Page 3 of The Capo & the Curator

Alone once more, I let my gaze drift to the innocuous manila folder lying beside the journal. A few glossy photographs peek out, along with a sheaf of papers—the dossier I'd requested on one Evelyn Hughes, curator at the prestigious Arcadia Historical Library.

I flip it open, unable to tamp down a grudging flicker of interest as I study the image clipped to the top page. Even in the stiff, professional portrait, there's an unmistakable spark in her warm brown eyes, a hint of the passion that's made her something of a wunderkind in the stuffy world of historical academia.

Evelyn's expertise has caught my interest in a way few things have since inheriting my grandfather's complicated legacy. That keen, inquisitive mind of hers may well be the key to unlocking the mysteries he left behind, securing my foothold over the empire he spent decades building.

A muffled commotion from the hall breaks my reverie. I straighten, sliding the journal closer as the door opens once more. Aldo strides in first, his expression unreadable as ever. He moves aside, allowing my newest consultant to enter.

And there she is.

My first impression is that the dossier photos don't do the woman justice. Soft tendrils of chestnut hair frame a face that, while unembellished, holds an undeniable warmth, even through the wary trepidation clouding her features. Our eyes meet, and I find myself searching that thoughtful gaze for any flicker of fear or uncertainty.

Surprisingly, I find none.

"Ms. Hughes," I greet, my tone polite yet weighted with an undercurrent of authority that leaves little doubt as to the nature of this situation. "Thank you for joining me."

Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "I didn't have much choice in the matter, did I?"

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. Spirited. I can respect that.

"Circumstances may have been unconventional," I allow, "but I assure you, you're in no danger here. So long as you cooperate, that is."

Pushing back from the desk, I rise to my feet and round the corner, journal in hand. Evelyn tenses almost instinctively as I approach, but I keep a respectable distance between us, placing the leather-bound tome on the low coffee table.

"My name is Dante Romano. This journal belonged to my grandfather," I explain. "The contents are... encrypted, shall we say. A final puzzle left behind, one that I've spent countless hours trying to solve."

Her brow furrows slightly as she studies the jumbled array of symbols and ciphers, and I can practically see the gears turning in her brilliant mind.

"And you want me to decipher it," she surmises.

"Precisely." I level her with a pointed look, letting the weight of my words sink in. "Your expertise is uniquely suited to the task at hand."

Understanding flickers in her eyes as the pieces click into place. "The article," she murmurs, more to herself than me. "On Renaissance cryptography methods. You read my work."

"Indeed." A brief glimpse into her world, one that couldn't be more diametrically opposed to mine. "Your insights caught my attention. I have a knack for recognizing valuable assets when I see them."

She regards me for a long moment, clearly sizing up the situation—and me, by extension. To her credit, the woman doesn't flinch from my scrutiny.

"And after?" she asks at last, lifting her chin a fraction in subtle defiance. "What happens once I've decoded this for you?"

I can't help but admire her daring, even as I let the full gravity of her circumstance settle over us both like a shroud. "That will depend entirely on how valuable an asset you prove to be, Ms. Hughes. I trust I don't need to spell out the consequences of anything less than your full cooperation."

Her throat works in a tight swallow, but she gives a minute nod of understanding. Smart woman.

Turning on my heel, I retake my seat behind the imposing desk, the very picture of casual dominance. "You'll be provided with everything you need—resources, materials, whatever your work requires. Aldo will see to your accommodations for the duration of this project."

I let my gaze bore into hers, letting the weight of that single word—project—resonate between us. Whether she wants it or not, her life has become inextricably bound to this endeavor. It's a reality she would do well to accept.

"I expect regular updates on your progress," I continue, steepling my fingers beneath my chin. "Do not mistake my hospitality for leniency. This journal's contents are of the utmost importance. I trust I've made myself clear?"

Another nod, this one tinged with the faintest undercurrent of trepidation. Good. Fear can be motivating when applied judiciously.

"Excellent." I give a dismissive flick of my wrist toward Aldo, signaling the end of our discussion. "We have an understanding, then. Get to work, Ms. Hughes. I'll be watching."

Chapter 3

Evelyn

Isit perched on the edge of the ornately carved four-poster bed, fingers twisting restlessly in the silken sheets as I survey my temporary accommodations.

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