Chapter 8 - Midnight at Pier Seventeen
Roman did not take me to the meeting.
Technically.
He took me to a building across from it.
That was how he justified the compromise.
At eleven forty-five, I stood in a dark office overlooking Pier Seventeen through rain-streaked windows while Dominic adjusted an earpiece and Roman checked the street below.
The location from the message was an abandoned customs warehouse near the river.
No cameras inside.
One entrance.
Two loading bays.
Moretti territory began three blocks east.
Roman had placed men on rooftops, in parked delivery vans, and inside a tugboat that looked abandoned enough to offend maritime law.
I stared at the layout on Dominic’s tablet.
“You do this often?”
“Meet people who threaten women I know?” Roman asked.
“Plan half a military operation around one painting.”
He glanced at me.
“The painting is not why I’m here.”
I pretended that sentence did not reach me.
Mara had made a high-resolution facsimile of my father’s ledger page. Roman would bring the copy.
The original remained locked in a bank vault under an emergency hold.
“If they ask for me?” I said.
“They won’t get you.”
“That was not the question.”
Roman looked at the warehouse again.
“They will be told you are nearby.”
“I am nearby.”
“Yes.”
“If they prove they have Sofia’s second painting, I need to inspect it.”
“No.”
“You do understand conservation cannot be done through binoculars.”
“I understand I dislike this plan more every time you speak.”
Dominic smiled without looking up.
Roman gave him a look.
The smile disappeared.
At eleven fifty-eight, a black sedan entered the warehouse yard.
Victor Bellandi stepped out.
My stomach turned.
He wore the same camel coat he had worn at the gallery opening. The same one he wore when he praised my work and told donors I had “rescued” the Valetti portrait.
Two men followed him.
Then Luca Moretti emerged from the passenger side.
I had seen photographs.
Mid-fifties. Silver at the temples. Expensive suit under a dark raincoat. A face designed for handshakes and indictments.
Roman’s expression did not change.
“Stay here.”
He started toward the door.
I caught his sleeve.
He stopped.
“Roman.”
“Yes?”
“Come back.”
The words escaped before I could make them less personal.
His eyes held mine.
Then he nodded once.
“That is the plan.”
He left.
From the window, I watched him cross the street alone.
No umbrella.
No visible weapon.
Just a man in a black coat walking into a warehouse full of people who had likely tried to kill his sister.
Dominic gave me the audio feed.
Victor’s voice came first.
“You brought the copy?”
Roman answered.
“You brought the painting?”
Luca laughed.
“You always were sentimental about objects.”
“Sofia was not an object.”
Silence.
Even through the earpiece, I felt the temperature drop.
Victor said, “No one is discussing Sofia.”
Roman’s reply was quiet.
“I am.”
A man rolled a padded crate from behind a partition.
My pulse jumped.
The small landscape was inside.
Still framed.
Original gilt molding.
Possibly nineteenth century.
I leaned toward the glass.
“Dominic.”
“I see it.”
“The lower rail is thicker.”
“What does that mean?”
“There could be another channel inside.”
Down below, Victor held out his hand.
“Page.”
Roman gave him the facsimile.
Victor looked at it.
His face changed.
Luca noticed.
“So Elias kept one.”
The words came through the audio clearly.
My heart stopped.
Victor knew my father had copied the ledger.
Roman said, “You knew.”
Victor folded the paper.
“I knew he was frightened.”
“Did you know Sofia had the rest?”
Victor smiled sadly.
“She should have stayed out of things she didn’t understand.”
Roman moved one step closer.
Dominic’s hand went to his radio.
Luca lifted a palm.
“Careful.”
Roman stopped.
“You burned the warehouse.”
Victor’s face changed.
Luca spoke first.
“No. Sofia burned it.”
I frowned.
Roman did too.
“What?”
“She started a fire in the records room when she realized men were coming for her files,” Luca said. “Bellandi locked the loading doors. The fire spread faster than expected.”
Victor snapped toward him.
“Shut up.”
There it was.
Not a full confession.
Enough.
Roman’s voice lowered.
“You locked her in.”
Victor looked at him.
“I was following orders.”
Luca’s face went still.
Roman looked at Luca.
“Whose?”
For the first time, Luca did not answer.
Then the warehouse lights went out.
The audio filled with movement.
Dominic swore.
Gunshots cracked below.
Not many.
Two.
Then three.
I moved toward the door.
Dominic blocked me.
“No.”
“Roman is down there.”
“So are six of our men.”
“I can identify the painting.”
“This is not an appraisal appointment.”
Another shot.
Then Roman’s voice came through the earpiece.
“Dominic. North exit.”
Alive.
My knees nearly weakened.
Dominic spoke into the radio.
“Copy.”
The emergency lights came on inside the warehouse.
Through the window, I saw Victor running toward the loading bay.
Luca had disappeared.
Roman was behind a concrete pillar, one hand pressed to his upper arm.
Blood darkened his shirt.
I stopped breathing.
Dominic moved.
Everything after that happened fast.
Men entered from both sides.
Victor was tackled near the service road.
One Moretti guard surrendered.
Another fled.
Roman remained standing.
That was all I cared about for one terrible minute.
When they brought him across the street, I forgot every argument I had rehearsed.
“Sit down.”
He looked at me.
“You sound like me.”
“You were shot.”
“Grazed.”
“You are bleeding through your shirt.”
“Technically still grazed.”
I grabbed the first-aid kit from Dominic.
Roman sat.
I cut the sleeve with medical scissors.
The bullet had carved a shallow path across the outside of his arm.
Ugly.
Painful.
Not life-threatening.
I exhaled for what felt like the first time in five minutes.
Roman watched me clean the wound.
“You came toward the door.”
I kept my eyes on the bandage.
“You noticed?”
“I notice everything.”
“I hate that.”
“No, you don’t.”
I looked up.
He was right.
That was becoming a problem.
Dominic entered carrying the landscape painting.
“We got this.”
I stood immediately.
Roman caught my wrist.
“Later.”
I looked at the blood on his arm.
Then at the painting.
Then back at him.
“Five minutes.”
“For what?”
“To make sure you are not leaking.”
Roman smiled despite the pain.
Dominic muttered, “I’m leaving the room.”
He did.
I finished wrapping Roman’s arm.
Only then did he let go of my wrist.
The painting waited on the table.
Victor was in custody.
May you like
Luca Moretti was gone.
And somewhere inside that frame, Sofia Costa might have left the last thing she ever tried to save.
