Chapter 8 - THE NAME ON THE OLD TAPE
Norah had been five years old when two mafia patriarchs discussed removing her from Dominic’s future.
That made no sense.
Until Camille explained who Norah’s father really was.
“Your father wasn’t just a museum accountant,” Camille said.
Norah stared.
“He worked at the Art Institute.”
“He also moved money.”
“For whom?”
Camille looked at Dominic.
“For the Castiles.”
Norah shook her head.
“No.”
Dominic remained silent.
He knew enough about his father’s old operations to believe it.
Camille continued.
“Thomas Hastings kept secret ledgers.”
Norah’s stomach tightened.
“My father died when I was twelve.”
“Car accident?”
Norah nodded.
Camille looked at her sadly.
“Not an accident.”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“Sebastian?”
“Yes.”
Norah stood.
“No.”
She walked toward the window.
Her father had been gentle.
Quiet.
He baked pancakes on Sundays.
He taught her to sketch.
Nothing about him belonged in Dominic’s world.
Dominic moved closer.
“Norah.”
She turned.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Did you know my father worked for your family?”
“No.”
She studied his face.
She believed him.
That somehow made it worse.
Julian picked up the tape.
“Sebastian believed Thomas gave Elena copies of the ledgers.”
Dominic looked at him.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“No idea.”
Camille shook her head.
“Elena said Thomas hid them somewhere no Castile would ever search.”
Norah thought of her childhood.
Her father’s studio.
Old books.
Museum catalogs.
Paintings.
Then she remembered something.
“The blue portrait.”
Dominic looked at her.
“What?”
“My father painted one portrait over and over. A woman in blue.”
“Why?”
“I never knew.”
“Where is it?”
“My apartment.”
Dominic’s face changed.
“We go now.”
They reached Norah’s building forty minutes later.
The front door was open.
That was wrong.
Dominic pulled his weapon.
“Stay behind me.”
This time Norah obeyed.
Her apartment had been destroyed.
Drawers emptied.
Paintings slashed.
Books thrown across the floor.
Norah stood in the center of the wreckage.
“The portrait.”
It was gone.
Dominic cursed.
Then Norah noticed something under the broken frame.
A tiny brass key taped to the backing.
Her father’s handwriting beside it.
NORA-BIRD, IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, FIND THE WOMAN IN BLUE.
Her childhood nickname.
Her hands shook.
Dominic took the key.
“There’s a number.”
Norah stared.
“I know that number.”
“From where?”
“My father used to take me to a museum storage facility when I was little. His locker number was 4187.”
Dominic called Mateo.
“Find it.”
They reached the private art storage building shortly before midnight.
Locker 4187 contained one object.
The missing blue portrait.
Norah pulled it out.
The woman in the painting had dark hair.
Green eyes.
A familiar scar above one eyebrow.
Elena.
Norah turned to Dominic.
“My father knew your sister.”
They removed the canvas from the frame.
Behind it sat three black ledgers.
And one envelope.
Dominic opened it.
Inside was a photograph taken twenty years earlier.
Thomas Hastings.
Elena.
And Sebastian Castile.
Standing together.
May you like
On the back, Norah’s father had written:
ELENA TRUSTS THE WRONG BROTHER.
