Chapter 1 - The Tear in the Emerald Dress
Power was not about screaming orders.
Roman Costa had learned that before he was old enough to legally order a drink.
Real power was quieter.
It was the way a crowded restaurant changed when one man walked through the door. It was the way a politician suddenly remembered an appointment when Roman entered his office. It was the way men twice his age lowered their voices when he placed his hands on a table.
Roman owned pieces of New York that would never appear on any property record.
Warehouses.
Shipping companies.
Construction firms.
Nightclubs.
And, indirectly, people.
Yet on a cold Tuesday night in Manhattan, none of that mattered.
Because Roman Costa stopped breathing over a torn green dress.
The gallery opening had been tedious from the beginning.
Roman stood on the mezzanine with a crystal glass in one hand, watching wealthy strangers congratulate themselves for understanding paintings they had purchased primarily for tax purposes.
Below him, champagne moved through the room on silver trays.
A marble statue stood beneath enormous windows overlooking Midtown Manhattan. Beyond the glass, the Empire State Building cut into the evening sky.
Roman checked his watch.
11:17 p.m.
Most guests had left.
Good.
The gallery was useful, but Roman hated spending time there. Art provided an elegant way to move money. That was its primary purpose as far as he was concerned.
Then he noticed her.
She wasn't a guest.
Roman knew because she wasn't pretending.
The woman carried a wooden crate across the polished marble floor with both hands.
Emerald satin moved around her legs.
Her brunette hair had been twisted into a messy knot, several loose strands falling around her tired face.
Roman studied her automatically.
Mid-twenties.
Exhausted.
Paint beneath her fingernails.
Charcoal near her collarbone.
Art restorer.
He remembered Dominic mentioning that the gallery manager had hired someone to repair a nineteenth-century canvas damaged during transportation.
The woman lowered the crate beside a temporary partition.
She pressed one hand against her lower back.
Then she sighed.
It was a small sound.
Roman shouldn't have heard it.
But the gallery had become quiet enough that he did.
Something about that exhausted breath held his attention.
She turned.
Started walking.
And failed to notice the small brass fitting projecting from the bottom of the partition.
The hem of her emerald dress caught.
Roman straightened.
She kept walking.
The fabric stretched.
"Wait."
His voice traveled across the gallery.
She didn't hear him.
Or perhaps she assumed he was speaking to someone else.
Another step.
The satin pulled tight.
Roman put down his glass.
"Wait."
Too late.
RIIIP.
The sound echoed through the room.
The woman froze.
She slowly closed her eyes.
For several seconds, she didn't move.
Then she looked over her shoulder.
The tear had traveled from the bottom of her dress almost to her left hip.
"God damn it."
Roman descended the marble staircase.
She heard him approaching and immediately gathered the torn fabric behind herself.
"The exhibit is closed," she said.
"I know."
She turned.
And stopped.
Roman was accustomed to that reaction.
Six foot three.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hair.
A face newspapers occasionally printed beside phrases such as organized crime investigation and federal grand jury.
He wore a dark forest-green suit over a black shirt and tie.
"What?" she asked.
Roman looked toward her ankle.
"You're bleeding."
She glanced down.
The brass fitting had scratched her skin.
"It's nothing."
Roman moved closer.
She stepped backward.
He stopped immediately.
Good instincts.
He liked that.
"Your partition destroyed my dress," she said.
"My partition?"
"You own this place, don't you?"
Roman's eyebrow lifted.
"How did you know?"
"Everyone has been terrified of you for the last three hours."
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
"I'll replace it."
"The partition?"
"The dress."
Her expression hardened.
"I don't need you to buy me clothes."
Roman looked at the torn satin.
"You appear to need someone to."
Her eyes narrowed.
Roman realized immediately that he had made a mistake.
Not because she frightened him.
Because for some inexplicable reason, he didn't want to insult her.
He removed his black cashmere overcoat.
Her gaze moved downward.
His suit jacket had shifted.
The shoulder holster beneath it was visible.
The change in her expression was immediate.
Roman saw the calculation.
Weapon.
Exit.
Distance.
Threat.
He held the coat toward her.
"Take it."
"I'm fine."
"You're shivering."
"My coat is in the restoration room."
"Denim."
She stared at him.
"You've been watching me?"
Roman didn't answer quickly enough.
That was answer enough.
Her fingers tightened around the torn dress.
"That's creepy."
"I observe everything happening inside buildings I own."
"That's somehow not better."
Roman extended the coat.
"Take it."
She hesitated.
Then accepted it.
The coat swallowed her slender frame.
Roman watched her pull it closed.
Something unfamiliar shifted inside him.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Roman removed his phone.
"Paul."
The driver answered immediately.
"Bring the car around."
The woman shook her head.
"No."
Roman looked at her.
"No?"
"I know that probably isn't a word people use around you very often."
"It isn't."
"I'm taking the subway."
Roman looked at the blood on her ankle.
Then the torn dress.
Then her exhausted face.
"No."
Her mouth opened.
Roman continued.
"My driver takes you home."
"I don't get into cars with armed strangers."
"Sensible policy."
"Good. Then we're done."
She walked toward the service corridor.
Roman followed.
She stopped.
"Are you following me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Roman had no answer.
That irritated him more than her question.
He had spent twenty years making decisions with clear reasons.
Profit.
Loyalty.
Survival.
Revenge.
This woman belonged to none of those categories.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"Gemma."
"Last name?"
"You're getting one name."
Roman nodded.
"Roman."
She gave him an incredulous look.
"I know."
Of course she did.
Outside, freezing wind swept through the alley.
Gemma instinctively pulled Roman's coat tighter.
A black SUV waited at the curb.
Paul opened the rear door.
Gemma looked between the vehicle and Roman.
"Driver only," Roman said. "I'm staying here."
That surprised her.
"You trust him?"
"With my life."
"That's not reassuring considering your profession."
Roman's eyes sharpened.
"What do you think my profession is?"
Gemma climbed into the SUV.
"Art collector."
For the first time in years, Roman Costa laughed.
The door closed.
Roman stood in the alley watching the SUV disappear.
Dominic appeared behind him.
"You know who she is?"
Roman turned.
There was something unusual in Dominic's expression.
"What?"
Dominic looked toward the departing SUV.
"The restorer."
"What about her?"
Dominic's face became serious.
"We ran the background checks on everyone working tonight."
Roman waited.
Dominic lowered his voice.
"Her full name is Gemma Bellini."
Roman's expression changed.
Bellini.
A name he had not heard spoken aloud in eleven years.
A name associated with blood.
Betrayal.
And the only man Roman had ever personally sworn to kill.
Dominic watched him carefully.
"You remember Antonio Bellini?"
Roman's jaw tightened.
"Of course."
"Gemma is his daughter."
Silence.
Roman looked toward the empty street.
Eleven years ago, Antonio Bellini had vanished after betraying the Costa family and stealing something worth far more than money.
Roman had searched for him for years.
Now Antonio's daughter had walked directly into Roman's gallery.
Wearing an emerald dress.
And Roman had just sent her home in his car.
Dominic spoke again.
"There's something else."
Roman slowly turned.
Dominic's next words erased every trace of amusement from his face.
"Antonio Bellini isn't dead."
"And according to our people..."
Dominic glanced toward the street where Gemma had disappeared.
May you like
"...he came back to New York three days ago."
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