Ashes and Mirrors
Emilia Hart — Morning After — Luca Moretti's Penthouse
The sunlight crawled across the marble floor like it didn't belong.
Emilia lay still beneath the silk sheets, staring at the high ceiling and the gilded molding that looked like it belonged in a museum, not a home. Luca's scent still lingered on the pillows—expensive cologne and smoke and something darker beneath. Something she hadn't yet named.
She should have left hours ago. Slipped out before dawn like a thief with a conscience. But her body ached, and her cover required her to linger.
Regret wasn't the right word. But something like it had crept into her bloodstream, bitter and slow.
She slid out of the bed, wrapping herself in his black button-down from the night before. It hung off her shoulders like a confession.
The penthouse was silent, save for the low hum of the city through double-glazed glass. No sign of Luca. No trace of last night's chaos—the rush of adrenaline, the low growl of his voice against her skin, the way her name had sounded like a sin in his mouth.
She found her phone hidden in her purse, tucked beneath a folded handkerchief she didn't remember putting there. No messages from Cole. No contact from Keene. Just the usual silence that meant they were watching.
Waiting.
She was on her own for now.
And she hated how familiar that felt.
---
One Hour Later — Moretti Gallery, Upper Manhattan
The heels felt like a punishment. Click-click-click across the gallery's polished floor, each step echoing louder than it should have. She was sharper than usual this morning. Colder. That was the thing about sleeping with the enemy—it carved something out of you.
Luca hadn't spoken much during the ride. He'd handed her a cup of black coffee and nodded at his driver. Not cold, not cruel. Just… measured. The silence between them felt heavier than words.
She didn't ask what came next. She knew.
Dante De Rossi had crossed a line at the gala. And Luca didn't let things slide. He let them simmer.
Now, the question wasn't if something would happen—it was how.
She walked into the main gallery, pretending not to notice the two new security guards posted near the entrance. Their eyes tracked her. Not hostile. Just aware. Always aware.
"Miss Hart." A voice called from behind her.
She turned, already forcing a smile.
Allegra Moretti stood in the doorway, her presence impossible to ignore. All white silk and black heels, like a swan with a knife tucked under her wing.
"We're hosting a private collector's preview tonight," Allegra said. "Father wants your opinion on the new placement. And we'll need your eyes on the guest list."
Emilia nodded. "Of course."
Allegra stepped closer, voice low. "You made quite the impression at the gala."
Emilia didn't flinch. "That was the point."
A long pause.
"Be careful with my brother," Allegra said, eyes like glass. "He destroys what he grows fond of."
And then she was gone.
---
Midday — Surveillance Room, Moretti Gallery
Cole's voice crackled into her earpiece like static from a bad dream.
"You've been quiet."
"I've been watched."
"By Luca?"
"By everyone."
A pause. Then: "We need to talk about Dante De Rossi."
She tensed.
"We ran facial recognition on some of his men from the gala," Cole continued. "One of them used to work for a laundering ring in Lisbon. Another has cartel ties."
Emilia leaned against the control desk. "So, what? We already knew the De Rossis were dirty."
"Yeah, but this kind of dirty? It's deeper than we thought. There's something else going on. Something big. Keene wants you to press Luca."
"Press how?"
"Ask about the Rembrandt shipment. We think it's a front. If De Rossi's involved, it could mean the art's just a shell game for something nastier—drugs, weapons, even trafficking."
Emilia closed her eyes.
"Careful," Cole added. "De Rossi's not just a rival. He's a powder keg."
Tell me something I don't know, she thought bitterly.
---
Later That Evening — Private Collector's Preview
The gallery buzzed with the kind of wealth that smelled like old perfume and older secrets. Crystal glasses clinked. Laughter swirled in curated corners. And the art—real, forged, laundered, sacred—watched it all in silence.
Emilia walked among them like a ghost in heels. Smiling, nodding, collecting information one drink at a time.
Then she saw him.
Dante De Rossi.
He was dressed in pale gray, like a man who never expected to get blood on his hands. His smile found her before his eyes did.
"Miss Hart," he said smoothly, like they were old friends. "Still playing curator?"
She didn't stop moving. "Still playing kingpin?"
He laughed, stepping beside her as they moved through the east wing. "I came for the Rembrandt. Word is it's not for sale."
"Then you wasted a trip."
"Or maybe I came for you."
She stopped walking.
Dante leaned in. "You know, I once bought a painting because it reminded me of a woman. She was complicated. Fractured. Full of secrets. Like you."
"You really should stop comparing women to art," she said, voice even. "We're harder to frame."
He smiled wider. "That's why I like you."
"You don't know me."
"But I could. If Luca ever lets his leash slip."
She stepped forward, closer than she should have. "Careful, De Rossi. Some things bite."
He tilted his head. "I hope they do."
And just like that, he was gone.
The moment Dante vanished into the crowd, Emilia exhaled—slow, controlled. Every part of her was tense, wired. It wasn't fear. It was calculation.
He was watching her.
And not just as a rival.
He saw something.
Too sharp. Too federal.
She hadn't flinched when he said it at the gala, but it clung to her like cigarette smoke now. She could handle men like him. Had, in the past. But Dante wasn't like the others. He didn't leer. He studied. He didn't threaten—he invited.
That was more dangerous.
She turned, nearly colliding with Luca.
He said nothing, just looked at her. That quiet, unreadable way of his.
"You saw him," she said.
"I always see him."
Luca's gaze dropped to the wine glass in her hand. Without asking, he took it and handed her a new one from a passing tray. "Don't drink anything he touches."
Her throat tightened. "You think he'd—"
"I know what he's capable of."
They moved through the crowd, a silent storm of black and scarlet. Her dress shimmered in the low light, but his presence dimmed everything else. People stepped aside for him without realizing it. He was gravity.
When they reached the gallery's north alcove, Luca angled his body to block her from view.
"I need to know something," he said.
"Go ahead."
"Did you say anything to him? Anything he can use?"
"Nothing real."
He paused.
"You sure?" he asked softly.
Her eyes narrowed. "You don't trust me."
"I'm trying to."
Another silence.
Then: "Dante's family has a history with mine. Blood was spilled. It never dried. And now… something's shifting."
Emilia tilted her head. "What kind of shift?"
Luca's voice was low. "He's making moves. Small ones. Testing boundaries. Looking for cracks."
"Is the Rembrandt the crack?"
"No," he said. "You are."
Before she could answer, his phone buzzed. He checked the screen. A muscle in his jaw jumped.
"Security sweep picked up De Rossi's car idling near the service exit," he muttered. "He never leaves without a message."
"Want me to follow him?"
"No," Luca said immediately. Then, softer: "You stay close. I don't want him near you again."
She hated how her stomach flipped at that.
Not because of the order. But because of how much it sounded like care.
It was the silence again.
Not cold this time. Just worn out.
Emilia kicked off her heels and dropped her purse on the console table near the door. Luca poured two fingers of whiskey and handed it to her without speaking.
She took it.
They stood there, side by side, looking out over the glittering city. Smoke rose between them from his cigarette, curling in lazy ghosts.
"Do you know why Dante is really after that painting?" she asked.
Luca didn't answer.
So she pressed. "Because he knows it's a shipment marker."
His hand stilled.
"He knows there's more to the Rembrandt than brushstrokes," Emilia said. "And so do I."
He finally looked at her. "You've done your homework."
"I had to."
Something dark flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Not suspicion.
Resignation.
"That painting," Luca said slowly, "is how my father smuggled money across borders. Paintings, gold frames, fake auction ledgers. The Rembrandt isn't valuable because of what it is. It's valuable because of what it hides."
"And what is that, exactly?"
"A code."
She blinked. "A code?"
Luca nodded. "To accounts. Names. People. The kind of people Dante wants to erase."
"And you kept it?"
"It's leverage. A final move."
She swallowed. "Then he'll kill for it."
"I know."
Their eyes locked.
"You're not just bait anymore," Luca said. "You're the mirror."
She frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means whatever he wants to see in you, he will. And whatever he hates in me, he'll try to break through you."
She didn't have a response for that.
Not yet.
---
Midnight – Emilia's Bedroom, Luca's Penthouse
She couldn't sleep.
She tried.
But her mind replayed the night in spirals—Dante's words, Luca's warning, Allegra's daggered smile.
And then there was the painting.
The Rembrandt.
She'd seen it before. Once, years ago, during a case involving stolen art that had passed through four European borders and three sets of bloody hands. It had never turned up. Until now.
Which meant it wasn't just leverage.
It was a trigger.
And something was coming.
She lay there staring at the ceiling, still wearing his shirt. Still smelling like him.
Emilia didn't know if she was falling in deeper or finally seeing the bottom.
Maybe both.
The sun filtered through the tall windows in quiet slashes of gold. Emilia sat at the kitchen island, barefoot, hair damp from the shower, stirring sugar into her coffee though she didn't plan to drink it.
Across from her, Luca scrolled silently through his phone. His black dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms marked with fading bruises and one small, raised scar near the wrist. It hadn't been there before.
"You didn't sleep," she said without looking up.
He didn't answer.
"Luca."
"I'm thinking."
"That's not what I asked."
He set the phone down, rubbed his jaw. "There was a message waiting for me this morning. A gift box on the gallery steps. Inside—"
"Let me guess," she said. "A severed finger? A bullet? A piece of a painting?"
He looked up, finally meeting her gaze. "A mirror. Cracked. With a blood-red lipstick print on it."
Her stomach went cold.
He added, "There was a single card inside. No writing. Just an imprint of a wolf's paw."
"Dante," she said.
"Dante," he confirmed.
"What does it mean?"
"That he's not coming after the painting," Luca said. "He's coming after everything it protects. And everyone tied to it."
She stared at him. "Including me."
A pause. "Especially you."
Something deep inside her recoiled, then re-hardened.
"Then we hit first," Emilia said. "While he's still watching, still circling. Before he strikes."
But Luca didn't move.
He just watched her in that too-quiet way of his.
"You're not FBI," he said.
The words hit harder than she expected.
She kept her face calm. "No. Not anymore."
"I looked into you."
"I figured."
"Emilia Hart. Born in Baltimore. Moved around a lot. Joined the Bureau straight out of grad school. Disappeared off the grid two years ago after a botched op in Prague. And now you resurface in New York, pretending to be a curator with a fake résumé and a taste for danger."
She tilted her chin. "That's the story?"
"That's your story," he said. "What I don't know is why."
She met his gaze. "Because you have something I need."
"And what's that?"
"Truth."
Luca's expression didn't change, but something shifted in the air between them. Tighter. Sharper.
"You should walk away," he said. "Whatever you came here looking for—it won't save you."
"No," she said softly. "But it might save someone else."
He didn't ask who.
He just nodded once. The conversation was over.
But the tension wasn't.