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Florence, Italy.
Sunlight poured through the arched windows of the old studio, casting long golden slants across the dust-filled air. Eva Duvall crouched beneath a beam of it, her gloved fingers hovering over the cracked face of a centuries-old Madonna.
She didn't blink. She barely breathed.
A brush the size of a sewing needle danced in her grip, tip loaded with a fragment of pigment precisely mixed to match the ochre of the Virgin's robe. It was delicate work—surgical. The Madonna had survived fire, war, humidity, even smugglers. Now, at last, she would survive time itself.
Eva pressed the brush down, completing a line no wider than a strand of hair.
Behind her, the floor creaked.
She froze. Her brush hovered mid-air. The only people with access to the studio were herself, her assistant (on vacation), and the museum's chief curator.
"Closed," she called out firmly, not turning around. "I'm in the middle of stabilization."
Silence.
Then, a voice: "It's not the painting I came to see."
It was deep—velvet over gravel, with just enough of a Roman edge to suggest money, power, or both.
Eva straightened slowly and turned.
The man standing in the doorway wore a tailored charcoal suit, silk shirt open at the collar, no tie. Tall, olive skin, sharp eyes that looked like they didn't miss much. He leaned against the frame like it belonged to him. Like the world did.
"Who are you?" she asked, already reaching for the palette knife behind her on the table—an improvised weapon, if necessary.
"My name's Luca Moretti," he said. "I represent a client with a very particular restoration request."
Eva's heart skipped. Not at his name—though she recognized it, vaguely—but at the tone. Smooth. Practiced. Dangerous.
"Who gave you access?"
"Your friend in security," he replied easily. "Giovanni, I believe. Lovely man. Very… helpful."
That sent a chill down her spine.
"I'm not accepting private clients right now," she said. "I'm booked through the spring."
Luca took a step into the studio. Not threatening—deliberate.
"This wouldn't be for a gallery," he said. "It's… more sensitive."
She crossed her arms, holding his gaze. "You mean stolen."
He smiled, and damn it, it was charming. But there was steel behind it. "I said sensitive, not criminal."
Eva let the silence grow. She had a rule: if someone tried to flatter her during an unsolicited offer, they were probably lying. If they smiled while doing it, they were definitely trouble.
He didn't press her. Just reached into his coat and withdrew a small leather folio. He placed it gently on the worktable, just beside the Madonna.
Inside was a high-resolution photograph.
Eva's eyes narrowed.
It was a Taddeo Gaddi. Or something nearly identical. But the coloring was too vivid. The border too clean. The wear patterns weren't right.
A forgery.
A very good one.
She looked up slowly. "Where did you get this?"
"My client would like a duplicate. An authentic forgery, you might say." Luca shrugged. "It's a simple request, for a very large sum."
Eva studied him. Every red flag in her body was waving. "You don't want a duplicate," she said. "You want me to make one that's indistinguishable from the original—so you can sell it."
Luca tilted his head, as if amused by her directness. "That would be your assumption."
"I'm not interested."
He nodded slowly, as though expecting that. Then he took a small envelope from his inner coat pocket and placed it beside the photo.
Eva stared at it but didn't touch it.
"That's… insurance," Luca said softly. "In case you reconsider."
She waited until he left.
Only after his footsteps disappeared down the corridor did she pick up the envelope and pull out the photograph inside.
It was of her. Standing in the courtyard of her apartment. Then another—her at a café. Then a third—her bank ledger.
She swallowed hard.
And at the bottom of the stack… a photo of her brother.
Dead.
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