Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Disappeared
The elevator opened before Paul managed to make the call.
Ricardo stepped out first.
Two men followed him.
He took one look through my workshop doorway and stopped.
His expression didn’t dramatically change, but something in his eyes went cold enough to make the room feel smaller.
“Who came down here?”
Paul shook his head.
“We’re checking.”
Ricardo walked toward my damaged painting.
He didn’t touch it.
He didn’t need to.
The long tear was unmistakable.
“What is that worth?”
I stared at him.
“That’s what you’re asking?”
“I’m trying to understand the damage.”
“It isn’t about money.”
His gaze moved to me.
“Then tell me what it’s about.”
“That canvas was painted in 1892. It survived two wars, three owners, a house fire, and almost a century in terrible storage.”
My throat tightened.
“I spent six weeks stabilizing it.”
Ricardo glanced at the slash again.
“And someone destroyed it in thirty seconds.”
“Yes.”
“That makes you angry.”
“It makes me sick.”
“Good.”
I frowned.
“How is that good?”
“Anger makes people pay attention.”
I folded my arms.
“I don’t need life advice from a man everyone in Atlantic City is afraid of.”
Paul quietly moved away.
Ricardo looked almost amused.
“You think that’s what I’m offering?”
“I don’t know what you’re offering.”
“Protection.”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
His expression hardened.
“Miss Bennett—”
“Claire.”
He paused.
“Claire, someone broke into your workplace immediately after Gabriella threatened you.”
“That doesn’t mean I become your responsibility.”
“I didn’t say responsibility.”
“It sounds like it.”
He stepped closer.
“You have somewhere safe to stay?”
“My apartment.”
“Address?”
“No.”
One of his men looked away as if trying not to smile.
Ricardo noticed.
Nobody smiled anymore.
“I’m not giving you my address.”
“Why?”
“Because I met you fifteen minutes ago.”
“Twenty-seven.”
“That makes it much better.”
His mouth twitched again.
Then my phone vibrated.
Another message.
I read it.
You’re enjoying his attention, aren’t you?
Ricardo saw my face change.
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
Something in his voice made me hand him the phone.
He read the message.
His jaw tightened.
“Pack your things.”
“I said no.”
“This isn’t negotiation.”
That word set me off.
I snatched my phone back.
“Then you can leave.”
Paul’s eyes widened.
Ricardo stared at me.
Nobody spoke to men like him that way.
Apparently, nobody told my nerves.
“You don’t get to walk into my life and start issuing commands because your former girlfriend is unstable.”
“She isn’t my girlfriend.”
“I said former.”
“She was never—”
He stopped himself.
I waited.
“Never what?”
“Important.”
The coldness of the answer surprised me.
Not because I cared about Gabriella’s romantic history.
Because suddenly I understood why she might hate him.
“You should probably stop saying things like that about women.”
Ricardo blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“She threatened you.”
“And that somehow makes cruelty useful?”
For several seconds he simply studied me.
“You’re defending Gabriella?”
“No. I’m telling you that treating people as disposable has consequences.”
His eyes darkened.
“You don’t know anything about us.”
“You’re right.”
I grabbed my coat.
“And I would like to keep it that way.”
I walked toward the door.
Ricardo blocked me.
Not aggressively.
He simply stood there.
“Move.”
“No.”
I glared at him.
“You really don’t accept rejection.”
“Not when rejection gets somebody hurt.”
“I’m not somebody.”
That sentence slipped out before I could stop it.
Ricardo’s expression changed.
Something quieter replaced irritation.
“No,” he said. “You’re Claire Bennett.”
I hated the way my heartbeat reacted.
“Move.”
This time, he did.
I spent the night at a hotel near Ventnor instead of my apartment.
I didn’t tell Ricardo where.
At six fifteen the next morning, I learned that had been useless.
A black SUV waited outside the lobby.
Ricardo’s driver stood beside it holding coffee.
“Mr. Santoro said you forget breakfast when you’re stressed.”
I stared.
“How would Mr. Santoro know anything about my breakfast?”
The driver handed me the cup.
“He asked Paul.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I accepted the coffee.
By noon, things got worse.
Three clients canceled commissions.
One gallery owner emailed to say he had “concerns about recent professional allegations.”
The rumor had already spread.
I called him.
He refused to explain.
I called another client.
Same answer.
Gabriella wasn’t just frightening me.
She was destroying my career.
I drove straight to the Belvedere.
Ricardo was in a conference room on the thirty-first floor.
His assistant tried stopping me.
I walked inside anyway.
Seven men in suits sat around a glass table.
Ricardo stood at the head.
Every conversation stopped.
“You,” I said.
His eyebrows rose.
“Good afternoon.”
“Did you tell anyone about the painting?”
“No.”
“Did anyone who works for you?”
“No.”
“Three clients canceled today.”
He looked toward his men.
“Leave.”
They left immediately.
I hated how powerful that looked.
The door closed.
“Gabriella?”
“Probably.”
“You sound surprisingly calm.”
“I’m not calm.”
“You look calm.”
He loosened his cuff.
“That’s because when I’m angry, being loud wastes time.”
I dropped the cancellation emails onto the table.
“She’s telling people I destroyed that portrait.”
Ricardo scanned them.
“We’ll correct it.”
“How?”
“Publicly.”
“No.”
He looked up.
“I’m not becoming some mafia boss’s charity project.”
His face hardened.
“I don’t run charities.”
“Not comforting.”
“I can have the hotel issue a statement explaining the restoration left your workshop in perfect condition.”
“That sounds like you’re protecting me.”
“It sounds like the hotel telling the truth.”
I hesitated.
That was different.
“What do you want in return?”
“Nothing.”
“Men like you never want nothing.”
“Men like me?”
“Powerful men.”
His gaze became difficult to read.
“You have experience with powerful men?”
“My father.”
That slipped out.
I immediately regretted it.
Ricardo didn’t push.
“What did he want?”
“Everything.”
I looked toward the windows.
“My career. My choices. My gratitude. My obedience.”
“And when you refused?”
“He stopped speaking to me.”
Ricardo was silent.
Finally, he said, “Then I understand why you dislike orders.”
“You understand nothing.”
“Probably.”
The admission surprised me.
He picked up the emails.
“I’ll issue the statement.”
“Without mentioning you.”
“The Belvedere will issue it.”
“And no threatening Gabriella.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That’s an unusual condition.”
“It’s mine.”
“She vandalized your work.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“You know.”
“I suspect.”
“You think evidence matters more than instinct.”
“Yes.”
He leaned against the table.
“Then help me find evidence.”
I stared at him.
“You?”
“You know paintings.”
“You know criminals?”
A slow smile appeared.
“Some.”
That evening we returned to the private lounge.
Security footage showed seventeen missing minutes.
But the elevator logs didn’t.
Gabriella’s key card had accessed the lounge six minutes before the cameras failed.
She stayed twenty-three minutes.
A second card entered afterward.
Registered to an employee named Jason Cole.
Maintenance.
Paul frowned at the screen.
“Jason quit this morning.”
Ricardo looked at me.
“There’s your evidence.”
“No. That proves he entered.”
“You really are stubborn.”
“So are you.”
“Difference is I’m usually right.”
“You should put that on a pillow.”
He actually laughed.
The sound startled everyone in the security room.
Including Ricardo.
I looked away first.
The dangerous part wasn’t that I was becoming less afraid of him.
The dangerous part was that I was beginning to like him.
Two hours later, I drove home.
For the first time in years, I checked my rearview mirror every few blocks.
Nobody followed.
My apartment looked untouched.
I locked the door.
Then I noticed an envelope on the floor.
No stamp.
Someone had slipped it beneath the door.
Inside was a photograph.
Ricardo stood outside a restaurant with Gabriella years earlier.
She was holding his arm.
Someone had written across the bottom in red ink.
ASK HIM WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LAST WOMAN WHO SAID NO.
My stomach turned.
I reached for my phone.
Before I could call anyone, a knock sounded.
Three slow knocks.
I froze.
“Claire.”
Ricardo’s voice.
I didn’t open the door.
“What happened to her?”
Silence.
Then:
“So you got the photograph.”
“What happened to the last woman who rejected you?”
His answer came through the wood.
“She disappeared.”
My hand went cold around the lock.
May you like
“And everyone blamed me.”
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