22. Jenn

Chapter 22

Jenn

I stepped onto the deck of Massimo’s yacht, Lustra II , trying to understand everything happening around me. The sea breeze whipped my hair across my face as Dante spoke to one of the crew members. Several people busied themselves with cleaning, no doubt preparing for the yacht’s departure.

“Grazie,” said Dante to the man, who headed off with his cleaning materials. He turned to me. “My father’s not here.”

“Now what?”

“They’re setting sail tomorrow after the auction.” Dante ran a hand through his dark hair, frustration evident in his tone. “Perhaps he’s at the apartment overseeing the packers.”

I chewed my lower lip. Dr. Ferraro was certain the painting I’d been working on was fake, but Dante insisted it was genuine. Was he covering for his father? Or truly in the dark?

Was Emmett right about the De Rosas being dangerous?

“It used to hang in the upper deck lounge.” Dante waved me toward a wall of glass, which slid open with a whisper as we approached. “Maybe someone rehung it.”

As we walked through the yacht’s luxurious interior, I couldn’t shake the prickles skittering up and down my arms. The staff moved about as though everything was normal, but something was off. Unless it was just me, and Emmett’s warnings were simply tainting everything I saw.

Or Dante’s irritation had me on edge.

At the top of a narrow circular staircase, we entered the lounge. The room was decorated with sleek white leather furniture, a small table for four at the center, and a bar off to the side. The subtle scent of leather and lemon polish permeated the air.

My eyes were immediately drawn to a painting hanging by the bar. I stepped closer to examine it. “Is this?—”

“The copy,” Dante finished. “At least, that’s what I thought it was, but now you tell me.”

I pulled out my phone to compare this version of Wheatfield to the old auction catalogs. I zoomed in on the signature. It was so obvious, it practically screamed at me. “These are identical, Dante. Even the craquelure is the same.”

“It can’t be.” Dante pinched the bridge of his nose, his lids falling shut. “This has to be the copy.”

“Willing it to be true doesn’t make it so.” That should have been my motto. “The one I’ve been cleaning is the duplicate.”

He shook his head and let out a long breath, finally opening his eyes to look at my phone. “There must have been a mix-up.”

This explained why the painting had smeared when I tried to clean it using the conservator’s notes. He’d written those instructions for the painting staring at me from the wall, not the one I’d finished varnishing this afternoon.

“Perhaps”—Dante’s eyes flicked back and forth as he spoke, as though searching for an explanation—“the movers were told they’d be bringing Wheatfield onto the yacht, and they were confused. Perhaps they simply brought the wrong one?”

“When did they do that?”

“Last night.” He frowned at the painting. “While the one you’re cleaning sat in the workshop, out of its frame.”

“And you honestly think they accidentally delivered a fully intact painting?” I left my greater fear unsaid—that he’d swapped them intentionally. But if that was the case, why bring me on board and show me the truth?

Fear crawled up my spine.

If Emmett was right, and this was all an act, this yacht was the last place I should be. And accusing Dante was the last thing I should have been doing.

Dante’s gaze slid toward the wall of windows beside the bar. “It has to be a mistake. But…”

I wanted to believe him—hoped this might all be a simple misunderstanding. But a nagging doubt persisted.

“The ledgers,” he muttered.

Ledgers?

Before I could respond and ask what he meant, movement outside caught my eye. I turned, my heart nearly stopping as a familiar figure passed by the window.

Blond hair. Chiseled features. Strong nose.

Noah.

Scarlett’s former fiancé.

Noah—my heart beat too fast in my chest—who died two years ago.

At least, that’s what I’d thought. I’d gone to his funeral, after all.

Noah.

Did he have a twin I didn’t know about?

Dante saw him, too, the faintest relief washing over his face. “We should speak with Noah.”

My throat tightened. Not a twin.

“He’s one of my father’s associates, helping coordinate items for the auction and my father’s departure. He may have some idea of what’s going on.”

My mind reeled. Noah. Alive. Working with Massimo. The funeral… Scarlett’s grief… What was going on?

“I… I’m feeling a bit seasick,” I murmured, my voice tight as I tried to steady my breathing. Heat prickled at the back of my neck, and I put a hand against the wall, forcing myself to stay upright.

“We’re not moving.” Dante’s expression shifted to concern as he steadied me. “And the waves are barely?—”

“Weak stomach.” My pulse thundered in my ears, and I avoided glancing toward the windows again, where Noah might still be visible.

“But of course. I’ll speak with him later.”

I started to shake my head, but my stomach churned like I was genuinely going to be sick. “No, no. I’ll be fine. You talk to Noah and see if he has more information. I’ll…”

What? What was I going to do? Go back to the gallery and stare at the fake Wheatfield ? I had nothing to do until the varnish dried.

Talk to Noah? What would I say?

No, I needed to… to what? Think. I needed to think. “I need some fresh air, that’s all. On dry land.”

He nodded, his forehead creased in worry. “All right. Sit and have some water at the yacht club. I’ll meet you there.”

I forced a smile and darted for the stairs, carefully keeping my face away from Noah’s direction. I disembarked and hurried along the dock, my head light and legs shaky.

What was going on? The painting, Noah… I needed to talk to someone and make sense of all this.

Scarlett? God, no. What would I say to her?

Maybe Emmett or Rav?

As I reached the yacht club, I spotted Rav, sitting at a small table and reading a newspaper. Suddenly, it clicked. This was why Emmett hadn’t insisted on staying with me at the gallery, despite all his talk of danger. Rav wasn’t actually reading a paper. He’d been watching me the whole time.

I marched over to his table, fire burning in my gut, replacing the nausea. I hauled out the chair facing him. “We need to talk.”

Rav lowered his newspaper. “About?”

“Noah.”

No reaction.

“I saw him. Not five minutes ago, on Massimo’s yacht.”

He didn’t express shock or confusion. Just a flicker of irritation in his eyes.

“You knew,” I breathed, my legs almost giving out under me. “You knew he was alive?”

Rav grunted, folding his paper and laying it on the table. “We can’t talk here.”

“But—”

“I warned him.” He stood. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” I asked, my mind whirling with questions. “Warned who?”

Rav pulled out his phone and typed a quick message. “You need to talk to Emmett.”