Page 51 of Take Me Under

“For your graduation, I’m giving you three coins. The number three has always been important in ancient cultures, symbolizing ideas like balance, completeness, and the divine—like the Holy Trinity in Christianity or the three sides of the Egyptian sun god. In Pythagorean philosophy, three was seen as the perfect number, standing for wisdom and understanding—both of which you’ll need to uncover the truth. These coins are also tied to the story of Brutus spreading lies about Mark Antony after Caesar’s death. Like Antony and Cleopatra, you’ll have to navigate through the lies to find the truth.”

My father often spoke in riddles, and that day had been nodifferent. The coins were the last thing he’d ever given me. Shortly after that, he became sick. There was no way I would give them up—to a museum or to Anton. They held too much sentimental value.

I shifted my attention back to Anton and contemplated my answer. His gaze narrowed and my pulse quickened as I took in his imposing figure. He was studying me through fierce eyes, almost as if I were an unsuspecting lamb—the prey hunted by the wolf.

“The idea that I might have the Brutus Denarius is ridiculous,” I said, hoping I sounded convincing.

I thought I saw a flicker of disappointment cross his face, but his expression was so impassive, I couldn’t be sure. Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms and considered me carefully.

“I don’t believe you.”

I raised a brow. “And why is that?”

“The lighting might be dim, but I can spot a terrible poker face. I’m good at reading people, particularly their tells.”

“I don’t have a tell.”

“Oh, but you do, princess. You bite down on your lower lip when you’re nervous, and you’re doing that right now.”

I sucked in a breath, releasing the lip that had been trapped between my teeth. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it. Angling my chin, I stared defiantly at him.

“So what if I was biting my lip? That doesn’t mean I have the coin. Besides, whether I have it or not is irrelevant. It would never be for sale. A coin of that value belongs in a museum.”

“Why a museum? So random people can look upon it, never fully understanding its importance?”

He wasn’t wrong.

I pressed my lips together in a tight line. “Why is the coin of interest to you anyways?”

“Like my cufflinks, I collect things of historical significance—particularly ancient coins. Not ordinary coins, but ones that hold importance. Mundane, boring, and common things are of no interest to me. I covet the rarest in the world, and I already have six of the top ten in my private collection. Unfortunately, a few are out of reach, having been placed in museums or possibly lost forever. I had believed the Brutus Denarius to be amongst the unobtainable until I read an article about a different Dr. Martinelli.”

“My late father,” I stated, giving clarity to the identity confusion that often occurred in my professional circles. “Dr. Carlo Martinelli.”

“As I eventually figured out, but not before I went looking for him at The Met Gala. You can imagine my surprise when I found you instead. I can’t say I was disappointed,” he added suggestively, his eyes darkening. I tried to ignore the little flip in my stomach. “It’s said that your father found a collection of Roman coins while in Greece.A gold Brutus Denarius was supposedly among them.”

My brow furrowed, trying to remember the details of the article he was referring to so I didn’t mix it up with the truth.

“If I recall, that article was full of inaccuracies. It was mostly rumors made up by jealous peers who were intent on sabotaging my father’s theories. There weren’t any Brutus Denarius coins in the jug.” Even to my own ears, the venom in my voice was obvious as I continued the lie—anger sparked by loyalty to my father. I made a conscious effort to even my tone. “The article was pure speculation. If such a coin had been found, it would have been extraordinary.”

“You seem very… passionate about your position.”

The way he seemed to draw out the word “passionate” caused an involuntary shiver to course through me. I took a sip of wine to steady myself.

“For years, my father was dismissed by his peers. Yourmention of the article reminded me how upsetting it was for my mother and me.”

“And here I thought your vehemence was a way to punctuate your denial about the coin. But I am curious to hear more about your father’s theories that stirred such controversy.” He paused, seeming to search for the right words. “Whether I give you the money you need in exchange for a coin or in exchange for, shall we say?—”

“A pound of flesh?” I offered.

A wicked smile played on his lips. “A dramatic take, but it fits.”

My stomach did another little flip, and I tore my gaze from his. Needing something to do, I reached for my wineglass again. Rather than take a sip, I toyed with the stem for a moment before speaking. “My father had a lot of theories. What is it that you want to know?”

“For starters, why was he not taken seriously by his peers?”

I pressed my lips together into a tight line as more memories rushed to the surface.

“My father didn’t agree with many scholars. Most archeologists believe that Cleopatra and Mark Antony are buried in a lost city in Egypt, but my father’s maps told a different story. Decades of research led him to Rome. He had had everything mapped out—from the Arch of Constantine to the three tall columns of the Temple of Castor and Pollux, everything led him to an unexcavated location not far from where Julius Caesar’s ashes are believed to be.”

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