Page 417 of Rosetti Family New York
He turns to leave, but pauses at the doorway. "Whatever you're wrestling with, whatever choice you think you have to make alone—you don't. We're in this together now."
Together. The word should comfort me. Instead, it feels like another wall closing in.
After he leaves, I retreat to the sitting room, trying to find calm in the storm of my thoughts. But every flash of lightning makesme think of Chase, of the way his smile never reached his eyes when he was disappointed in me.
He killed my parents. The thought hits me fresh, a knife between my ribs. The man who raised me, who taught me to appreciate beauty and culture, who gave me everything after they died. He killed them first.
Fourteen years. Fourteen years I've been grateful to my parents' murderer.
The memory hits without warning. My parents' funeral. Chase's strong hand on my nine-year-old shoulder, his voice gentle with grief. "They would want you to be strong, Isabella. To carry on their love of beautiful things."
All lies. Every word, every gesture, every moment of kindness built on the foundation of murder.
My phone buzzes against the side table where I left it charging. The caller ID makes my stomach clench: Libby Donaldson from the Met.
"Libby," I answer, forcing my voice into professional warmth. "How are things?"
"Isabella, thank God. I wasn't sure you'd pick up." Her voice carries unusual tension. "Listen, I know you're dealing with family matters, but something strange happened today that I thought you should know about."
My pulse quickens. "What kind of strange?"
"Donald Henson called me this morning. You remember him, right? Big donor, always sniffing around the European paintings?"
I remember Donald perfectly. The way he looked at me like I was art he wanted to acquire. "Of course."
"Well, he contacted me about purchasing pieces from a private collection. Said he'd been approached by Chase Callahan about liquidating some significant works. Renaissance drawings, a small Monet, some carved jade pieces worth serious money."
The blood drains from my face. Chase doesn't sell art. He collects it obsessively, hoards it like a dragon guarding treasure. "That doesn't sound like my uncle."
"That's what I thought. But here's the really weird part—Henson said Chase seemed desperate to move the pieces quickly. Below market value, cash transactions only, no authentication delays. The behavior of someone who needs money fast."
My hands start to shake. "How much money?"
"Henson estimated the collection he was shown at around twelve million. But that was just what Chase brought to the initial meeting. He mentioned having much more available for immediate sale."
The phone slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against the hardwood floor. Twelve million. The number echoes in my head like a death knell.
I sink onto the nearest chair, my legs giving out completely. Twelve million dollars. Enough to fund an army. Enough to buy serious firepower and experienced soldiers. Enough to turn a warehouse meeting into a bloodbath.
"Isabella? Isabella, are you there?"
Libby's voice sounds distant, tinny. I retrieve the phone with shaking hands. "Yes, sorry. Just... processing."
"Did he say anything else?" My voice comes out strangled.
"Just that Chase seemed different. Agitated. Like a man preparing for something big." Libby pauses. "Is everything okay? With your family situation?"
"Everything's fine," I whisper, the lie tasting like ash. "Thank you for letting me know. I should go."
I end the call and sit staring at the phone in my trembling hands. The room spins around me as the implications crash over me in waves.
Chase is liquidating his most precious possessions. The uncle who would rather die than part with a single piece of his collection is selling millions worth of art to raise cash fast. He always said he'd only sell his collection when he was ready to burn the world.
This isn't a negotiation he's planning. It's a massacre.
The Rosettis think they're going to a meeting. They're walking into a slaughter.
I press my hands to my mouth, fighting the urge to be sick. All this time, I've been thinking about loyalty and betrayal in abstract terms. But this isn't about choosing sides in some family dispute. This is about preventing mass murder.
