---
Florence, 8:06 a.m. – The Moretti Villa
Luca Moretti stood before the fire, rolling an old silver coin across his knuckles. One of Constantine's. Blood-stained history pressed into pure Roman silver.
His grandfather's favorite.
The crackle of the logs behind him was soft. Controlled. Like Luca himself.
A man in a pressed black shirt entered the room. Marco Ricci — security chief, personal fixer, and occasional executioner.
"She took the envelope," Marco reported. "Burned the copy of her brother's death cert, but kept the photos. And the money stayed untouched."
Luca didn't look surprised.
"She called someone last night. Julian Ferrell."
That got his attention.
"The MI6 dropout?"
Marco nodded. "They met on the Ponte Vecchio."
Luca smiled faintly. "How poetic."
"Should I handle it?"
"No," Luca said, turning from the fire. "Let her think she has room. She's more useful when she believes she's choosing it."
Marco raised an eyebrow. "You trust her that much?"
Luca's fingers paused on the coin.
"No," he said quietly. "But I trust her obsession."
---
Later That Morning – Eva's Studio
The bell above the studio door chimed. Eva didn't look up.
"You're early," she said coolly.
Luca stepped inside, slower than before. More deliberate. As if testing the boundaries between charm and command.
"I thought we might discuss the terms," he said, placing a small wooden box on her table.
She didn't answer. Just peeled off her gloves and opened it.
Inside: a single piece of stretched canvas. Blank.
And beneath it — a vial of antique pigment. Ultramarine. The real kind. Crushed lapis lazuli from Afghanistan, centuries old.
"Authentic materials," he said. "So your work doesn't trigger any scans."
She finally met his gaze. "You know a lot about this process."
"I have an eye for quality."
There it was again—flattery. But this time, he wasn't smiling.
He was watching her. Studying her, like a painting himself.
Eva closed the box.
"Tell me what you really want."
Luca moved around the studio, letting his fingers drift over frames and dust jackets.
"The Gaddi," he said at last. "The original's been missing since 1943. My father believes it was smuggled out by a priest during the Allied retreat. Hidden in plain sight. Passed down. Sold. Forgotten."
"And now it's surfaced?"
"No. But someone forged it. Brilliantly. We think it's a clue."
Eva frowned. "You want me to… reverse-engineer it?"
Luca nodded. "Layer by layer. Technique by technique. You find the code in the brushwork, the signature under the signature. I want to know what was painted before."
She stared at him. "So this isn't about selling a fake."
"No," he said. "This is about unlocking a map."
---
That Night – Palazzo Vecchio Archives
Julian crouched in the darkened records vault, flashlight clamped in his teeth, fingers rifling through boxes stamped WWII Repatriation: Vatican Transit.
He paused on one name: Padre Emilio Verrano. A priest. Disappeared in 1944. Reported as dead.
The same name scribbled in faint ink on the back of the Gaddi photo Eva had shown him.
Julian's gut twisted.
If the Morettis were chasing church secrets, this wasn't just about art. It was about power. The kind that reshaped borders, rewrote debts, toppled governments.
He tapped a quick message into the burner phone:
THE PAINTING HIDES A CODE. WATCH YOUR BACK.
Then he slipped into the night, unaware that a red-lens camera followed his every move from a rooftop across the piazza.
---
Meanwhile – Eva's Apartment
Eva couldn't sleep.
The vial of lapis sat on her desk, glowing in the moonlight like a blue flame.
She reached for her sketchbook and opened a new page.
Not to plan the forgery.
But to draw Luca.
She didn't know why.
His eyes. The way he moved. The shadow of grief behind his charm.
She hated him.
And she couldn't stop thinking about him.
She shaded the page with the side of her pencil, pressing harder than she meant to.
And in the margins, without realizing it, she wrote her brother's name.
Then circled it.
Twice.