Chapter 2 - The Man Across the Street
Gemma woke at 6:43 the next morning with Roman Costa's coat hanging over the back of her chair.
It looked ridiculous in her apartment.
Everything Gemma owned came from thrift stores, discount websites, or the generosity of friends moving to better neighborhoods.
Roman's coat looked like it had wandered into the wrong socioeconomic class.
She made instant coffee.
Then stared at it.
Cedarwood.
Cold winter air.
Something metallic.
She hated that she remembered the smell.
She hated even more that she remembered his eyes.
Gemma grabbed her phone.
Seven missed calls.
All from an unknown number.
Her stomach tightened.
Another call came.
Same number.
She answered.
"Hello?"
Silence.
"Hello?"
Click.
Gemma stared at the screen.
Probably spam.
She showered, changed, and tried not to think about Roman Costa.
By 8:30 she was walking toward the subway.
Halfway down the block, she noticed a black sedan.
Engine running.
A man sat behind the wheel.
Gemma kept walking.
At the next intersection, she looked back.
The sedan pulled away.
Coincidence.
She entered the subway.
Thirty-five minutes later she emerged in Manhattan.
Another black vehicle waited across the street.
Gemma stopped.
This time she saw the driver.
Not Paul.
Different man.
He watched her.
Gemma's pulse accelerated.
She entered a coffee shop.
The vehicle remained outside.
She called the gallery manager.
"Claire?"
"Gemma! Are you okay? I heard about the dress."
"I'm fine. Is Roman Costa there?"
Silence.
"Mr. Costa?"
"Yes."
"No. Why?"
"Nothing."
Gemma ended the call.
When she looked outside again, the sedan was gone.
She told herself she was imagining things.
Then she entered the gallery.
Roman was waiting.
No whiskey today.
No crowd.
Just Roman standing beneath a marble statue with both hands in his trouser pockets.
Gemma stopped.
"How long have you been here?"
"Long enough."
"That's not a time."
Roman studied her.
"Did anyone follow you?"
Gemma's irritation disappeared.
"Why?"
"Answer me."
"Black sedan."
Roman's jaw tightened.
"You saw the driver?"
"Male. Maybe forty. Dark jacket."
"Anything else?"
"No."
Roman took out his phone.
"Dominic. Check cameras between Brooklyn and here."
Gemma stepped toward him.
"What's happening?"
Roman ended the call.
"You're leaving."
"I just arrived."
"You're not working today."
"You don't employ me."
"I own the gallery."
"Then congratulations. You own a gallery without a restorer."
She walked past him.
Roman caught her wrist.
Gemma froze.
Roman immediately released her.
Something passed between them.
He wasn't accustomed to apologizing.
"I'm sorry."
That surprised her.
"Why are you following me?"
"I'm not."
"Someone is."
"I know."
"How?"
Roman said nothing.
Gemma's frustration rose.
"Last night you're watching me. Today there's a car outside my apartment. Now you're asking whether somebody followed me."
She moved closer.
"Tell me what is happening."
Roman looked into her eyes.
"Your surname is Bellini."
Gemma went still.
"How do you know that?"
"I know many things."
"Apparently boundaries aren't one of them."
"Antonio Bellini."
The name hit her like a slap.
Gemma's face lost color.
Roman noticed.
"Your father."
"My father is dead."
"No."
The word came too quickly.
Gemma stared.
"What?"
Roman regretted saying it immediately.
But the damage was done.
"My father died when I was fourteen."
"Who told you?"
"My mother."
"Where?"
"Why does that matter?"
"Was there a funeral?"
Gemma opened her mouth.
Stopped.
There had been a memorial.
No body.
Her mother had said the circumstances were too traumatic.
Gemma had never questioned it.
Until now.
Roman watched realization begin to fracture something behind her eyes.
"You're lying."
"I don't lie when the truth is more useful."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means Antonio Bellini is alive."
Gemma backed away.
"No."
"He returned to New York three days ago."
"No."
"Gemma—"
"Stop saying my name."
She grabbed her bag.
Roman moved in front of the door.
"Move."
"No."
Her eyes flashed.
"You cannot keep me here."
"I'm trying to keep you alive."
That silenced her.
Roman's phone rang.
Dominic.
He answered.
"What?"
Dominic's voice was loud enough for Gemma to hear fragments.
"...camera..."
"...same sedan..."
"...two men..."
Roman's expression hardened.
"Where are they now?"
Pause.
Then Roman looked toward the enormous windows.
"Get down."
"What?"
"GET DOWN."
Glass exploded.
Roman crossed the distance in one movement.
He threw Gemma to the marble floor and covered her with his body.
A second window shattered.
People screamed.
Roman drew his pistol.
"Stay down."
He fired toward the street.
Gemma covered her ears.
Everything happened in seconds.
Dominic and two security men burst through the doors.
"East building!" Roman shouted.
Dominic ran.
Roman turned toward Gemma.
A thin line of blood ran down his cheek from flying glass.
She stared at him.
"Was that—"
"Yes."
"Someone shot at us?"
"At you."
Gemma's face went white.
Roman pulled her up.
"We're leaving."
This time she didn't argue.
Twenty minutes later, Gemma sat inside Roman's armored SUV.
Roman was beside her.
A privacy partition separated them from the driver.
Gemma's hands shook.
Roman noticed.
"You're safe."
"You don't know that."
"While you're with me, yes."
She laughed once.
It contained no humor.
"You're Roman Costa."
He said nothing.
"I looked you up."
"That was a mistake."
"Apparently meeting you was the mistake."
Roman turned toward the window.
That sentence affected him more than it should have.
Gemma noticed.
For the first time, she saw something beneath his control.
Not anger.
Pain.
"Where are you taking me?"
"My home."
"No."
"Gemma."
"I'm not moving into a mafia fortress."
Roman looked at her.
"So you did more than one search."
"You're suspected of murder."
"Suspected."
"That's your defense?"
"Currently."
Despite herself, Gemma almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the SUV stopped.
Roman's penthouse occupied the top floors of a building overlooking Central Park.
Security guards checked every entrance.
Gemma followed Roman into an enormous living room.
She felt like she had entered another universe.
Roman poured water.
Not whiskey.
He handed it to her.
"Tell me everything you remember about your father."
Gemma stared at the glass.
"He restored paintings."
Roman's eyes narrowed.
"What?"
"He specialized in Renaissance work."
Roman slowly sat down.
That detail mattered.
Gemma noticed.
"What aren't you telling me?"
Roman remained silent.
She slammed the glass onto the table.
"People just shot at me!"
Roman looked at her.
"Your father didn't only restore paintings."
"What did he do?"
"He forged them."
Gemma's stomach dropped.
Roman continued.
"He created copies good enough to fool collectors, insurers, sometimes museums."
"That's impossible."
"No. Your father was extraordinary."
"How do you know?"
"Because he worked for my father."
Gemma stared at him.
Roman leaned forward.
"Eleven years ago, Antonio stole something from my family."
"A painting?"
Roman's expression changed.
"No."
"What?"
"A ledger."
Gemma frowned.
Roman continued.
"Names. Payments. Politicians. Judges. Police officers. Businesses. Enough evidence to destroy half the criminal organizations on the East Coast."
"And you think my father has it?"
"I thought he did."
"Thought?"
"Until last night."
Roman stood.
He walked toward his coat—the same coat Gemma had returned that morning.
Something caught his attention.
A faint irregularity along the inner seam.
Roman's expression changed.
"Where did you put this coat last night?"
"In my apartment."
"Did anyone enter?"
"No."
Roman pulled a knife from his pocket.
Gemma stepped back.
He cut open the lining.
Something small fell onto the table.
A black electronic device.
Gemma stared.
"What is that?"
Roman didn't answer.
He picked it up carefully.
A tracking transmitter.
Someone had sewn it inside his coat.
But not before last night.
The stitching was fresh.
Roman looked at Gemma.
"Someone entered your apartment while you were sleeping."
Her blood went cold.
Then Roman noticed something else inside the lining.
A folded piece of paper.
He opened it.
Only six words were written.
Roman read them once.
Then again.
Gemma moved closer.
"What does it say?"
Roman didn't answer.
She took the paper.
Her hands began shaking.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
She had seen it on birthday cards when she was a child.
Gemma, don't trust Roman Costa.
Below it was another line.
He killed your mother.
Gemma slowly lifted her eyes.
Roman stood across from her.
And for the first time since meeting him, Roman Costa looked afraid.
Not for himself.
May you like
For what Gemma was about to believe.
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