Page 4 of The Bonventi War

RAVEN

It's not even noon, and I'm already on my fifth potential client of the day. My temples throb as I force a polite smile, gesturing to the painting in front of us. Papers clutter my desk—restoration quotes, shipping manifests, invoices I haven't had time to read.

"As you can see, the varnish has significantly yellowed," I explain, pointing to the murky sky in the painting. "We'll need to carefully remove it layer by layer?—"

A phone rings. My client holds up a hand. "Sorry, I need to take this," she says, stepping away.

I glance at the door leading down to the basement workshop. It has become a constant reminder of the mountain of work I have to do. Nine restoration projects already past deadline, four more arriving tomorrow. Staff interviews this afternoon. And somewhere in this mess, I need to figure out why fifty grand vanished from the gallery accounts last month.

I press my thumb against the small raven tattoo on my wrist, tracing its outline.Keep me strong, Mom.

"There's a potential buyer asking about the Picasso," Steven, my sales rep, says from the doorway.

"Take a message," I murmur, rubbing my forehead. "I'm with someone."

Morgan, my head curator, sticks her head out of her office. "The Degas shipment arrived, but there's a problem with the crating."

Of course, there is.

Before I can respond, a delivery man steps through the door with a stack of packages. The phone at the front desk starts ringing.

It's non-stop. I need a moment. Just one fucking moment to think.

The client reappears, still mid-call. "Can you have this done by next Friday?"

I almost laugh.Sure, let me just pause time real quick.

But we need the money, and it's ten grand to the bottom line.

"Absolutely," I say with a forced smile.

She nods, relaying the confirmation into the phone before hanging up. "Alright, let's do it."

"Great," I say, gesturing toward Steven. He appears—like he always does—ready to close the sale. As they walk off, I turn to the delivery man, sign his slip, and head toward Morgan's office.

"The shipment?" I ask, already bracing for bad news.

Morgan picks up some papers. "Painting's fine, but we're missing some crates," she says, holding up the documents.

"Your father had ten crates that were supposed to have arrived, but they're not here. What's weird is we have the shipping paperwork as if they were delivered, but they're missing. It's strange."

I grab the papers, scanning the documents. "And it doesn't even list what's in them. Perfect."

Before I can fully process this, a hesitant voice cuts in. "Ms. Carvello? I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a gentleman here asking for you. Says it's about an acquisition."

I close my eyes, silently cursing. Another meeting. Another distraction. My workshop downstairs is drowning in unfinished work.

But I smooth my blouse and nod. "Tell him I'll be right out."

As I head for the door, I pause. "The intern. What's her name again?"

"Jessica."

I nod, then step into the chaos waiting for me.

I spot the man Jessica mentioned immediately. He stands out among the eclectic artwork. His expensive suit and ridiculous amount of jewelry tell me he's exactly the kind of person I think he is. An I'm-better-than-you rich snob.

He's probably in his late forties, with blond hair and a grin that gives me an unpleasant feeling.