Francesca always came back to her for forgeries. She was talented enough to draw the masters, yet also original to the point where her forgeries breathed.
Lucia had done her first real forgery at seventeen, hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped the brush. Francesca had watched in silence, then simply nodded. Her approval had been more terrifying than any scolding could have been.
But she’d been enamored. Not just with art and being wanted,needed, for her art, but also with the mission of the Collective:replacing stolen or hoarded works with flawless fakes so the originals could be reclaimed. It seemed so noble.
Maybe it still was, if she didn’t think too hard about the rest.
While Lucia had accepted that it was impossible to create art without imbuing it with a part of herself (no matter what Blackwell said about forgeries only being good if they lacked precisely that), the notion of being seen or recognized in some way still left her feeling untethered.
Recognition had always been a double-edged brushstroke.
A message from Francesca pulled her from her thoughts.
Stop by. We need to talk.
Sighing, Lucia packed away her art supplies and headed for Francesca’s estate.
~ ~ ~
She rolled her shoulders before ringing the doorbell of Francesca’s art deco villa. The carved glass reflected her in fragmented pieces—like the rest of her life.
“Hello, Lucy,” Francesca said. “Skye is on her way over, too, but you beat her to it.”
Lucia grimaced. “Fantastic.”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what it is with you two again. I don’t trust anyone else on this, so I need you to get along.” She ushered Lucia inside and busied herself at the coffee machine.
The interior was as carefully curated as Francesca herself: sleek lines, muted colors, and striking modern art, offset by antique furniture that hinted at old money and older tastes. Nothing felt random. Everything had intent.
“The usual?”
“Thanks. And I’m not the one with issues.”
Francesca only hummed, preparing two espressos and bringing one to Lucia before settling onto the couch, dressed in a muted wrap dress—flattering, refined, and clearly tailored—her natural curls pulled back from her face today, accentuating the elegance of her deep brown skin.
“It usually takes two, dear. Trust me. I know.” A shadow fell over Francesca’s face.
“Not this time. I don’t know what her problem is these days.” She paused. “Are you OK?”
