11. Emmett

Chapter 11

Emmett

Jean-Philippe guided me through the third floor, which included their old-world antiquities. Patrons strolled through the space, admiring display pieces, and a few discussed potential purchases.

He was a lean, impeccably dressed man in his early fifties. Keenly aware of the history of each piece in the De Rosa Gallery, he highlighted several Egyptian items while also mentioning a few Greek and Etruscan pieces—in case they caught my eye. He carried his tablet against his chest, glancing at it now and again, but only when he referred to buyers interested in purchasing something he recommended to me.

Considering how easily he rattled off the provenance of several pieces, it was clear he didn’t need to check the tablet for anything. He wasn’t simply a sales associate—he was a showman.

“Here we have the Egyptian blue scarab I told you about.”

It was less than an inch long, a small dome of pale blue dust compressed into a solid mass and then carved. It could almost have passed for turquoise.

“As I’m sure you know, the Egyptians considered scarabs a symbol of rebirth and transformation. They were believed to embody the god Khepri, who renewed the sun each day. Just as the beetles roll their dung balls across the land, so too did Khepri roll the sun across the sky.”

I nodded politely.

“This one dates to the twenty-sixth dynasty, and you’ll see…” Using his one gloved hand, he unlocked and opened the display case to withdraw the tiny item. He held it reverently in his palm, clear it was for me to inspect and not touch. “The top is carved to resemble the dung beetle, but the bottom is carved with—what our appraiser identified as—an epithet of the wind god, Amun.”

“Beautiful.” I watched as he turned it over to show me the underbelly and hummed in appreciation. “My client is looking for something in gold, though. A golden scarab would be better.”

“Egyptian gold?” He returned the blue scarab to its display case, between a set of five canopic jars and a beaded wesekh collar necklace in deep blue.

“That is what I’m hunting for.” The blue scarab was a beautiful work of art. However, it wasn’t the artifact I was looking for. Either way, making a purchase could provide access to more items and might give me an excuse to enter the employee restroom. If neither Jean-Philippe nor the digital inventory produced the results I hoped for, Jayce would need me to plant the jammer for tonight. “Although, now that I think of it, I may have another client who’d find this one interesting.”

Jean-Philippe paused before locking the case, clearly encouraging me to continue.

“Before we discuss that…” I smiled, angling my gaze to his tablet. “You mentioned you have other pieces not on display?”

“Certainly.” He finished with the case and held the tablet away from his chest, tapping and swiping at it. “We have a few gold items from Egypt. You said your client was looking for one or more small pieces, though?”

“Smaller than my palm.” I held out my palm, measuring the length with the fingers of my opposite hand.

He continued scanning the tablet without turning it for me to see. “Budget?”

I chuckled. “Much larger than my palm.”

“We have a buyer’s room on the second floor.” He inclined his head toward the stairs and then led the way. “It’s more private.”

“Of course.” Hopefully, a private room would allow me to get my phone close enough to his tablet. It needed prolonged proximity for my sister to attempt hacking into the De Rosa inventory.

Behind a door at the top of the curved staircase up from the main floor, two antique damask sofas welcomed us. They faced each other across a long carved wooden table, where Jean-Philippe placed his tablet. “I believe this is closer to the right size and material?”

I sat opposite him and peered at the item the tablet displayed—a gold finger ring with a large flat top depicting two seated characters. “It is. Can I take a photo to send to my client?”

“Certainly.”

I nodded and pulled out my phone, tapping out a quick text to Brie: Putting my phone by the tablet. Do your best.

She replied with a thumbs up, and the text vanished. My younger sister controlled the software inside all our tech. The text and email apps were full of cover-appropriate messages, in case I was caught. While I was at the gallery, my phone was on an open communication protocol, so I could send her any details she needed, and she could wipe all traces immediately.

Jean-Philippe slid the tablet closer to me.

I snapped the image and placed the phone on the table, within the distance Brie needed. Rather than allowing Jean-Philippe to lift the tablet and interrupt whatever the team at home was doing, I studied the ring, pinching to zoom in on the photo. Swiping to view it from other angles. Reading the provenance.

My phone buzzed with an email notification. Absently, I glanced at it. My stockbroker was advising me of an opportunity he wanted to discuss.

Perfect.

That was the sign from Brie she was in.

“How much?” I continued scanning details, flipping between the images and text.

“Twenty-three thousand euros.”

I nodded slowly. “It is stunning.”

He extended a hand at my hesitation, as though to retrieve the tablet and show me additional options.

Once Brie had established a connection, did she need me to keep the phone next to the tablet? Or would a few feet make a difference?

I tapped the image of the ring. “Do you have it on-site so I can see the real thing?”

“It’s with a local goldsmith currently, having the band cleaned.”

My phone buzzed again, this time with a call notification from Eloise—Scarlett’s cover name. That wasn’t the signal I expected from Brie to indicate she’d finished. But Scarlett was at home with her, so they must have been coordinating something.

I dismissed the call and leaned closer. “As I mentioned, a scarab would be perfect— if it was gold. My client saw one at a charity event in Washington, DC, a couple of months ago.”

Jean-Philippe sat forward again and picked up the tablet, swiping through items as I spoke.

“The organizers told them it came from a gallery in Monaco.”

He nodded, continuing to swipe, not looking up at me. “We did have one, but it’s been sold.”

Sold? Fuck.

“We have a stunning nineteenth-century Fabergé presentation box arriving next month. Do you think they might be interested?”

“Who was it sold to?” The question was too blatant, but the tip that Massimo had it was the cornerstone of our entire trip. However, that tip was two months old.

He flipped the tablet around so I could see the presentation box. “It’s truly exquisite and would be a stunning centerpiece for a new Russian collection.”

My phone buzzed again—another call from Scarlett.

What did this one mean?

We had plans for the stockbroker email. A text from my assistant asking about my flight home would signal she was having problems accessing the digital inventory. And when she finished? That was supposed to be an email from an auction house about a Jackson Pollock sale.

But two phone calls from Scarlett? Not good.

“I apologize.” I dismissed the call again and clasped my hands, portraying my regret. “Can we continue in a few minutes? I need to call her back and, honestly, I need to use your facilities.”

“Of course.” Jean-Philippe stood and gestured to the door. “It’s the door next to the elevator.”

Not where I needed to go.

Collecting my phone, I stood and looked at the door. Looked back at him. And at the door. I wasn’t aiming for full-on disdain, but certainly for a level of minor disgust at using the same restroom everyone else did. “The public one?”

“Why, yes. Our employee facilities are not?—”

“If I’m spending twenty thousand euros on—” The phone buzzed, and I immediately dismissed the call without looking down. What was wrong with Scarlett? This was recon, not an op. She didn’t need to be in constant contact with me.

“But of course, Monsieur Stone.” Jean-Philippe bowed his head, curling the tablet against his chest again. “If you’ll follow me to my desk, I can provide you with a guest keycard.”

“I’ll be down once I finish with my phone call. Can I take it here?”

He nodded again and left.

As the door swung shut, my phone rang yet again.

I swiped to answer, wishing there were a button to smash. “What?”

“Rav and I just had a little chat.” Her words came out quickly, showing her frustration. This wasn’t going to be fun.

“You interrupted my meeting for that?”

“I was looking over some operational details this morning and noticed the change in the hotel rooms. Not just a change”—she took a deep, intentional breath, designed to convey how angry she was—“but the addition of a whole new suite.”

Were there cameras in this room? Recording devices? It would make sense from a security standpoint to ensure no one walked off with anything. But it wouldn’t make sense from a customer service standpoint. Which one was more important?

Jean-Philippe allowed me to stay in the room by myself, so I expected there was some sort of monitoring device.

I had to keep my cool and not reveal anything. “He insisted.”

“I don’t like this, Em.” Of course, she didn’t. Rav had warned me Scarlett would be pissed. At least she hadn’t flown to Monaco to deliver that message.

I strolled across the room, toward a four-foot-tall Impressionist painting. Boats on the water at sunset. The painting was so serene—I had to absorb some of that quality. “We had to do something.”

“ Something would have been putting her up with Jayce.”

“She tried, and it was a no-go.”

Scarlett was quiet for a moment, no doubt scrunching her toes in her shoes to discharge her pent-up emotions. She’d likely said all the same things to Rav. To keep the peace—the big man was always trying to do that—he probably also explained why, tactically, it was a better choice for Jenn to stay with me.

“You may not have cared, but you really screwed her over when we were kids. Don’t you dare pull that shit again.”

I threw my head back as if I could find more serenity written on the ceiling than in the painting. I’d never told anyone what really happened with Jenn’s dad.

Scarlett had thrown her anger at me back then, and I’d taken it. What other choice was there? Repeat Mr. Thatcher’s words? Tell my sister I wasn’t good enough? Tell her that she wasn’t good enough to be Jenn’s friend? Blame our father for everything? He’d been in prison for five years already when Jenn and I…

Deep breath.

My sister had always treated me like an irresponsible child, even after I grew out of it—or most of it. The rest of the team appreciated that I stood up to her behind closed doors when she was being unreasonable, but none of them realized how much I kept bottled up.

What was the last thing she said to me before I flew to New York and was kidnapped?

Right.

She’d said, ‘Don’t get arrested.’

“Eloise,” I drawled, using her cover name, which she’d used for the call display. “You’re overreacting. I have an excellent team backing me up, and we have everything well in hand.”

“Two. Separate. Rooms.”

I meandered along the wall to the next painting. Similar to the first, but with grass and people standing about. “I wouldn’t take advantage. You don’t need to worry.”

We didn’t have conversations like normal siblings. She knew where I was and what I was doing. Knew I had to keep my words measured in case someone was nearby. She knew I’d be smiling while seething underneath. While I knew she was in her office because she wouldn’t let anyone hear the hint of anger and disappointment in her voice.

“Emmett.”

“Eloise?”

She let out another slow breath. “Brie can’t find any record of the scarab in the inventory.”

If they’d sold it, there’d be a paper trail. “None? Not even a sales history?”

“No. And Jayce and Drew came up empty at Massimo’s.”

“Our buyer could be mistaken?” I suggested.

Scarlett and I had argued about this trip to Monte Carlo almost daily since she confessed her conniving ex was the one who gave her the tip. Rav and Malcolm—Scarlett’s boyfriend—both suspected it was a trap. They thought Noah was luring her to town so he could grab her.

Otherwise, she and Mal would have joined us.

“He wasn’t wrong.” How she still had so much faith in Noah was beyond me. “You’re sending Jayce in tonight?”

And just like that—when the topic switched to her potential mistakes instead of mine—we returned to the professional discussion.

“That’s the plan.” Sensing the conversation was nearly over, I drifted toward the door. “What about the painting?”

“ Wheatfield from the Lock is in their inventory. It’s marked as going to auction on the weekend, but it doesn’t have an indicator about being cleaned. A few other paintings have notes about that.”

Maybe the difference was because it was being cleaned in-house. But suggesting that might sound suspicious to any cameras in the room. “Solid provenance?”

“Massimo De Rosa bought it legally at an estate sale, but a section of the sale history from about fifty years ago isn’t sitting right with me. I’ll touch base with the Ferraros and see if we can coordinate on that angle—maybe run a few other pieces through some stolen art databases.”

“Excellent idea.” I put a hand on the door. “Anything else before I go?”

“She has a boyfriend, Em. He’s an ass, but she’s taken. Don’t forget that.” Scarlett clicked off, and I stared at the phone momentarily before shoving it into my pocket.

Then made my way downstairs to Jean-Philippe and the guest pass.