Chapter 2 - THE LOGISTICS INVESTOR
Adrian Moretti took a slow sip of his Scotch, his dark eyes never leaving her face.
“I know everyone who manages provenance for high-value collections in this city,” Adrian said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that felt unnaturally grounding in the quiet bar. “And I know you authenticated three seventeen-century Dutch landscapes for my private gallery two years ago.”
Rachel’s memory flashed back.
“The Van Der Berg pieces,” she murmured. “You were the anonymous buyer.”
“I was.” Adrian set his glass down with a soft, metallic click against the mahogany counter. “You refused to clear the second landscape for three weeks because the oak panel backing had an anomalous grain structure. Cost me forty thousand dollars in delay fees while your team ran carbon testing.”
“It was a late eighteenth-century copy,” Rachel said instinctively, her professional armor sliding into place before she could stop it. “I saved you two million dollars.”
“I know,” Adrian said faintly, a razor-thin smile touching the corner of his lips. “That’s why I didn't fire my broker. You’re scrupulously honest, Ms. Monroe. Which makes the fact that you’re sitting in a dark basement bar holding an untouched glass of bourbon with a broken shoe particularly interesting.”
Rachel felt her pulse spike. She looked down at her feet, tucking her broken heel beneath the hem of her black silk dress.
“I had an accident on the stairs.”
“And you had an accident in the coatroom,” Adrian added smoothly.
Rachel went rigid.
The noise of the library bar—the low hum of the ice machine, the distant muffled bass from the ballroom above—seemed to vanish entirely.
“Were you following me?” Rachel whispered, her hands gripping her clutch so hard her knuckles turned white.
“I don't follow people,” Adrian said calmly. “I pay attention to logistics. Grant Holloway has been moving heavy wooden crates through my shipping docks in East Chicago for six months.”
Rachel’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. “Your docks?”
“Moretti Freight handles forty percent of the art transport containers passing through Lake Michigan,” Adrian explained, turning his broad frame slightly to face her. “Three weeks ago, my customs manifest flagged two crates coming from Milwaukee bound for Geneva. The paperwork carried your digital stamp, Ms. Monroe. But the IP address used to log into the Halston server originated from a private terminal inside Grant Holloway’s apartment.”
Rachel sat frozen on her stool, her breath catching in her throat.
“You knew?” she choked out. “You knew he was using my login?”
“I suspected he was using someone who didn't know she was being used,” Adrian said, his grey-blue eyes dark and intense. “I didn't step in because it wasn't my business. Until twenty minutes ago, when I saw Holloway standing outside the coatroom with Harrison Ward’s daughter, handing her a silver flash drive.”
Adrian leaned closer, the faint scent of expensive cedar and rain surrounding him.
“He’s setting you up for the Mercer theft, Rachel. By Monday morning, when the federal art crime team opens an inquiry into the missing nine canvases, every piece of paper will point directly to your desk.”
A tear finally broke free, running hot down Rachel’s cheek. She wiped it away furiously with the back of her hand, hating the sudden wave of vulnerability washing over her.
“He told her I was access,” Rachel whispered, her voice cracking. “Four years... and he called me access.”
Adrian’s expression hardened into something cold, dark, and utterly terrifying. The casual charm vanished, replaced by the predator who ruled Chicago’s shadow economy.
“Grant Holloway is an amateur playing with high-caliber machinery,” Adrian said softly. “He thinks marrying Harrison Ward’s daughter makes him untouchable. He doesn't realize that Harrison Ward owes six million dollars to a private ledger in Zurich that I happen to manage.”
Rachel looked up at him through her tears. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I hate amateurs,” Adrian said plainly. “And because I dislike seeing a woman who takes three weeks to verify an oak grain panel get destroyed by a man who couldn't tell a Vermeer from a diner placemat.”
He pulled a heavy silver cigarette case from his pocket, opened it, and laid a sleek black business card onto the bar beside her untouched drink.
Engraved on the heavy paper in silver foil was a single phone number and a name: MORETTI LOGISTICS.
“Go home tonight,” Adrian instructed, his voice low and command-driven. “Do not confront him. Do not change your password. Pretend you know nothing. Tomorrow morning at nine, come to my office at the docks.”
Rachel looked from the black card back to his face.
“And if I don't?”
Adrian stood up, buttoning his charcoal tuxedo jacket with dark, methodical calm.
May you like
“If you don't,” Adrian said, looking down at her, “you will be arrested by federal marshals on Tuesday afternoon. And Grant Holloway will be spending your career in a penthouse on Lake Shore Drive.”
He turned and walked toward the exit, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway before Rachel could even speak his name again.
