5. Emmett

Chapter 5

Emmett

The De Rosa Gallery sat at the base of a seven-story terrace house, a five-minute walk from the H?tel de Paris. My research indicated the gallery took up three stories, while apartments filled the space above. Directly across the street, a shorter building housed a coffee shop and a stamp collectors’ store on the bottom floor.

I was alone today with a straightforward goal: Enter the gallery and inquire if Massimo was there. If yes, ask to speak with him and determine whether he’d sell me the scarab. If not, find out if I could purchase it legally.

Our client, a wealthy patron of the museum from which the scarab had been stolen was offering a five-million euro reward for its return. Minus expenses and profit margin, we had four million to negotiate with.

On the open market, a two-inch-long gold and carnelian gem of its quality would be worth no more than a hundred thousand. But this one had been a gift from Pharaoh Khufu to his chief surveyor, which increased its value. I wouldn’t have expected that many millions more, but the black market was fickle.

Or the broker who’d put us in touch with the client was setting us up.

I pulled up my suit cuff to check my watch. Black leather and white gold Patek Philippe on the outside. Underneath? Custom Reynolds tech. It was a sin to have taken it apart, but Will—our team’s gadget guru—maintained the exterior so perfectly that someone would only know the truth if they popped it open.

Three o’clock. Late enough to have visited the other two galleries as cover, early enough I might be able to spend time with the De Rosas.

And Jenn would be there.

Scarlett had called her last night to gather intel, but Jenn had been tight-lipped, saying only that Dante had brought her to Monte Carlo and she’d be working at the gallery. Something was off with her. But what?

I couldn’t read her like I could most people. Something about her had always thrown me, from the first time Scar introduced her as ‘my new best friend’ after we moved to Halifax. She’d brought cookies her mother had made for the new kids in the neighborhood. Things went downhill after people started talking about whose kids we were.

‘If I ever catch you near my daughter again, you’ll regret it.’ Her father’s words spun around my brain. ‘Your sister’s bad enough, but you are where I draw the line.’

I’d quashed his insults fifteen years ago, so why were they haunting me now? None of the other taunts about my father being a spy were bubbling up. Just Mr. Thatcher’s. He didn’t matter. He didn’t know my family; he didn’t know the good we did.

My father’s incarceration wasn’t relevant in my life, so why would it matter to anyone else?

I straightened my cuff and slowed in front of the gallery.

Tall windows flanked the glass door, showcasing two paintings, a jewelry display, and a Greek sculpture roughly my height. Inside, a security guard sat on a chair by a narrow elevator, while a thin man in glasses sat behind a desk straight ahead. Two leather sofas sat off to the right side. Not much on display—the wide, curved staircase by the sofas would take guests to the real treasures.

I pulled open the door and smiled when the man behind the desk looked up. “Good afternoon.”

He nodded in return and stood.

As I drew closer, I rechecked my watch—not to find out the time, but to show the indicator of wealth. My greeting made it clear I wasn’t there to browse, and the watch made it clear I had the money to purchase. “Is Signore De Rosa in today?”

“He’s out.” Strike one. “However, my name is Jean-Philippe, and I am intimately familiar with the inventory. Can I help you?” His accent was French with a hint of Spanish—likely from the southwest.

“I have a client in the market for Egyptian antiquities. Do you have anything available?”

“Of course.” The man picked up a tablet from his desk and gestured to the staircase. “We have a few pieces on display on the third floor. If nothing suits your interest, we have additional pieces awaiting cleaning or restoration, and I can review them with you.”

I followed him toward the stairs, glancing into the back of the gallery, where a few paintings were displayed. “We’re looking for jewelry or funerary items. Accessories around five centimeters.”

“Very small. Is your client starting a collection or building upon one?”

A short hallway on the main floor led to a door, with one or more doors likely unseen opposite it. Where was Jenn? “They’re building upon an existing one. They sold a few coins recently and want to fill the space with something the same size.”

“Most of our Egyptian items are pottery, but we have a beautiful scarab that arrived in February.”

It wouldn’t be this easy, would it? “That sounds like it might work.”

“It’s an exquisite mold-made scarab in Egyptian blue from the Scarab Factory in Naukratis.”

Strike two. “We’re looking for something more… gold.”

As we reached the second floor, the front door’s bell chimed. My guide raised a hand and returned to the top of the stairs. “Ah, Monsieur De Rosa! You’re back.”

“I won’t be staying long,” replied a deep male voice with an Italian accent. Massimo or his son?

The father hadn’t spoken enough last night for me to get a read on their tonal differences.

“Dante?” That voice, though, I knew. Jenn was downstairs. “I’m just packing up for the day.”

“I thought you wanted to get further ahead?” asked Dante.

“Yeah, I did. I mean, I do.”

I followed Jean-Philippe, keeping close to the wall so I could watch the conversation unseen.

Jenn approached Dante. “I ran a couple of tests to verify which solvents to use. They need to develop overnight, so I can be sure.”

“Any progress is excellent.” Dante held up a white bag and a to-go cup. “I bought you some coffee and couldn’t resist a few macarons.”

She paused. Her back was to me, but I saw enough of her profile to read the hesitation. Brows and lips down. Confused?

Considering how often Scarlett complained about the jerks Jenn dated—I’d only met two and could confirm they were both assholes—she probably wasn’t sure how to accept the kindness. Or she was trying to figure out how to turn down his overt flirtation because she was in a relationship.

She accepted the bag, peered inside, and let out a tiny laugh. “Thanks.”

Shit. She was buying it.

“Monsieur?” said Jean-Philippe, jarring me back to my job. He was halfway to the next flight of stairs.

How long had I been staring at Jenn and Mr. Coffee?

And why was I staring at them? Why did it matter when I had a job to do?

Because the scarab upstairs isn’t the one you’re looking for. We’d seen our target on display at a gala two months ago in Washington, DC. It wasn’t hidden somewhere, waiting for a cleaning.

Which meant it was at Massimo’s home, one of his other locations, or stored away from prying eyes. Our source told us it was in Monaco, though. If it wasn’t at the gallery, Dante was a better bet than Jean-Philippe to gain me access to their home or offices. I had to take my opportunity before he left.

I dodged Jean-Philippe and returned down the stairs. “Dante, what luck!” I looked at Jenn, feigning surprise, as though I hadn’t been spying on them. “And Jenn! I didn’t realize you’d be here. Twice in as many days. What are the odds!”

Her cheeks reddened as our gazes met, the bag hanging open in front of her.

“Emmett Stone.” I shook Dante’s hand, squeezing more than I should have, which he did right back. “Jenn introduced us last night?”

“Sì, I remember.” His pretty little smile for Jenn had vanished. No surprise there. “Is Jean-Philippe helping you?”

“I am, sir,” said the gallery staffer.

“We were on our way to the third floor. I’m eager to see what you have.” I winked at him, letting go of his hand and the testosterone game while playing up our level of familiarity. “My client is looking for a piece of Egyptian jewelry or something small in gold. Jean-Philippe mentioned a blue scarab, which isn’t the right material. I don’t suppose you have anything in the back like that?”

“This is my father’s gallery. I know more about his profit margins than his inventory.” Dante gestured to Jean-Philippe. “Our staff are the best people to answer questions for our clients.”

Jenn hadn’t closed the bag yet. She’d barely moved other than her gaze flicking back and forth to follow my conversation with Dante. “I’m going to pack up.”

Dante touched her upper arm. The gesture was too intimate for a work relationship. “Are we still on for dinner?”

Jenn’s gaze darted to me, then back to Dante. “I have some research to do. I think I’ll grab my laptop and sit somewhere by myself. Maybe tomorrow?”

Dante nodded at her, then addressed me. “If you don’t find anything your client is interested in, Jean-Philippe can show you the digital inventory.”

Two more people entered the gallery, a middle-aged man and woman, walking close enough they were obviously a couple. They detoured directly to the Greek statue in the front window.

“That sounds perfect.” I’d have to call my younger sister before seeing the digital inventory. Brie was our team’s hacker, and if I could get my phone next to that tablet while Jean-Philippe was calling up the inventory, she might be able to gather additional intel. I turned to Jean-Philippe. “It appears you have some new customers, so why don’t I stop in tomorrow?”

Jean-Philippe nodded.

I stepped closer to Jenn, placing a hand on her back. “Scar said you’re staying at the H?tel de Paris?”

“I am.”

“I’m going back there now, so why don’t I walk with you?”

“Sounds good. I’ll grab my stuff.” She left, leaving me with Mr. Coffee.

Jean-Philippe gravitated toward the couple, who eventually waved him over.

“She’s your sister’s best friend, you said?” Dante folded one arm across his chest, still holding the cup Jenn hadn’t taken. He was an attractive man, wealthy, and clearly interested in Jenn. But if Massimo was hiding the stolen scarab, that made Dante the son of a criminal. He was no better for her—or any woman—than I was.

“She’s…” I turned in the direction where she’d gone, pretending to consider my words while instead studying the hallway from a better angle than on the stairs. “She’s like a sister.”

“And you’re an overprotective brother?”

I faced Dante again. “It’s a quick walk to the hotel, but who knows what could happen to a beautiful young woman out on her own? She might get into a car with a stranger who whisks her off to another country?”

He didn’t react to the dig. No appearance of insult or irritation at my suggestion that accepting his drive from Nice might have been an unwise decision. “I’m sure she can handle herself.”

“I know she can.”

Jenn appeared with a purse over her shoulder and the bag of macarons. “I’m ready.”

Dante leaned in to kiss the air at each of her cheeks. “I’ll see you at nine tomorrow morning?”

She smiled at him, tucking back a strand of her blond hair that had escaped her bun. Was she flirting with him? “See you then.”

I escorted her out the door and into the warm mid-August day. We hung a left, passing a row of parked scooters. I was now officially hours behind schedule. My team wouldn’t be impressed.

Hell, I wasn’t impressed with myself—so many stupid decisions since I saw Jenn last night.

But she was safe from Dante for another day. And that was what mattered most.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

But goddammit, it did.