Page 70 of Take Me Darkly

“Who are those women?” he asked.

“The tall one is Madeleine Toussaint,” I explained as we walked to the elevator that would take us up to my office. “She’s a French dress designer—high-end, well-connected. She was Serena’s mother’s friend and has been in Serena’s life since she was a child. She’s the reason Serena was able to attend the Met Gala.”

“And the other one?”

“Caterina Bianchi. I’ve never met her, but Serena has mentioned her,” I said, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt as the elevator doors closed. “They’ve been longtime friends, but from the little bit Serena had told me about her, it sounded like things between them have been complicated for a while. As for how they found their way to New York, I don’t know yet. But Madeleine Toussaint has money and connections. She’s bound to make a great deal of noise if she decides she isn’t getting answers. It’s best to try and get ahead of this and see what they want.”

Zeke said nothing, which meant he agreed.

We stepped out onto the forty-second floor and entered my private corner office. The room was pristine, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a panoramic view of Manhattan that I hadn’t looked at in weeks. A large, polished wood desk was positioned to face the door, and the floor-to-ceiling windows behind it showcased a view of Manhattan. A single glass display case occupied the far wall, housing some of the unique ancient coins I’d collected over the years. Hidden directly behind the master painting beside it sat the wall safe holding six of the world’s rarest coins—with an empty velvet slot waiting for the Brutus Denarius. Those coins represented the better part of a decade’s obsession.

We didn’t have to wait long. Madeleine’s rapid-fire French accent echoed down the hallway before she even reached the threshold. When Zeke opened the heavy oak door, her eyes locked onto mine across the room with lethal precision. She was even more formidable in person than I’d remembered.

“Monsieur Romano,” she said, and somehow made it sound both like a greeting and an indictment.

“Ms. Toussaint.” I held her gaze, my voice cool and unhurried. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Save the pleasantries.” She stopped in the center of the room and placed her hands on her hips, the wine-colored coat settling around her like a theater curtain. “Where is Serena?”

“She’s safe.”

“That was not my question.”

Caterina stepped up beside Madeleine, her dark eyes evaluating me with quiet, intense scrutiny. Up close, her posture carried a quiet, fierce stillness.

“You must be Caterina,” I said, studying her.

“And you must be the reason none of us have been able to reach Rena for weeks,” she shot back, I her voice carrying a distinct American accent despite her Italian passport. I tried to recall what Serena had told me about her.

There hadn’t been much, although I did remember learning that Caterina used a shortened version of Serena’s name and I didn’t like it. Something had strained between them that Serena never fully explained. That was the extent of what I knew.

However, I had learned the hard way that the people closest to Serena were not automatically the people safest to her. Cade Rosenberg had been her boyfriend—someone she had trusted completely. But he had been positioned there deliberately, feeding information to an organization that eventually put a bullet in her shoulder. If someone that intimate could be compromised, then a childhood friend with a complicated history and an American accent deserved, at minimum, the same scrutiny I would give a stranger.

“Serena is in a secure location,” I told them. “That is all I’m in a position to tell you right now.”

Madeleine’s eyes narrowed.

“You say it as if that settles the matter. She is not a state secret, Monsieur Romano. She is a person. She is one of ours, and we have been—” She paused, and something shifted briefly behind the composure. “After the fire…we have been very frightened for her.”

The genuine anguish beneath her dramatic exterior was impossible to fake. My posture softened by a fraction.

“I understand that,” I said. “And I’m sorry. But I think you already know from the news coverage what happened in Italy. Someone tried to kill Serena. Until I know with certainty that the person has been identified and neutralized, I’m not able to share her location with anyone who could inadvertently expose it.”

“Do you honestly believe we are a threat to her?” Caterina demanded, her jaw tightening.

“Information travels in ways people don’t intend, Ms. Bianchi. I’m not suggesting that you would be careless. Phones could be tapped, emails might be monitored, and conversations can take place in rooms that aren’t as private as they appear. Those are not abstract concerns. Not to me.”

Madeleine studied me for a long moment, her eyes seeming to run calculations before reaching a conclusion.

“A man named Mac Owens telephoned me,” she finally said.

The name landed like a lead weight on my chest, but I kept my expression even.

“When?”

“Four days ago. He left a lengthy voice message, presenting himself as an investigative journalist based in New York. He said he was writing a story about Serena Martinelli and her connection to Anton Romano, and that he had traced the dress she wore to the Met Gala back to my atelier.” She tilted her head slightly, watching my face. “He was very thorough. He knew I had designed the dress myself. He even knew it had been given as a gift, and not on loan, as the ruby necklace had been. He asked me to ring him at my earliest convenience to provide what he called context for his piece.”

My pulse spiked, but my face remained carved from stone. “Did you speak to him?”