Chapter 2 - The Price of His Protection
The Atlantic wind hammered against the windows of the Belvedere Hotel while I sat bent over a centuries-old oil painting, carefully removing the final layer of cracked varnish from a woman’s porcelain face.
Restoration work demanded patience.
That was why I loved it.
Old paintings never lied. They might arrive damaged, neglected, or covered beneath decades of dirt, but if you worked carefully enough, the truth was always underneath.
People were different.
People could smile while destroying you.
At twenty-eight, I had already learned that lesson more than once.
Still, on that rainy Thursday evening, I had no idea how brutally I was about to learn it again.
The familiar scents of resin, turpentine, and aged canvas filled my small workshop on the service level of Atlantic City’s Belvedere Hotel. Beyond the thick walls, the casino floor buzzed with its usual restless energy—chips clicking against felt, glasses clinking, slot machines chiming, strangers celebrating victories they would probably lose before midnight.
I preferred my quiet basement room.
Down there, nobody cared what dress I wore or whether my family had money.
The paintings only cared whether my hands were steady.
I was examining a thin crack near the portrait’s frame when someone knocked.
“Miss Bennett.”
I turned.
The hotel manager, Paul Mercer, stood in the doorway.
His tie was crooked.
That alone concerned me.
Paul was the kind of man who would straighten his tie during a fire evacuation.
“What happened?”
He stepped inside and closed the door.
“Mrs. Parker is demanding to see you upstairs.”
I placed my sable brush carefully on the tray.
“Did she say why?”
“She claims the Harrington portrait you restored arrived damaged.”
My eyes immediately moved toward the restoration report beside me.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
“I photographed it before transport.”
“I know.”
“Security signed the condition report.”
“I know, Claire.”
The fact that he kept agreeing with me made my stomach tighten.
I removed my apron.
“So why do you look terrified?”
Paul hesitated.
“Because Gabriella Parker doesn’t care about reports.”
I stared at him.
“Who is Gabriella Parker?”
His expression changed.
Not disbelief exactly.
More like pity.
“Come upstairs.”
The private lounge was three floors above the casino and usually reserved for people whose names appeared on buildings.
When the elevator doors opened, I saw the portrait immediately.
It stood beneath an enormous crystal chandelier.
The lower corner was covered by a cloudy white stain roughly the size of an open hand.
My stomach dropped.
Someone had damaged it deliberately.
I knew because solvent accidents left irregular edges.
This stain was almost circular.
Placed.
A woman standing beside the easel turned toward me.
She was beautiful in the polished way expensive magazines taught women to be beautiful. Sleek black hair. Diamond earrings. Black dress fitted perfectly to her narrow waist.
Her floral perfume reached me before her voice did.
“So,” she said. “You’re the restorer.”
“Claire Bennett.”
She didn’t offer her hand.
“I paid eight thousand dollars to have this portrait restored perfectly.”
She pointed at the stain.
“Instead, you ruined it.”
“I didn’t.”
Several conversations stopped.
Gabriella’s eyebrows lifted.
Apparently, people weren’t supposed to disagree with her.
I opened the folder.
“I documented the painting before it left my workshop. There are photographs, security signatures, temperature records, and transport documentation.”
Her gaze never moved toward the file.
“You’re calling me a liar?”
“No.”
“Then apologize.”
“I can’t apologize for something I didn’t do.”
Her lips curved.
That smile made me more uncomfortable than anger would have.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
Someone behind me inhaled sharply.
Gabriella glanced toward the guests, enjoying their reaction.
“I’m Gabriella Parker.”
The name still meant nothing to me.
A middle-aged man nearby leaned toward me.
“She used to be with Ricardo Santoro.”
My fingers tightened around the folder.
That name I knew.
Everyone in Atlantic City knew Ricardo Santoro.
His family had owned restaurants before I was born. Then hotels. Shipping terminals. Construction companies. Nightclubs.
And depending on which rumors you believed, several businesses that didn’t appear on tax forms.
People used the word mafia quietly around Ricardo Santoro.
Never where anyone connected to him might hear.
I had seen him once from across the casino.
Tall.
Silver at his temples.
Surrounded by men who never seemed to smile.
Gabriella noticed recognition flicker across my face.
“Now you understand.”
“Understand what?”
Her smile disappeared.
“That people don’t argue with me.”
I looked at the damaged portrait.
Then back at her.
“People also shouldn’t accuse someone without proof.”
A murmur rippled through the lounge.
Gabriella stepped closer.
“You’re either very brave…”
Another step.
“…or very foolish.”
Before I could answer, a man’s voice came from the doorway.
“She happens to be neither.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Every person turned.
Ricardo Santoro stood beneath the entrance arch.
He wore a charcoal suit over a black shirt open at the collar. His salt-and-pepper hair was swept back, and short gray stubble sharpened a face that probably hadn’t needed to raise its voice in twenty years.
His gaze found me.
Only briefly.
Then it moved to Gabriella.
Something changed in her posture.
Small.
Almost invisible.
But I saw it.
Fear.
“Ricardo.”
He approached slowly.
Two men remained near the doorway, but Ricardo crossed the room alone.
Gabriella recovered quickly.
“I wasn’t expecting you.”
“That’s usually when people behave most honestly.”
Her jaw tightened.
He stopped beside the portrait.
“What happened?”
“This woman destroyed an eight-thousand-dollar restoration.”
Ricardo looked at me.
“Did you?”
“No.”
Gabriella laughed.
“Of course she says no.”
I held out the report.
“I have photographs.”
Ricardo took the folder.
He examined the first few pages silently.
Gabriella folded her arms.
“You’re actually entertaining this?”
“I’m reading.”
“You know me.”
His eyes lifted.
“Yes.”
Something in that single word made her face harden.
Ricardo continued through the photographs.
Then he looked at Paul.
“Security footage?”
Paul swallowed.
“The lounge camera was apparently disabled for seventeen minutes this afternoon.”
Gabriella snapped her head toward him.
Ricardo noticed.
So did I.
“Interesting,” he said.
“That proves nothing,” Gabriella replied.
“No.”
Ricardo closed the file.
“But neither does accusing Miss Bennett.”
Hearing him use my name unsettled me.
“How do you know my name?”
He glanced at the folder.
“It’s written on every page.”
I felt ridiculous.
Gabriella didn’t.
“You’re defending her.”
“I’m defending evidence.”
“You never cared about evidence when we were together.”
The room became painfully quiet.
Ricardo’s expression barely changed.
“This conversation is finished.”
“No.”
Gabriella stepped between him and the painting.
“You don’t dismiss me.”
“I just did.”
Color rose in her cheeks.
I wished I could disappear.
This was no longer about restoration.
It was about whatever had happened between them.
And somehow I had landed in the middle.
Gabriella looked at me again.
Her humiliation needed somewhere to go.
“You think because he spoke to you, you matter?”
“I never said that.”
“He gets bored.”
Ricardo’s voice hardened.
“Gabriella.”
She ignored him.
“You’re not his type.”
“I don’t want to be anyone’s type.”
A few guests looked down to hide smiles.
That made things worse.
Gabriella leaned close enough that only I could hear.
“You’ll regret embarrassing me.”
Ricardo heard anyway.
“I wouldn’t recommend threatening her.”
Gabriella stared at him.
For several seconds, something private passed between them.
History.
Anger.
Possession.
Maybe heartbreak.
Then she grabbed her purse.
“You’re making a mistake.”
Ricardo’s expression remained unreadable.
“I’ve made several.”
She flinched.
Then she walked toward the elevators.
Nobody moved until the doors closed behind her.
I finally exhaled.
Ricardo turned toward me.
“You should go home.”
That irritated me.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve had enough excitement.”
“I still have a damaged painting.”
“The hotel will compensate the owner.”
“That doesn’t restore my reputation.”
His gaze sharpened.
“You’re worried about your reputation right now?”
“Yes.”
That seemed to surprise him.
I stepped toward the easel.
“If people believe I damaged a historical work, I won’t get another private commission in this city.”
“You almost got threatened by Gabriella Parker.”
“And tomorrow morning I still need employment.”
For the first time, the corner of his mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
“You really don’t know when to be afraid.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I simply have bills.”
That actually earned a faint smile.
Then it disappeared.
“Miss Bennett, Gabriella does not make empty threats.”
I looked toward the elevator.
“What exactly are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you to be careful.”
“Because she dated you?”
His face became still.
“Because she believes losing anything means someone stole it from her.”
The answer disturbed me more than I expected.
“What did she lose?”
Ricardo looked directly at me.
“Tonight?”
He paused.
“Control.”
I returned downstairs shortly before midnight.
My workshop door was open.
I knew I had locked it.
Paul immediately called security.
We stepped inside together.
Nothing appeared missing.
Then I saw my restoration table.
Every photograph documenting the Harrington portrait was gone.
My computer monitor had been shattered.
And across the center of my newest commission, someone had dragged a blade straight through the canvas.
Paul whispered, “Oh God.”
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
You should have apologized.
My hands began shaking.
Then another message appeared.
Ricardo won’t always be standing between us.
For the first time that night, I understood why everyone had been afraid.
But Gabriella had made one mistake.
She thought destroying my work would make me run.
Instead, I reached for the security phone.
“Call Mr. Santoro.”
Paul stared at me.
“What are you going to tell him?”
I looked at the ruined canvas.
“The truth.”
May you like
And somewhere above us, the private elevator began descending.
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