Page 46 of Veil of Ashes

Tony Rizzi.

He enters like he’s walking into a kingdom, not a ballroom. Same smug grin, same too-tight suit. His weight has changed, but not his presence. Every conversation quiets. Heads tilt subtly in his direction.

Sylvara goes rigid next to me—barely perceptible, but I feel it like a tremor.

I tighten my grip on her hand. “Easy,” I murmur.

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

Rizzi makes his rounds—kisses a hand here, slaps a shoulder there. Then his eyes land on us.

He slows.

He’s looking at her.

A break falls between lots. A bronze sculpture rolls off the floor, and before I can shift positions, Rizzi is moving our way.

Sylvara’s mask stays fixed, but I can feel her heart beating fast against my arm.

He stops in front of us, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Something about you,” he says to her. His voice is slower now, like he's chasing memory. “You remind me of someone I met in Florence. Years ago. Painted with her hands. Left blood in the canvas.”

Sylvara tilts her head, smile light. “I’ve never been to Florence,” she says. “But I do know how to leave a mark.”

Rizzi laughs, low and sharp. “I bet you do.”

I step forward, angling slightly between them.

“My wife has exquisite taste,” I say coolly. “I just sign the checks.”

He glances at me then, like I’ve interrupted something sacred. His eyes linger too long. Then he smiles—a thin, crooked thing.

“Lucky man,” he mutters, and saunters off.

Sylvara lets out a breath. I catch it before it escapes too far.

“You good?” I ask quietly.

She nods once. But her pulse tells a different story.

The crowd swells again, folding in on itself like tidewater. Glasses clink, laughter buzzes—thin, performative. The next lot rolls out, and I can tell even before the curtain lifts that it’s the one we came for.

Roland’s voice rises, clear and practiced. “Next lot: an original from the Palermo estate—rescued before the gallery fire in ‘09. Oil on canvas. Untitled. Provenance guaranteed.”

The painting slides into view under spotlights. Deep reds, shadows knifing through empty space. Blood and smoke sealed under varnish.

Sylvara squeezes my hand—subtle but firm. Confirmation.

This is it.

Rizzi's money flowed through this canvas. The bank records, the coded brushstroke entries in her father's journal, all pointed here. And now, it’s center stage.

The plan is simple: if someone buys the piece, I tag them. If no one bites, Sylvara steps in with her fake bid and plants the tracker while the auction team moves the painting to the backroom. We’re not here to win. We’re here to trace.

Bidding begins. Low, almost disrespectful. But it climbs fast. A woman in silver raises her paddle. Then a man in a navy suit counters. Rizzi watches from the bar, arms folded, drink untouched.

Sylvara leans in, voice barely above the breath between us. “Tag’s in my clutch. Lined under the flap. If the guy in navy wins, I can intercept during handoff.”

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