Chapter 4 - The Painting in the Bridal Suite
The wedding was supposed to begin at four the following afternoon.
At nine that morning, nobody knew if there would still be one.
Ethan confessed everything.
He had invested money belonging to his real-estate company into a development promoted by Moretti-connected brokers.
When the project collapsed, he borrowed more to hide the first loss.
Then more.
Then he made the worst decision possible.
He told Linda.
Linda, terrified Chloe would lose the wedding and the future she believed her daughter deserved, agreed to use the Oak Park house as temporary collateral.
“I thought we would fix it before you found out,” she told Sadi.
They stood in the bridal suite.
Sadi stared at her mother.
“That sentence should be engraved on our family crest.”
Linda cried.
Sadi was too tired to comfort her.
Roman stood near the window.
He had remained through the night.
Not because Sadi asked.
Because Moretti’s people had photographed her at his home.
That made the threat personal.
Still, he kept his men outside the country club.
Sadi had insisted.
“This is Chloe’s wedding.”
Roman had answered, “Someone threatened you here.”
“And fifty innocent people are downstairs.”
He had stared at her.
Then said, “Fine.”
It was the first argument she had ever won against a crime boss.
It would not be the last.
Chloe sat in front of a mirror wearing half her makeup.
“I don’t know if I can marry him.”
Ethan stood near the door.
“I understand.”
Chloe looked at him.
“That makes me angrier.”
Sadi left them to talk.
She wandered downstairs.
Workers were still decorating.
White roses.
Candles.
Gold ribbons.
At the end of the east corridor, a large oil painting hung beneath a brass light.
Sadi stopped.
She had noticed it the night before.
Now something bothered her.
Her art-history degree had been the joke of her family for years.
Twelve thousand dollars of student debt to identify dead painters.
That was how Derek once described it.
Sadi stepped closer.
The painting depicted Lake Michigan at dusk.
Signed: L. Hartwell, 1918.
Except the pigment was wrong.
Not visually.
Historically.
The blue in the shadows had a synthetic brightness inconsistent with the supposed date.
Sadi touched nothing.
She leaned closer.
The craquelure—the fine pattern of aging paint—looked manufactured.
“Roman.”
He appeared twenty seconds later.
She turned.
“Were you following me?”
“Yes.”
“Creepy.”
“Consistent.”
She pointed at the painting.
“That’s fake.”
Roman looked at it.
“You can tell?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because my useless degree apparently survived.”
He ignored the sarcasm.
“What matters?”
“The country club claims this is worth several million.”
Roman’s attention sharpened.
“How do you know?”
“The plaque.”
He looked.
Sadi continued.
“If someone is moving money through art, fake provenance can turn almost nothing into millions.”
Roman looked at her.
“How much art is in this building?”
Sadi slowly scanned the corridor.
A lot.
The country club was practically a gallery.
Within an hour she had identified four suspicious works.
Same dealer.
Same insurer.
Same offshore ownership company before donation.
Roman made two calls.
Neither involved murder.
Sadi considered that progress.
The shell company led to one of Moretti’s financial intermediaries.
But something else appeared in the paperwork.
Ethan’s failed development had purchased “consulting services” from the same art dealer.
Sadi stared at the documents.
“They weren’t lending Ethan money.”
Roman nodded.
“They were moving it through him.”
“So when the project failed—”
“They needed someone else to absorb the loss.”
“My family.”
“Yes.”
Sadi sat down.
For the first time, Roman crouched in front of her rather than towering over her.
“This started before you worked for me.”
“How long?”
“At least eighteen months.”
“My father died three years ago.”
Roman waited.
Sadi thought.
Her father, Martin Miller, had managed insurance claims for high-value property.
Paintings included.
Her stomach tightened.
“What?”
Roman noticed immediately.
“My dad.”
“What about him?”
“He investigated art claims.”
Roman became still.
Sadi looked toward the fake Hartwell.
“He used to complain about a dealer.”
“Name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Think.”
She hated that command.
But she thought.
Christmas dinner.
Her father complaining about a gallery owner who insured the same paintings repeatedly.
A name.
“Vescari.”
Roman’s face changed.
“You know him.”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“Dead.”
Of course.
“How?”
“Car accident three years ago.”
Sadi’s skin went cold.
“My father died three years ago.”
Roman did not answer.
Sadi looked at him.
“My father had a heart attack.”
“That’s what you were told?”
The question landed badly.
“Don’t.”
“Sadi—”
“Do not turn my father into one of your conspiracy boards because you recognize a name.”
Roman stood.
“I’m not.”
She glared.
“Then what are you doing?”
“Trying not to lie to you.”
That stopped her.
Roman pulled out his phone.
He opened an old photograph.
Two men stood outside a restaurant.
One was Roman.
Younger.
The other was Sadi’s father.
She stared.
“That’s Dad.”
“Yes.”
“You knew him?”
“I met him once.”
“Why?”
Roman’s expression changed.
“Because he came to me with evidence.”
Sadi’s heartbeat became deafening.
“Evidence of what?”
“Moretti money being laundered through insured artwork.”
Sadi stepped backward.
“No.”
“He wanted protection.”
“And did you give it to him?”
Roman did not answer quickly enough.
Her eyes filled.
“Roman.”
“I told him I wouldn’t involve myself.”
Sadi stared at him.
“Why?”
“It wasn’t my business.”
“My father died six weeks later.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“I know.”
Something inside Sadi cracked.
“You knew?”
“I learned after.”
“You knew my father?”
“I knew his name.”
“And you hired me?”
Roman looked at her.
“That part was coincidence.”
She laughed bitterly.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t.”
She walked away.
Roman did not stop her.
At the bridal-suite door, Sadi turned.
“Last night you said everything was a transaction.”
Roman’s expression hardened.
She continued.
“Maybe I finally understand why you volunteered.”
Then she went inside and shut the door.
On the other side, Roman stood alone with the painting.
May you like
For the first time since the fake relationship began, he looked less like a man controlling a situation—
and more like a man realizing the price of an old decision had just walked away from him.
