Chapter 4 - The Safe House
Sadie spent her first night in the Russo brownstone in a second-floor guest bedroom that looked like a room in an old European castle.
The bed was massive, framed in dark walnut with thick velvet curtains that blocked out the storm outside. Despite the pain in her leg, she slept deeply, wrapped in silk sheets that smelled faintly of Callum’s dark, spicy cologne.
When she woke at seven the next morning, her clothes were gone.
In their place on the leather armchair sat a pristine set of cashmere trousers, a soft cream sweater, and a pair of soft leather slippers. Next to them was her leather portfolio, wiped clean of rain and mud.
Sadie dressed slowly, testing her bandaged leg. The stitches pulled uncomfortably, but she could stand.
She hobbled out into the hallway, guided by the smell of freshly ground coffee and frying bacon.
She followed the hallway to a vast, modern kitchen where Callum was sitting at a marble island, wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick forearms covered in faint scars. He was reading a printed intelligence report while eating breakfast.
Standing near the refrigerator was Marcus, the bodyguard from the car.
“Good morning, Miss Miller,” Marcus said politely, setting down a mug of black coffee for her.
“Morning,” Sadie replied, sitting on a tall bar stool.
Callum didn't look up from his papers immediately, but his voice was calm. “How is the leg?”
“Functional,” Sadie replied, taking a sip of the coffee. “Where are my clothes?”
“Burned,” Callum said flatly, turning a page. “They were ruined with blood and rain. I had my personal shopper bring a few temporary options for you.”
Sadie blinked. “Temporary options? Callum, I have to go to work today. The museum has a collection arriving from Paris at ten.”
Callum finally set his papers down, turning his dark, penetrating gaze onto her.
“You’re not going to the museum today, Sadie.”
“I have a contract—”
“Your museum director was called an hour ago,” Callum interrupted smoothly. “I informed him that you have been retained as an exclusive private consultant for the Russo estate for the next two weeks. He was paid double your annual salary to approve your temporary leave.”
Sadie set her mug down hard against the marble counter. “You can't just buy out my life!”
“I didn't buy your life, Sadie,” Callum said, leaning toward her, his tone dropping into that dark, magnetic register that made her skin tingle. “I protected it. The man who attacked you last night knows what you look like. He knows you have the painting. If you walk into that museum today, you will be dead by noon.”
Sadie opened her mouth to argue, but the cold reality of his words hit her. She remembered the cold steel of the hand that had pinned her against the concrete wall, the smell of cheap tobacco on the attacker's breath, and the vicious weight of that brass ring.
She swallowed her frustration. “So what am I supposed to do? Sit in this brownstone like a prisoner?”
“No,” Callum said, standing up and sliding his report into a leather folder. “You’re going to help me decode the Caravaggio.”
He gestured for her to follow him.
He led her down a hidden spiral staircase behind the kitchen pantry into a subterranean vault lined with humidity-controlled glass display cases containing millions of dollars worth of illegal, unregistered art.
In the center of the vault sat a high-powered digital microscope and a velvet-lined examination table. Resting on the felt was the Caravaggio sketch.
“If there are Moretti banking codes hidden in this canvas,” Callum said, standing behind her as she approached the table, “I need the best appraiser in the city to find them before they realize I’ve cracked it.”
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Sadie looked at the ancient paper, feeling a sudden surge of professional pride that drowned out her fear.
“Get me a halogen lamp and a pair of white cotton gloves,” Sadie said, looking up at him with sharp, focused eyes. “Let’s see what Donato Moretti was hiding.”
