Chapter 3 - The Bloodlines of the Fresco
Alessio did not shout for her to climb down, nor did he send his armed lieutenants up the metal ladder to interrogate her.
He simply walked up the aisle with deliberate steps, his polished Italian leather shoes echoing against the bare concrete floors.
"You are Julian Blake’s daughter," Alessio said, his resonant baritone effortlessly reaching the rafters.
Saraphina gripped the guardrail of the scaffolding, refusing to let her hands betray the sudden spike of adrenaline in her blood.
"And you must be the phantom landlord who hides behind three layers of shell corporations," she called down, matching his calm cadence.
Alessio climbed the narrow service stairs until he stepped onto the upper platform with the graceful balance of a predator accustomed to heights.
Up close, the harsh halogen work lamps illuminated the pale scar running from his left temple down past his cheekbone.
He smelled of expensive tobacco, aged Kentucky bourbon, and the subtle scent of rain.
"Your father was an exceptional archivist, Miss Blake, but an exceptionally reckless gambler," Alessio murmured, stepping within inches of her workbench.
"My father died of a sudden stroke," Saraphina countered sharply, her chin lifting in defiance despite the terror tightening her throat.
"Julian Blake died because he stole something from the wrong vault before he had the chance to catalog it," Alessio corrected her without a trace of remorse.
He reached past her shoulder, his knuckles brushing against the edge of her canvas apron, and tapped the plaster surrounding Saint Michael’s halo.
The sound that returned was not the dull thud of solid masonry, but the light, hollow resonance of hidden space.
Saraphina froze, realizing why the syndicate had offered triple the market rate to restore this specific section of the proscenium arch.
The previous theater owner had built secret wall compartments into the gilded molding during Prohibition to smuggle liquor and ledgers.
Her father had not been an innocent scholar caught in the crossfire; he had been the Romano family’s chief artifact appraiser for a decade.
Alessio pulled a thin silver pocket knife from his vest and gently pried open a hairline fracture in the decorative plaster.
Inside the cavity lay a rusted brass lockbox bearing the etched initials of the Blake family crest.
Saraphina felt the ground beneath her vanish as the myth of her father's integrity collapsed into ashes before her eyes.
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"You see, Saraphina, you were never hired to clean an angel," Alessio whispered, holding the box out toward her trembling hands.
"You were hired because only your father's daughter knows the combination that keeps both of our families out of a mass grave."
