CHAPTER THREE : The Invitation That Watches Back
1583 Words
I don’t remember falling asleep.
One minute I’m sitting at my desk, staring at that photograph like it might rearrange itself into something less disturbing… and the next, I’m waking up with my neck stiff and the studio lights still on.
For a second, I don’t move.
I just sit there, blinking slowly, trying to separate what was real from what I might have imagined.
Then my eyes land on the folder.
Still there.
Still real.
“Great,” I mutter, dragging a hand over my face.
So it wasn’t a dream.
Of course it wasn’t.
Nothing that inconvenient ever is.
I push myself up from the chair, stretching out the stiffness in my shoulders before walking over to the sink. The cold water helps a little, sharp enough to wake me fully, but not enough to shake the feeling sitting in my chest.
That quiet, persistent unease.
Like I’ve already stepped into something I don’t understand yet.
I dry my hands slowly, staring at my reflection in the mirror above the sink.
“You can still walk away,” I tell myself.
I say it like it’s a choice.
Like I haven’t already crossed the line.
My gaze drops slightly, unfocused.
The truth is—I made that decision the moment I recognized that painting.
The moment I realized this wasn’t random.
That it might actually lead somewhere.
I let out a quiet breath.
“Fine.”
If I’m doing this… I’m doing it properly.
No assumptions. No rushing in blindly.
Information first.
Always.
I grab my bag from the chair and head out, locking the studio behind me. The morning air hits me as soon as I step outside—cool, sharp, grounding.
London looks the same as it always does.
Busy. Indifferent. Alive.
It’s strange how normal everything feels when something underneath it isn’t.
I start walking.
Not toward home.
Toward answers.
– – – – – – – – – –
The café is already half full when I walk in.
It’s one of those quiet places tucked between two larger buildings—easy to miss if you’re not looking for it, which is exactly why I chose it.
Neutral ground.
I spot Ethan immediately. He’s sitting in the back corner, a laptop open in front of him, coffee untouched.
He looks up as I approach.
“You look like you didn’t sleep,” he says.
“I didn’t,” I reply, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Good,” he says. “That means you’re taking this seriously.”
“I always take my work seriously.”
“This isn’t just work.”
I don’t respond to that.
“Did you find anything?” I ask instead.
Ethan closes the laptop halfway, leaning forward slightly. “Some.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“It’s not,” he admits. “This collection is locked down tight. No official records, no public listings. Even the broker I mentioned—Adrian Keller—he’s not exactly easy to trace.”
“I don’t need easy,” I say. “I need something useful.”
He studies me for a second, then nods slowly.
“Keller deals in information,” he says. “High-risk clients. High-risk transactions. If he’s involved, it means whoever owns that collection has something to hide.”
“I figured that much.”
“But there’s more,” Ethan adds.
I wait.
“He doesn’t usually work through intermediaries,” he continues. “If he reached out for you specifically… it wasn’t random.”
A quiet tension settles in my chest.
“You think this is targeted,” I say.
“I think someone wants you involved.”
My jaw tightens slightly.
“Why?”
Ethan shakes his head. “That’s the part I can’t answer.”
Neither can I.
Not yet.
I lean back slightly, crossing my arms.
“What about the location?”
“Private estate,” he says. “Outside Milan.”
That catches my attention.
“Milan?”
“Yeah.”
I glance away for a moment, my thoughts shifting quickly.
Milan.
Italy.
That narrows things down.
A lot.
“Owner?” I ask.
Ethan hesitates.
That’s all the confirmation I need.
“You have a name,” I say.
“It’s not confirmed.”
“Ethan.”
He exhales slowly. “It’s a possibility.”
“Say it.”
“…Moretti.”
The name lands heavier than I expect.
I don’t react immediately.
I don’t move.
But something inside me shifts.
Slow.
Deliberate.
“Dante Moretti?” I ask quietly.
“That’s the one that keeps coming up,” Ethan says.
Silence stretches between us.
I feel it now.
The pull.
The connection tightening.
The same name from the ledger.
The same name tied to transactions I wasn’t supposed to see.
And now…
A private collection.
In Milan.
My pulse steadies, but not in a comforting way.
In a focused one.
“Send the acceptance,” I say.
Ethan blinks. “That fast?”
“I already decided,” I reply.
“When?”
“Last night.”
He leans back slightly, studying me.
“You’re not even going to pretend to think about it?”
“No.”
“This could be dangerous.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still going?”
“Yes.”
He runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “You don’t even know what you’re walking into.”
“I do,” I say calmly.
He frowns. “You do?”
“I’m walking into answers.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“Or trouble,” he mutters.
“Those two usually come together.”
Ethan stares at me for a long moment before shaking his head.
“You’re not going to change your mind.”
“No.”
“Of course not.”
He reaches for his laptop again, opening it fully this time.
“I’ll confirm your acceptance,” he says. “You’ll probably get details within the day.”
“Good.”
“And Amara?”
I look at him.
“Don’t go alone.”
I almost smile.
“I won’t,” I lied.
But that was not entirely a lie.
– – – – – – – – –
I don’t go back to the studio immediately.
Instead, I walk.
I need the movement.
The space to think.
The city moves around me in its usual rhythm—cars passing, people talking, footsteps echoing against pavement. It’s all background noise, fading in and out as my mind runs through everything I’ve learned.
Moretti.
The name repeats itself.
I’ve heard it before.
Everyone has.
Powerful. Untouchable. Dangerous.
Not the kind of name you accidentally get involved with.
Which means this wasn’t accidental.
Not for them.
And now… not for me either.
My phone buzzes in my hand, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Unknown number.
I hesitate for a second before answering.
“Yes?”
“Miss Blake.”
The voice is smooth.
Controlled.
Unfamiliar.
“Yes,” I say slowly.
“This is Adrian Keller.”
I stop walking.
Of course it is.
“That was fast,” I say.
“I prefer efficiency.”
“I noticed.”
A brief pause.
“I’ve been informed you accepted the request,” he continues.
“I did.”
“Good.”
Something about the way he says that makes my grip tighten slightly around the phone.
“Details?” I ask.
“You’ll be traveling to Milan within forty-eight hours,” he says. “All arrangements have been made. A car will collect you upon arrival.”
“And the collection?”
“Will be made available to you upon your arrival at the estate.”
“Whose estate?” I press.
Another pause.
Then..
“You already know the answer to that.”
My chest tightens slightly.
I don’t respond.
Keller continues.
“Mr. Moretti is… very particular about who he allows into his space. Consider this an opportunity.”
I almost laugh.
“Is that what this is?” I ask.
“Among other things.”
Something cold slips into his tone now.
Subtle.
But there.
“If I were you,” he adds, “I would focus on the work, Miss Blake.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then I would advise caution.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen for a second before locking it.
Caution.
That word again.
I exhale quietly, looking up at the street in front of me.
Milan.
Dante Moretti.
A collection that shouldn’t exist.
And a connection I can’t ignore.
“Too late for caution,” I murmur.
I’m already in this.
Whether I like it or not.
– – – – – – – – –
By the time I get back to the studio, the sun is lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the room.
Everything looks the same.
But it doesn’t feel the same.
I walk over to the painting on the table, staring at it for a long moment.
At the red.
At the hidden layer beneath it.
At the truth waiting underneath.
“I’ll finish you when I get back,” I say quietly.
Because I will come back.
I always do.
I turn off the lights, grabbing my bag as I head for the door.
My hand pauses on the handle.
Just for a second.
Then i open it.
And step out.
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