Page 68 of Forging Caine

“Cristian, I need to go.”

“Keep me up-to-date, if you can. And remember what I said about my phone number?”

“I will.” I clicked off and met Samantha at the front door. “You told them to let him up?”

“Yeah.” She gripped my hand. “Are you ready for this?”

“Bella…” I gave her my most debonair smirk, hopefully exuding more confidence than I felt. “I was born ready.”

She shook her head and opened the door. The elevator numbers climbed to ten, and the door opened.

Jason stepped out, wearing black cargo pants and matching T-shirt, with a backpack slung over one shoulder, and a hard-sided case. It was a similar size to the first one he’d provided, which was propped against my worktable upstairs, waiting for him to take it away. He stopped before entering, and spoke in English, “Dr. Ferraro. Ms. Caine. In case you don’t remember me, my name is Jason.”

“Of course.” I waved him in and let the door close once he was inside.

“So we are clear, my job is to ensure nothing happens to this painting.” Jason pointed deliberately at his ear. “I’m not leaving without it.”

I couldn’t see a hearing device, but that must have meant someone was listening. Was it in his ear? His watch? The case? My doubts about Jason calmed for a moment. Surely, this warning meant he was loyal to the Ferraro family. Unless it was designed to throw us off and there was more than one listening device?

Several rooms in my condo had glass walls, but they were all reflective, so no one could watch us, at least.

“Antonio’s studio is upstairs.” Samantha walked out of the foyer and into the great room. “If you’ll follow me? He has all the tools we suspect he’ll need up there.”

“Suspect?” asked Jason as he climbed the stairs.

“Until I see the painting and run some tests, I won’t know exactly what I need. Pasquale didn’t provide any details on artist or period, which makes it difficult to anticipate.” I guided him to the worktable near the back, by the wall of windows and the patio.

Jason placed the case on the table. “Signore Fiori asked me to remind you that he’s looking for proof the piece is authentic. However, if there are any repairs you think are absolutely necessary, he will entertain those as well. No matter what, there is to be absolutely no risk to the integrity of the painting.”

“Sì, of course. That’s standard for any art conservator. The art comes first. Always.”

He slid aside a panel by the top handle, revealing a keypad and scanner. “Before I open it, I’ll have to ask that you don’t take any photographs or tell anyone about this project.”

“I’ll have to take some as part of the conservation effort. Infrared and x-ray images, if nothing else.”

Samantha stood on Jason’s other side from me, her breathing becoming more obvious with every passing second. She flexed her fingers, drummed them against her thighs.

Jason was quiet, raising a finger to his ear. Itwasan earpiece and it was two-way, not just one. He nodded slowly. “So long as they’re not sent to anyone and you destroy them after, that is acceptable.”

Samantha shoved a hand into her pocket. I had to stop looking at her or the anxious energy would rub off on me.

Jason punched in a code and placed his thumb next to the keypad. The case clicked, and he unlatched the lock, opening it to reveal my fate.

I drew in a sharp breath and tried in vain to slow the beating of my heart. Nestled in a foam lining cut perfectly for its ornate wooden frame lay one of the most sought-after pieces of art in the world.The Concert, by Johannes Vermeer. Barely more than two feet by two. Stolen over thirty years ago.

Samantha’s gaze was glued to it, her mouth and eyes wide. Its theft was the one she was supposed to investigate for the FBI when she joined all those years ago. She breathed, “It’s beautiful.”

“Dio santo,” I whispered. “I could have made a thousand guesses about what you were bringing me, but this would never have been one of them. It’s gorgeous.”

A woman in yellow and white sat at a harpsichord, a male lute-player sat next to her, and another woman stood while singing. The black-and-white floor pulled me in, then it was the way the light hit the white skirt of the seated woman, the paintings in the background, the lush decoration of the harpsichord’s lid. I wanted to soak it in for hours.

Ifit was the real thing.

What were our next steps if it was? There hadn’t been time to review strategies or tactics with Samantha, or even to discuss her meeting with Elliot. What were we supposed to do? The first step would be to verify if it was genuine. Then what? Hand it over to the FBI? If Jason brought it to us, was that enough of a link to Fiori?

Jason swung his backpack onto the table and withdrew a manila envelope. “And in case your word isn’t as good as Signore Fiori believes it is…” He slid out two large photos and my heart seized.

The top photo was of Cassandra and little Emma, playing in their front yard. Samantha lunged forward and grabbed it. “What’s this supposed to be?”

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