Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Paint
Morning arrived over Lake Michigan in cold shades of slate gray and silver. The news cycle was already in a frenzy. On the wide flat-screen monitor in Raphael’s study, news anchors dissected the Castellane House heist with breathless excitement.
“FUGITIVE HEIRESS TO FORGERY EMPIRE STRIKES AGAIN,” screamed the red banner across the bottom of the screen. A frozen frame from the security footage showing the woman in the emerald dress was broadcast side-by-side with Vivian’s old college graduation photo.
Vivian turned off the television with the remote, her stomach churning. She had spent the night awake, pacing the leather-paneled room, unable to shake the haunting image of her double.
The door opened, and Raphael entered. He wore an immaculate black cashmere sweater, dark trousers, and carried a thick manila folder under his arm. Behind him, Enzo wheeled in a silver breakfast cart laden with fresh coffee, warm pastries, and fresh fruit.
“Eat,” Raphael commanded gently, setting the folder on the desk.
“I can't eat while my life is being dismantled on live television,” Vivian said, crossing her arms over the simple black sweater and jeans Raphael’s staff had provided her earlier. “How did someone find a woman who looks identical to me? I don't have a sister. I don't have cousins.”
Raphael pulled up a high-resolution surveillance photo on his laptop, gesturing for her to come closer. Vivian stepped behind his shoulder, leaning down to inspect the screen.
“Look closer at the cheekbones and the jawline,” Raphael pointed out, tapping the digital zoom. “The bone structure is slightly broader. The nose bridge is narrower. It’s not a twin, Vivian. It’s professional theater-grade prosthetics and digital contouring. Combined with the low-resolution infrared cameras in the garden and the identical dress, the trick was seamless.”
“Who has the money and the resources to pull off something like that for a single painting?” Vivian asked, her brow furrowing.
“The man who hired your father six years ago,” Raphael replied, opening the manila folder.
Inside were grainy black-and-white photographs of a private airfield outside London, shipping manifests for heavy cargo containers, and bank transaction sheets from offshore Cayman accounts.
Vivian gasped as she recognized a name repeated on three separate manifests. “Julian Ashcroft’s family trust.”
“Not Julian,” Raphael clarified, his voice darkening. “Julian is a lightweight. An insecure boy trying to play at being an aristocrat. The real architect is his uncle, Lord Alistair Ashcroft. In the private collecting world, he is known simply as ‘The Englishman.’”
Vivian’s hand flew to her mouth. The Englishman. The very name written in her father’s leather journal: Brought for cleaning by the Englishman. He does not know I recognized it.
“Six years ago,” Raphael explained, turning his chair to face her, “my family was tracking a syndicate of European antiquities thieves who were funneling looted art through Chicago’s cargo terminals. Your father realized that the restorations he was performing for Ashcroft were stolen pieces destined for black-market auctions. When Thomas threatened to go to the authorities, Ashcroft planted forged certificates in his studio, called the feds, and let your father take the blame.”
“And his heart gave out before he could defend himself,” Vivian said, tears stinging her eyes as the horrifying truth locked into place. “They murdered him without ever firing a bullet.”
“Ashcroft thought the secrets died with your father,” Raphael said, standing up and closing the distance between them. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against her skin. “Until you appraised the Madonna four months ago in Lake Forest and discovered the hidden blossom. Ashcroft realized you had inherited your father’s knowledge. He decided to eliminate you the same way he eliminated Thomas—by framing you for the ultimate theft.”
Vivian looked up into Raphael’s intense dark eyes, feeling an electric current hum through her veins. “Why did you buy the painting in Geneva, Raphael? Why did you bring it to Chicago?”
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Raphael leaned in, his breath warm against her temple. “To draw Ashcroft out of the shadows. I knew he couldn't resist stealing it back before it was returned to Sicily. I set the trap, Vivian. But I didn't anticipate that he would use you as the bait.”
His hand slid down from her shoulder, his fingers threading through hers, warm and solid. “Tonight, we change the rules of his game.”
