Chapter 1
The scent of turpentine and history was Serafina's sanctuary. She leaned closer to the canvas, a late-period Botticelli, its surface a ghost of what it once was. With a delicate touch, she applied a solvent to a patch of darkened varnish, revealing a sliver of cerulean blue. It was in that moment, in the silence of her workshop, that she saw it—a tiny, almost imperceptible mark hidden in the weave of the artist's signature. A broken arrow and a thorn. She had never seen anything like it. It was a detail so specific, so out of place, that it felt less like a flaw and more like a whisper from the past. A secret meant to be found.
A chill that had nothing to do with the Florentine evening air prickled the back of her neck. She set her brush down and took a step back, her gaze locked on the symbol. It was a brand, a signature, but not of the artist. It was a message hidden in plain sight for over five hundred years. A sudden, irrational fear coiled in her stomach. She felt as though she had just opened a door she was never meant to find.
The quiet click of her studio door opening was a sound she registered a moment too late. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. She spun around, her hand instinctively reaching for the heavy iron paperweight on her desk.
A man stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the city lights. He was tall, his frame broad and imposing. He didn't move, just watched her with an unnerving stillness. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
"Who are you?" Serafina's voice was steadier than she felt, a testament to years of forced calm in the face of uncertainty.
"The owner of the painting," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "I believe you've found something that belongs to me."
He stepped into the light, and Serafina's breath hitched. He was not a collector she recognized. His face was all sharp angles and hard lines, a study in indifference. His eyes, dark and penetrating, swept over the canvas, then landed on her. She felt like an insect pinned under a microscope.
"I don't know what you mean," she said, her fingers tightening around the cold iron.
A ghost of a smile, cold and humorless, touched his lips. "Don't play coy, Serafina. I know what you saw. The mark."
The use of her name sent a fresh wave of ice through her veins. He knew who she was, and he had come for the symbol. It wasn't just a hidden detail; it was something dangerous.
"I'm afraid I've made a mistake," she said, trying to sound dismissive. "It's just a smudge."
He took a slow step closer, then another. "It's a mistake you won't live to repeat."
Serafina's mind raced. He wasn't here to negotiate. He was here to ensure her silence. She looked around the small studio, her escape routes limited. The window was too high. The door was blocked by him. She had one chance.
"The police are a block away," she lied smoothly, her hand gesturing toward her phone. "And I'm due to call them for a status report on the restoration. If I don't, they will send someone to check on me."
He stopped, his gaze unwavering. For a moment, she thought he might call her bluff, but a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. He was weighing the risks. He was a predator, but not a careless one.
"Drop it," he commanded, gesturing to the paperweight in her hand.
Serafina's heart pounded. She considered throwing it, making a run for it. But one look at his eyes told her that would be a fatal error. He wasn't a man who hesitated. She slowly, deliberately, placed the paperweight back on her desk.
"You're a careful woman," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward slightly. "I like that. It's a shame."
"A shame?" she echoed, her voice barely a whisper.
"You're the first person in centuries to see the symbol and live to talk about it."
He took another step, closing the distance between them. He wasn't a man who made threats; he was a man who delivered on them. Serafina knew this encounter was far from over. She had become his prey, and the hunt had just begun.