The air in the Madison Avenue gallery tastes of lemon-oil wax and the dry, filtered breath of a climate-control system. Lucia Marin stands by the velvet ropes, her low leather pumps making no sound on the polished parquet. Dim security lighting turns the tall shadows of gilt-framed mirrors into silent watchers. She adjusts the thin gold cross at her throat, the metal cool against her olive skin, and checks the time on her phone.
Sandra Pelton had been uncharacteristically vague about this private viewing. A collector of specific pedigree, the director had called him, her voice tight with a professional greed that Lucia hadn't liked. It is nearly midnight, an hour for secrets rather than commerce. Lucia reaches into her suede pouch for her tortoiseshell glasses, her fingers trembling slightly. She is not here to appraise; she is here to bridge the gap between New York polish and Sicilian steel.
A chime echoes from the private elevator bank, a lonely, crystalline sound in the hollow space. Footsteps heavy with purpose thud against the carpeted vestibule. Lucia straightens her black silk dress, bracing for a ghost she doesn't yet recognize. The heavy mahogany door of the gallery begins to swing inward, revealing the broad silhouette of the Sicilian collector stepping out of the elevator.
