I hung on Trent’s every word, and he seemed to relax. “I told him about my dreams of always wanting to own a security firm. How when I was a child, my parents had been killed in a bombing because of lack of security. It’s what drives me to keep people from reliving what I had. We went our separate ways that night. A few weeks later, your Dad called me and asked me to meet him again. Alfonso told me if I showed him I was ready to run my company, he would help. I busted my ass pulling it all together. We kept talking and got to know each other better. Next, he introduced me to Carson. He called on me to help after the theft, and I dropped everything. Alfonso was my mentor. He reminded me what it was like to have a father again.”
The sadness emanating from Trent touched me. “Alfonso died not long after that.”
And Trent had been silenced out of loyalty to Dad.
“Ms. Russo—”
“Willow. Please call me Willow.”
He smiled. “Willow, I’m going to figure this out. I promise.”
“Thank you. I appreciate all that you’re doing, Trent. Truly.” At this point, I needed the help. “Is there anything else we need to talk about?” Exhaustion had gained the upper hand rapidly.
Trent stood. “You must be tired. One last thing—do you happen to have anything Alex touched that hasn’t been cleaned? There may be fingerprints I can compare against what we found at the art gallery.”
It had been nearly a month since he died. It came to me. “I have some paperwork I think Alex accidentally left. There’s a bank statement, some cryptic notes, and a picture of his child.”
Trent raised his eyebrows. “Can I take those for comparison purposes?”
“Sure. Let me get them.”
I already had copies of everything. I took the stairs two at a time and found the satchel with the folder in it near the seating area of the room. Taking the folder out, I took a deep breath. Trent was the second man I trusted somewhat blindly. It was nerve wracking as I second-guessed myself. Am I making the right decision?
I stopped for a second and took a steadying breath. Dad trusted Trent. This was my decision… right or wrong.
Back downstairs, Trent lingered near the front door with Andre. I handed over the files. “Here are the files. When will you know?”
“Give me until tomorrow to confirm. I’d like for Andre to stay in the house, if that’s okay with you. Is Carson staying?”
Looking at the time, it was late. “I would imagine so. There’s another guest bedroom next to the one Carson stays in if Andre wants it.”
In a deep timbre, Andre answered, “I’ll be fine, Ms. Russo. Thank you, though.”
I was too tired to argue, so I saw Trent out and showed Andre the kitchen. “I’ll be up in my room. Thank you, Andre.”
“Of course, Ms. Russo. Everything will be fine.”
Carson came out looking frazzled from the office. “Has Trent left yet?”
“Just now. Andre is staying in the house. Want to talk about it?”
He sighed and stared at me, the dark circles prominent under his eyes. “Not really. Can we talk about it in the morning?”
Now, I was a little worried. Carson looked like I felt. We both needed sleep. “Whenever you want. I’m always here.”
“Thanks, Willow. What did Trent say?”
Carson looked exhausted. I was exhausted. “Let’s talk about it all in the morning after we get some sleep. Our problems will wait.”
Giving me a brief hug, we exchanged good-nights. Weary, I trudged to my room. I heard my phone vibrating in my purse.
It was Tack.
“Is everything okay?”
He sounded panicked. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“What happened?”
I kicked my shoes off and sat on the chaise lounge while I moved my toes, stretching my feet. This was the scary part of the night… when the impact of the truths made themselves known. What the hell, why not tell Tack at this point? “You know the painting on loan at the Uffizi?”
Hesitantly, he responded, “Yes.”
“Turns out it had been stolen.”
“I know.”
More irritation came to the surface. “Why did you keep this from me?”
He sighed before he said, “I found out while I was in Italy when I dug a little deeper. What else did Trent tell you?”
I took a deep breath. “Just about Dad. And the fingerprints found at the scene when the painting had been stolen.”
Silence. “Does Trent know about me?”
“No. Honestly, Tack, I’m tired of playing games. Who are you? What is your end game?”
I knew I sounded short and bitchy, but I was tired and stressed.
Letting out a frustrated noise, Tack became serious. “I have no ulterior motive, Willow. My end game is you.”
Oh my.
“Tack…”
“Sweetheart…”
Apparently, we were both at a loss for words. The connection between us deepened without warning. I was unprepared for it. I wanted to keep him on the phone, not ready to let him go, not ready to let the realness of the moment go.
“I don’t want to hang up, Willow. Let me read to you.”
“Please.”
There was something so private, so intimate, and so loving about listening to Tack’s words as they lulled me to a peaceful sleep.
I finished pouring the batter for the last crepe as Carson walked into the kitchen looking a hell of a lot better than he looked last night. He went straight for the cappuccino machine and made himself one without saying a word. I waited to see if he was ready to talk. I knew I was.
Last night, Tack hadn’t pushed after he started reading to me… he’d simply been there, which I’d needed more than I thought. I still hadn’t truly processed what all had happened with the painting being stolen. A part of me felt violated by the act. Maybe that was why Dad hadn’t wanted to tell me. He’d known how it would affect me—by slightly jading my view of the world.
The thin layer of dough finished cooking, and I folded the fresh strawberries into the crepe and placed it on a plate. I added a small amount of powdered sugar. Strawberry crepes were something Mom always made after I had a rough day. She’d learned from a woman visiti
ng Florence from Paris one summer while we were overseas. From that point on, it became a comfort food. Once, after I’d broken my arm, I got crepes with ice cream. That had been a magical day.
I handed Carson a plate and we went to the bar, where he sat beside me. The worry lines on his face were clear, which troubled me. Normally, he would have told me by now. He took a bite. “I remember your mom always made these whenever we’d had a rough day.”
“I was thinking about that. I woke up this morning thinking we probably both needed these. If it gets too bad, we can always get the ice cream. I think I spied some gelato in the freezer this morning.”
Some of the life was back in Carson’s face. After taking a sip of his coffee, he nodded. “You first.”
Finishing my bite, I turned his way. “Well, the Botticelli was stolen not long after I met Alex. That’s the reason behind the indefinite loan to the Uffizi. At the crime scene, there were two sets of prints. One was professionally removed, one not so professional. Trent determined the not-so-professional prints belonged to Harley.”
Carson pinched his brows together. I clarified. “The guy at Cocktails.”
He nodded, obviously remembering the sleaze bag. “Trent thinks Alex was the other person. I gave him those papers I found to see if Trent could make the connection.”
Carson’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “Holy fuck. Willow… I’m sorry I wasn’t there last night. I wish I’d known.”
“It’s okay. I promise.” My throat tightened. “I was a mark from the beginning. I’ve known this… but it hurts. I really thought there was something there. I—” Abruptly, I stopped, knowing if I didn’t, a sob fest would be eminent.
Arms came around me. “He never deserved you.”
The words were sweet, but did little to take away the sting of the lies, betrayal, and deceit. I wanted to change subjects. “Your turn.”
Carson sat back abandoning his crepe too the worry from earlier returning. “Francesca is pregnant. She found out the day I left, which is why she was off—she thought I bailed on the relationship. I’m going to be a dad. Her father was less than thrilled when she told him. He’s old school. Last night, I arranged for her to come here while we work it out. I don’t want her father stressing her out. She’s on her way now.”