The photograph slipped from Eva's fingers and fluttered to the floor.
She stared at it, breath locked in her chest. Her brother's face—tilted sideways on a cold marble slab—was bruised and still. The morgue tag on his toe read Case 6041.
He'd died a year ago. A supposed overdose.
But he didn't use. He never had. She knew it in her bones.
Her hand trembled as she gathered the photos. She glanced again at the last one: the bank ledger. Her account showed a recent deposit—€50,000. The sender was a blind trust. No signature. No contact information.
It had been deposited an hour ago.
A chill crawled down her spine.
She reached for her phone, ready to call someone—anyone. But who? The police? What would she say? That a stranger gave her money and surveillance photos and asked her to forge a painting?
The police wouldn't protect her. Not from people like him.
Instead, she called someone else. Someone she hadn't spoken to in eight months.
"Julian," she whispered when he picked up. "It's Eva."
A long pause. "Eva? Are you—"
"Don't talk. Just listen. I need to meet. Same place as before. Tonight."
Another pause. "Is this about Luca Moretti?"
Her heart stopped. "How did you—"
"I've been watching him. And now I know why he's watching you."
The line went dead.
---
Ten Hours Later – Ponte Vecchio, 1:27 a.m.
Eva waited in the shadows of the bridge, her coat pulled tightly around her. The Arno shimmered below, moonlight silvering the black water.
She hated this bridge. It was too beautiful. Too old. Too full of stories that never ended well.
Julian stepped out from the mist like a ghost. He looked thinner than she remembered. Sharper. Like he'd been carved by secrets.
"You shouldn't have called me," he said, but not unkindly.
"You're the only one who might believe me," she replied.
He didn't argue. Just took the envelope she handed him and thumbed through the photos.
When he reached the morgue photo, his jaw tightened.
"I knew your brother didn't overdose," he murmured. "We had his name flagged. The Morettis buried the truth."
She looked away. "So why now? Why come for me?"
"Because you're the best art restorer in Florence. And they don't want a restoration. They want a forgery."
She nodded. "They showed me a Gaddi. A very good fake."
Julian's eyes flashed. "That's not a coincidence. That Gaddi is tied to something big. WWII smuggling. Hidden codes. Possibly a second painting layered beneath the first."
Eva blinked. "You mean like a palimpsest?"
"Yes," he said. "And if Moretti gets it, it could bankroll his father's operation for the next twenty years."
A gust of wind swept the bridge.
Eva's voice came out flat: "So what do I do?"
Julian leaned close. "You go along with it. You pretend to cooperate. You forge whatever they ask—but on my timeline, not theirs."
She narrowed her eyes. "You want me to spy for you?"
"I want you to stay alive."
Their eyes locked.
He looked like he wanted to say more. But he didn't. Just handed her a burner phone and stepped back into the fog.
"Don't trust anyone, Eva. Especially not him."
---
Back at the Studio – 2:43 a.m.
Eva returned to her apartment above the studio. The space smelled like varnish, old books, and lemon oil. Her safe room—the hidden alcove behind the bookshelf—clicked open with the press of a button under the desk.
She placed the envelope inside.
Then she reached for her notes, her pigments, her restoration gloves.
If Luca Moretti wanted a painting, he'd get one.
But not the one he expected.
---
Would you like me to continue to Chapter 3,