Chapter 2: False Faces and Fine Wine
Emilia Hart – Evening – Moretti's Private Estate
The invitation arrived wrapped in cream linen paper, delivered by a man in a suit who didn't say a word. No return address. Just a single line, scrawled in elegant ink:
"Dinner. 9 PM. Dress like you mean it." —L.M.
Emilia stood in her apartment staring at the card as if it might bite her. She didn't need a clock to feel the seconds ticking down. This wasn't just a dinner. It was a test. A threshold.
She slipped into the dress she'd chosen for this very occasion—a deep emerald silk that clung to her like a secret. Not flashy, but not forgettable. Paired with black stilettos and a single diamond teardrop earring—enough to play the part, not enough to look like she was trying.
She left the gun at home.
9:01 PM — Moretti's Estate
A valet took her coat. A woman in black gloves ushered her down a long corridor lined with abstract oil paintings—silent screams on canvas. The estate was a modern cathedral of power. Stone and glass. No family portraits. Just shadow.
When she reached the dining room, Luca was already pouring wine.
"Fashionably late," he said without looking at her.
"Accidentally so," she replied, slipping into the seat across from him.
He wore dark grey tonight. No tie, collar undone. The kind of undone that was calculated. Like everything about him.
"This wine," he said, lifting the bottle, "is older than both of us. And twice as bitter."
Emilia met his gaze evenly. "Just how I like my company."
His lips curled, not quite a smile.
The food came out in quiet succession—courses designed more for seduction than sustenance. Truffle, saffron, oysters. She didn't touch the oysters.
Conversation stayed in the safe zone at first. Art. Influence. Cities they both pretended to love.
"I don't believe in art for art's sake," Luca said, swirling his wine. "It's all leverage. Trade. Power. You ever look at a painting and see blood underneath the varnish?"
"More than once," Emilia said softly. "Sometimes I think the canvas screams louder than the artist."
Luca tilted his head. "And what do you scream, Miss Hart?"
"Depends on who's listening."
He studied her, wine forgotten. "You've changed since the bar."
She let the silence stretch. Let him feel the weight of not knowing.
"You ever going to tell me who you really are?" he asked.
She leaned forward just slightly. "Would you believe me if I said I'm exactly who I appear to be?"
Luca leaned back, glass in hand. "No."
A flicker of something dangerous passed between them. Heat with edges. She forced her hand to stay relaxed on the stem of her wineglass.
This was the moment Keene warned her about. The moment when the lines blur and roles threaten to swallow the real.
But she wasn't here to fall for him.
She was here to unravel him.
And she was doing it one quiet dinner at a time.
---
Later – The Balcony
The stars were a lie tonight—too many city lights to see them. But the night was cool, and the silence stretched wide.
Luca stepped out beside her, two tumblers of bourbon in hand. He passed her one without asking.
"I used to come out here to think," he said. "Now I mostly come out here to forget."
"What are you trying to forget?"
He took a sip before answering. "That sometimes ghosts wear perfume."
Emilia's spine stiffened.
Luca turned to her, his expression unreadable. "You remind me of someone. She had eyes like yours. Always looking for a way out."
"And did she find it?" Emilia asked.
"No," he said quietly. "She became the reason someone else never did."
Emilia looked away. This wasn't in the file. There was no woman mentioned in his history. No soft spot. No ghost.
Another piece of the puzzle slipped into place—and made everything messier.
Luca stepped closer, close enough that his presence wrapped around her like smoke. "You think I'm dangerous."
"I know you are."
"And yet here you are."
She met his gaze. "We all wear masks. Some of us just wear prettier ones."
Luca didn't move, but the energy between them shifted. He was calculating again. Pulling strings only he could see.
"You're hired," he said finally.
Emilia blinked. "Hired?"
"As my personal consultant. Full access to the gallery. One-on-one curation. You'll answer only to me."
"Why?" she asked, heartbeat ticking.
"Because I don't trust you," he said. "And the only way to fix that is to keep you close."
---
Two Days Later – Moretti Gallery, Upper Manhattan
The gallery was a fortress disguised as culture. Emilia now had a passcode, a title, and a glass office with a view of the main exhibit floor.
She also had eyes on every delivery, every collector, every odd gap in Moretti's security.
Cole's voice buzzed in her earpiece as she organized the new inventory list.
"You're really inside now," he said.
"Don't sound so surprised."
"Just making sure your pulse is still steady. Keene's already prepping the next phase. We think a shipment's coming in from Prague—possibly through the gallery."
"Drugs?" she whispered.
"More likely laundered money disguised as art."
Emilia scribbled a note in her private log. "I'll flag anything suspicious."
"And Luca?"
"He's watching me. Testing me. But he hasn't made a move."
"Maybe you already passed the test."
Emilia stared at the newest addition on the east wall—a painting of a woman with a veil covering half her face.
"No one ever passes with men like him," she said. "They just get better at pretending."
The gallery slept in silence, but Emilia couldn't. It was nearing midnight, and she was still seated in her glass-walled office, the city lights outside casting fractured patterns on the marble floor. Most staff had left hours ago. Even the hum of maintenance had gone quiet.
But she stayed.
Because Luca Moretti didn't operate on normal hours.
And tonight, something felt...off.
She flipped through the latest delivery manifest—pages of coded titles, vague provenance claims, and a few too many discrepancies. A bronze statue labeled "Milan, 1892" had arrived in a crate marked Budapest. A canvas listed as charcoal turned out to be layered oils. And one piece, logged simply as Untitled #13, was sealed under biometric lock.
That wasn't art. That was a message.
And Emilia was tired of waiting for Luca to make the next move.
She walked down to the storage wing, heels clicking like whispers. She passed the silent gaze of marble busts and oil-painted saints. The temperature dropped slightly as she reached the climate-controlled vault.
The lock on Untitled #13 required a fingerprint and an iris scan. Neither belonged to her.
But Cole had sent a little gift last night—a thumb-sized scanner that mimicked biometric signatures, courtesy of a hacker named Rabbit. Emilia pressed it to the panel.
The vault hissed open.
Inside: a single wooden crate. Plain. Unmarked.
Emilia pried it open carefully.
Wrapped in thick velvet and sealed in wax was not a painting—but a ledger.
Hand-bound. Leather cover. Worn with use.
Inside: a handwritten trail of sales, bank codes, auction numbers. And at the bottom of each page—stamped in red ink—a name.
G. De Rossi.
Her breath caught.
The De Rossi family. A rival syndicate Luca was never supposed to deal with. And yet, here it was—proof of transactions between them, hidden inside his gallery.
Cole's voice buzzed in her ear again. "Status check. You good?"
"No," she whispered. "I found something. You need to loop Keene in. Now."
"Describe it."
"Ledgers. Tied to the De Rossi family. Luca's either double-crossing them—or in deeper than we thought."
A beat of silence.
Then Cole said, "Get out. Now."
But it was too late.
Footsteps behind her.
Slow. Steady. Intentional.
Emilia turned, heart slamming against her ribs.
Luca stood in the vault doorway.
Not angry.
Not surprised.
Just… watching.
"I thought you'd come down here," he said softly.
She straightened her spine. "Couldn't sleep."
He stepped inside, letting the door hiss shut behind him. "Curiosity's a dangerous appetite, Miss Hart."
"So is secrecy."
He stopped in front of the crate, eyes flicking over the ledger, but he didn't touch it.
"Do you know what that book is?" he asked.
"I know what it looks like."
Luca's gaze flicked to her, unreadable. "Then you know enough to be in danger."
"I thought you wanted me close," she said.
"I do. But close doesn't mean untouchable."
His voice held no threat. But Emilia felt it anyway.
He was testing her again. Or warning her. Maybe both.
"Then tell me the truth," she said. "Why hide this?"
Luca's jaw tightened. "Because the truth doesn't belong in places like this. The truth is messy. It stains. People want polish, not blood."
He reached down, shut the crate, and locked it with a practiced twist of his wrist.
Then he looked at her—long and hard. "What are you really doing here, Emilia?"
She held his stare. "Same thing you are. Surviving."
---
The Next Morning – Keene's Safehouse – Lower Brooklyn
The apartment smelled like burnt coffee and desperation.
Emilia dropped the flash drive on the table. "This is what I got before he walked in."
Keene plugged it into his encrypted laptop without a word. Cole stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching her like she might combust.
"I told you to stay out of the vault," Cole said.
"And I told you I'd do what's necessary."
Keene pulled up the files. His eyes narrowed.
"De Rossi transactions," he muttered. "Years' worth. This changes everything."
Cole glanced at Emilia. "He didn't question you after?"
"He didn't need to. He already knew."
Keene nodded grimly. "Which means your cover isn't blown—yet. But you're in deeper now. No more second chances. From this point forward, Luca Moretti is your mission and your leash."
Emilia said nothing.
But she felt the weight of it settle in her chest like cold iron.
---
That Night – Moretti's Penthouse – Private Lounge
Emilia didn't expect to be summoned again so soon. But the black car arrived promptly at seven, just like before. No driver ID. No words exchanged.
She was beginning to wonder if Moretti employed actual ghosts.
The penthouse was wrapped in shadows and silence when she entered. Luca stood by the fireplace, nursing a glass of something dark and dangerous.
"I hope you like string quartets," he said without turning.
"I'm more of a silence girl," Emilia replied.
He looked over his shoulder. "Then you'll love this next part."
A nod—and the fireplace wall slid open.
Behind it: a narrow stairwell.
Unlit. Unknown.
Luca gestured. "After you."
She hesitated. But only for a moment.
The stairs led to a hidden basement vault—no windows, no cameras, no exits in sight.
Inside, the walls were lined with canvases. Not gallery pieces. Not labeled. Private.
Emilia stopped in front of one.
It was a portrait. A woman. Veiled, again.
But this time, her eyes were identical to Emilia's.
"I painted her," Luca said quietly. "Years ago."
"She looks like me."
"She should. You remind me of what I lost."
Emilia turned slowly. "And what exactly did you lose?"
"Someone who believed I could still be saved."
A beat passed.
Then Luca stepped forward, voice low. "I'm not sure you're real, Emilia. But I need you to be."
She could taste the truth and the lie tangled in that sentence.
And before she could stop herself, she said, "Then don't lie to me again."
He reached out, fingertips grazing her jaw.
And in that charged moment, Emilia knew: this wasn't just a con anymore. Not for either of them.
It was a game of ruin.
And someone was going to bleed.