Page 95 of Forging Caine

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cam-ron.” Antonio came to my side and shook Cam-ron’s hand. “Samantha never mentioned you were a conservator.”

His head fell. “I did restoration work for my dad from time to time. I’m more of a painter than anything else, but I…”

Zane’s lip curled and he shouldered his way past Cam-ron. “I trained at the Courtauld and have worked at the Louvre Abu Dhabi and the Met.”

Antonio shook Zane’s hand. “They hardly need me here with that pedigree.”

Were one of these two responsible for telling FioriThe Music LessonandThe Concertwere authentic? With all this equipment and Zane’s attitude, I would have expected better work.

“Samantha, your workstation is over here.” Fiori waved me to a desk in the corner with two monitors and a laptop. “I’ve provided an email program which will allow you to communicate with any of your or Antonio’s sources. I trust you’ll be discreet.”

Memories flashed through my brain. Tucking Cass into bed after chemo. Antonio pushing Emma on the swing. Sofia pressing me for wedding details. Nico’s face when he opened his Christmas Eve present last year. My gaze settled on Antonio, in conversation with the two conservators. The terror after Parker shot into the Ferraro’s studio and I didn’t know if Antonio was dead or alive.

“We’re not experts.” My voice sounded weak even to my ears. “True authentication work requires study that can’t be done from a single room.”

Fiori placed his hand on the small of my back, his velvet cologne wafting over me. “You’re resourceful. I’m sure you’ll figure things out.”

Zane piped up, apparently listening more to my conversation than Antonio’s. “You’d be surprised what you can do here. I authenticated a remarkable seventeenth century Dutch masterpiece just the other week.”

So he was the one who’d authenticated at least one of the forgeries.

Fiori’s dangerous smile turned on Zane. “And that’s why they’re here.”

“What do you mean, signore?”

“Because you saidThe Concertwas the real thing. And it’s not.”

Zane’s chin dipped. “What? Did they tell you it’s not?”

“It had indigo in it, Zane.” Fiori turned to me. “That was it, right? Indigo was the wrong blue?”

I nodded.

Zane scoffed at me, no doubt happy to have somewhere to direct his derision. “Indigo has been used since the Greeks and the Romans.”

“Pasquale, we’re also playing the odds.” Antonio shrugged. Arguing against our findings wasn’t the safest idea, but hopefully it helped increase Fiori’s trust in us. “There was a study done in the 60s which covered most of the known Vermeers and only one used indigo. It’s possible it was present in more, but the study simply didn’t sample those sections.”

“And the sketch underneath?” Fiori seemed to argue in our favor now.

Before I could say anything else, Zane rolled his eyes. “I’m going to take a second look. These two don’t seem sure of anything.”

“You will do no such thing,” snapped Fiori. “You will continue the work you’ve been assigned. If they ask you to do something, you do it.”

Antonio spread his hands wide in conciliation. “We’re all professionals, right? I’m sure we can get along.”

“I know I can.” Cam-ron smiled up at Antonio.

The physical difference between the two of them struck me. How did I wind up with this tall, gorgeous, brilliant Italian art conservator? How was I wearing his engagement ring on my finger? And how the hell was I going to get out of this place so I could marry him someday?

“Perfect.” Fiori crossed to the open shelves. “Would you like to see what you’ll be working on?”

Antonio, Cam-ron, Zane, and I gathered around the shelves.

Fiori pulled out the first one and my stomach twisted in knots.

Nineteenth-century painting of a man in a dress coat and top hat, sitting at a desk by a window, writing on a sheet of paper. There was a glass of pale wine next to him. It wasChez Tortoni, by Manet. Less than a foot tall and just over a foot wide.

Stolen in the Gardner Heist.

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