Chapter 1 - The Man Behind the Name
“Yes,” he said. “I know.”
Those four words should not have frightened me more than his name.
They did.
I took the document case from the man in the corridor and checked the brass clasp. Still locked. Whatever else had happened that morning, I had not lost a seventeenth-century manuscript in an elevator.
A modest professional victory.
“How do you know it’s mine?”
Luca Ferraro glanced at the tag.
“The shop’s name is on it. You’ve been holding it like someone entrusted you with their firstborn.”
A perfectly reasonable answer.
I had become suspicious of those.
The hotel manager stood nearby, hands folded so tightly his knuckles looked bloodless.
“Mr. Ferraro, shall I have breakfast brought to your suite?”
Luca looked at me instead.
“Do you want him kept downstairs?”
I knew whom he meant.
“Yes.”
He turned to the manager.
“The man in the charcoal jacket. She doesn’t want him following her. Your security staff can handle that.”
“Of course.”
No threat. No theatrical whisper.
Somehow, the manager looked more frightened.
I adjusted the case against my chest.
“I should go. And I really am sorry about the elevator.”
“You already apologized.”
“Yes, but now I know who you are.”
Something almost amused moved across his face.
“Does that change the apology?”
“It changes how urgently I’d like it accepted.”
“It’s accepted.”
I pressed the elevator button.
One of his men shifted, then stopped when Luca lifted a finger.
Nobody blocked me.
That mattered.
“What floor?” Luca asked.
“Seventeen.”
“You’re on twenty-four.”
“I noticed.”
“Who are you delivering to?”
The instructions came back immediately.
Hand it to no one else.
“That’s confidential.”
He inclined his head.
“Then keep it confidential.”
The doors opened.
I stepped inside, relieved enough to feel foolish.
Before they closed, Luca spoke again.
“If the man downstairs bothers you, tell the front desk. You don’t owe him a conversation.”
My throat tightened unexpectedly.
Callum had spent two years convincing me that every boundary required a hearing.
Luca said it as though it were an ordinary fact.
On seventeen, I found the correct suite.
A white-haired man opened the door before I knocked twice.
“Miss Bennett?”
“Clara Bennett. Alderton & Gray.”
“Of course. Come in.”
Dr. Adrian Wescott was exactly what I expected a private collector to look like: careful clothes, expensive glasses, and an expression suggesting the rest of humanity had disappointed him by touching things.
A younger assistant waited beside a table.
I remained near the door.
“I’ll need identification and your signature before opening the case.”
“Your employer is wonderfully thorough.”
“She likes her books returned.”
He produced identification matching Ruth’s paperwork.
I checked it, recorded the delivery, and placed the case on the table.
When I opened it, Dr. Wescott leaned forward.
Too quickly.
His eyes went straight to the lower edge of the back cover.
Not the illumination.
Not the binding.
A small patch of newer leather near the hinge.
I had noticed it while preparing the condition report.
An old repair, I’d assumed.
“Has anyone examined this since yesterday?” he asked.
“Only our staff.”
“Which staff?”
The question sharpened the room.
“My employer and me.”
His assistant stopped writing.
Dr. Wescott smiled.
It arrived half a second late.
“Professional curiosity.”
I looked at the book again.
Ruth’s instructions specified an inspection, not a permanent handover. The collector had forty minutes to examine it before I returned it to the shop.
“I’ll remain while you inspect.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“It’s part of our agreement.”
His smile disappeared.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Callum.
You have no idea whose elevator you got into.
Another followed.
Don’t let Wescott open the back cover.
I stared at the screen.
Dr. Wescott noticed.
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” I said.
For once, the word came easily.
“I need to call my employer.”
He moved between me and the door.
Not touching me.
Just occupying the space.
My pulse began hammering.
Behind him, the assistant quietly turned the suite’s deadbolt.
I looked at the book on the table.
Then at the two men.
May you like
Whatever I had carried into the Claridge that morning, it was no longer merely a manuscript.
And Callum had known before I did.
