Luca set down his wine and started walking toward us.
Zoe watched him through the glass wall of her office, then lowered the blinds with one sharp pull.
“Tell me exactly what he said to you.”
I stared at her.
“Zoe, you’re scaring me.”
“Good.
Maybe you’ll listen.”
She put Luca’s cream-colored business card on her desk as if she didn’t want to hold it any longer.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Moretti isn’t just the name of a restaurant.”
I waited.
Zoe glanced toward the closed door.
“My gallery deals with wealthy collectors.
Their attorneys, advisers, family offices.
You hear names.
Moretti is one of those names people don’t say casually.”
“What are you telling me?”
She swallowed.
“Luca Moretti runs his family’s organization.
The restaurants are legitimate.
So are several of the other businesses.
But that isn’t the whole business.”
For a second I actually laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because my brain rejected the sentence.
“Organization?”
Zoe held my eyes.
“Organized crime, Chloe.”
The room seemed to lose sound.
I remembered his immaculate coat.
The tattoo at his collar.
The two men who had moved after one tiny nod.
I remembered asking what he did.
Restaurants, a few other ventures.
Something like that.
I felt stupid for not hearing the spaces between his words.
Then came three soft knocks on the office door.
Zoe went rigid.
“Chloe?” Luca called from the other side.
His voice was calm.
That somehow made it worse.
I stood.
Zoe caught my wrist.
“You don’t have to open that door.”
She was right.
But I had spent seven years photographing New York streets because I hated looking away from things I didn’t understand.
Fear made me want to leave.
Anger made me reach for the lock.
I opened the door.
Luca stood alone.
The men I’d noticed earlier remained across the gallery.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“You tell me.”
His gaze dropped to the business card on Zoe’s desk.
Something in his face changed.
Not panic.
