Chapter 11 - The Gallery Turned Against Me
The story broke on a Thursday morning.
Not the whole story.
Enough.
VICTOR BELLANDI ARRESTED IN ART-LAUNDERING INVESTIGATION.
COSTA FOUNDATION RECORDS SUBPOENAED.
MORETTI EXECUTIVE MISSING.
DANIEL COSTA QUESTIONED IN HISTORIC WAREHOUSE FIRE.
My name appeared in paragraph fourteen.
ART RESTORER GEMMA REED IS BELIEVED TO HAVE ASSISTED INVESTIGATORS.
Believed.
As if I had accidentally wandered into federal cooperation while cleaning varnish.
By noon, my phone contained forty-seven messages.
Three journalists.
Two former classmates.
One museum curator who had ignored my applications for five years and now suddenly hoped I was “well.”
My landlord asked whether reporters would be in the building.
Nina told me not to come to the studio.
Not because she blamed me.
Because someone had thrown red paint across the front windows during the night.
I stared at the photograph she sent.
TRAITOR had been written across the glass.
Roman saw my face from across the kitchen.
“What?”
I showed him.
His expression hardened.
“No.”
I knew that tone.
“No what?”
“You are not going there.”
“I need my tools.”
“We replace them.”
“My father made half of them.”
Roman stopped.
That changed things.
“I’ll go with you.”
“I do not need an escort to pick up brushes.”
“Someone vandalized your workplace.”
“Yes.”
“I am coming.”
I sighed.
“Fine.”
He looked almost disappointed that the argument ended quickly.
At the studio, reporters waited across the street.
Roman entered through the rear alley with me.
Nina hugged me so hard my ribs hurt.
“I hate rich people,” she said into my shoulder.
Roman stood three feet away.
Nina pulled back.
“No offense.”
“Some taken,” he said.
She stared at him.
Then laughed.
The studio smelled like solvent and fresh paint.
We packed my father’s tools into a padded case.
Nina sat on my workbench.
“Victor called me yesterday.”
Roman looked at her.
“From custody?”
“His lawyer did. They want me to say Gemma had independent access to the painting and could have planted documents.”
I stared.
“What?”
“They are building an alternate story.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
Nina continued.
“They offered to cover legal fees if I cooperate.”
“And?”
“I told them to perform a physically ambitious act with a frame clamp.”
I laughed.
Roman almost did.
But the problem was real.
Victor’s defense strategy was obvious.
Discredit me.
Make me look like a desperate freelancer who fabricated evidence after becoming involved with Roman Costa.
The timing made it easy.
I had entered his penthouse.
Used his security.
Kissed him.
No jury would hear that last part from me, but reporters would eventually discover everything else.
“I should move out,” I said later in the car.
Roman looked at me.
“No.”
“I mean your penthouse.”
“I know what you mean.”
“If this case depends on my credibility, living with you makes me look compromised.”
“You are under threat.”
“I can stay somewhere secure that is not yours.”
Roman’s face closed.
I recognized the expression now.
Control returning because fear had nowhere else to go.
“Gemma.”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
I continued.
“You do not get to protect me by making my choices for me.”
“I am trying to keep you alive.”
“And I am trying to keep my name mine.”
Silence.
The driver looked straight ahead with heroic discipline.
Roman turned toward the window.
For several blocks, he said nothing.
Then, quietly, “Where?”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Where would you stay?”
“Nina has a guest room.”
“No.”
I glared.
He lifted a hand.
“Security issue. Not permission. Her building has street access and no desk.”
That was annoyingly fair.
“I can rent somewhere.”
“I have a corporate apartment in Tribeca.”
“That is still yours.”
“It is leased to the foundation. Separate address. Separate staff. Your key. No one enters unless you approve.”
I studied him.
He remembered the lesson.
“Fine.”
Roman nodded.
No argument.
No punishment.
That mattered more than I wanted it to.
I moved that evening.
The apartment was beautiful and impersonal.
I put my father’s tools on the kitchen counter to make it mine.
Roman did not come upstairs.
He walked me to the lobby.
Then stopped.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I think it is unnecessary.”
“I know.”
“I am still allowing it.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Wrong verb.”
His mouth tightened.
“I am respecting it.”
“Better.”
He exhaled.
Then gave me something.
A small velvet box.
I stared.
“No jewelry.”
“It is not jewelry.”
Inside was a brass key.
My storage unit key.
He had replaced the compromised lock and moved nothing without asking.
“Your father’s things are back in 314,” he said. “New camera. New alarm. Account in your name.”
I looked up.
“You moved them back?”
“You said they were yours.”
Something in my chest hurt.
Not badly.
Just enough.
I closed the box.
“Thank you.”
Roman nodded.
Then left.
He did not ask to come upstairs.
That night, alone in the new apartment, I realized something dangerous.
Roman Costa was not winning me by being powerful.
He was winning me by learning when power should stop at the door.
The first night in the Tribeca apartment, I woke at two in the morning convinced someone was in the hall. My heart hammered so hard I could hear it. I stood barefoot behind the door holding the heaviest object within reach: a ceramic lamp.
The sound came again.
A soft scrape.
I checked the security monitor.
Roman sat on the floor outside my door.
Not knocking.
Not entering.
Just sitting against the opposite wall with his coat folded beside him.
I opened the door three inches.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up. “Dominic said someone circled the block twice.”
“And?”
“And security is watching.”
“Then why are you here?”
Roman was quiet. “Because I was not going to sleep.”
I stared at him.
“You could have called.”
“You asked for space.”
“So you sat in the hallway?”
“Yes.”
It was ridiculous. Overprotective. Somehow respectful.
I opened the door wider. “Come in for coffee.”
May you like
He stood. “Are you sure?”
That question was the reason I said yes.
