Page 93 of Forging Caine

The guard would probably also hover in front of our door for the hour, like they did on the yacht.

The ceilings on the second floor were ten-feet high, with chandeliers reminiscent of lanterns holding candles. The walls were pale peach, with rows of small paintings between the doors. At the far end of the hall, there appeared to be another staircase, more utilitarian than the sweeping central one. Likely for staff.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” said the guard, after he’d stopped at a door. Back? He was leaving us?

Antonio opened the door and ushered me in. “Your palace awaits.”

Palace it was. The room was larger than ours at home—which was oversized, like the rest of Antonio’s condo. Our condo. A king-sized bed in sage green sheets with a matching canopy nestled against one wall, while a seating area with love seats and a wing chair clustered around a fireplace. Two sets of bay windows with plush seating looked over the front yard. More sculptures on the chests, on the mantle, and standing near the door.

“I hate this place,” I muttered, wandering to a door which led to an opulent bathroom. “How dare he have so much fucking money?”

Antonio paused by the bed, where stacks of blue clothing lay. He picked one shirt up and held it in front of himself. “They’re soft, if nothing else.”

Simple white sneakers sat next to the bed. “Staff uniforms. Awesome.”

“Care to join me in the shower? We have an hour, you know.”

I made my way to the door and whipped it open. But no one was there. I closed it and locked it behind me. “How is this even possible? Your own uncle wouldn’t leave us be, but Fiori does? The one we could legitimately call the police on for kidnapping us, let alone anything else?”

Antonio shook his head slowly. “Because he knows we won’t. He holds too many cards.”

“How are you so calm about this?” I marched to the closest bay window and studied the geography. Driveway. Garage with five doors.

“We have a job to do here. And getting angry will only delay our progress.” The air grew thick behind me, his scent faint after not being able to put his cologne on this morning. He smelled more like the floral shampoo from the yacht, which was all wrong for him. “In this world—the smuggling world—they don’t sign formal agreements or contracts. A man is only as good as his word. And Fiori’s given us his.”

“You said he was a manipulator.”

“This is about promises, not about conversations. My Zio Giovanni is the same way. He’ll say anything to convince you to do his bidding, but if he swears on something, that’s different.”

The driveway wound through the woods, preventing me from seeing how long it was or where a road might be. The trees were too tall to see any other houses. I continued sweeping left when I saw—

Shit.

I jabbed my finger at the window. “Look at that!”

“At what?”

“The hand!” A sculpture stood on the lawn, at the center of a round rose garden. A hand. Bent at ninety degrees, cut off at the wrist. “From the onionskin sheets!”

“You’re kidding?” Antonio leaned around me, peering outside.

“This is Mr. X’s house!”

“Mr. X?”

I spun in his grip. “Lucy sent me a magazine about an art collector called Mr. X and his amazing house on Long Island!” We were in New York! “And it included that sculpture!”

Antonio’s head tilted. He was missing some facts to help put it all together.

“Mr. X bought the strange stamp on the letter that went to your father’s office and the hand statue. Fiori is Mr. X. But here’s the best part: the painting on the onionskins was in the files Elliot gave me from the pawnshop.”

“So…” He made shapes while he talked, circling to collect his thoughts. “The onionskin letter came from here, with the noteStolen 13 Fell. The water symbol must mean the water at the back and the hand was that statue. The person who wrote it was clearly giving us a location, so the address must be 13 Fell.”

“Fell-something. I think they screwed up with the layers.”

“Let me check.” He pulled out his phone and turned it on.

“Leave it off, save the battery until we can find a charger.” Our location wasn’t as important as the rest of it. “But if the painting was at the center of the letter, that means—”

---