White Lies (A Twisted Fate Series) (Volume 1)

by Kristin Mayer

  Nonno put his arms around me. “Alex did all those things. I asked your dad what in the hell you saw in him. Do you know what his response was?” I shook my head. “Prior to Alex being deployed, your dad said you guys were a match made in heaven. He saw two spirits completing each other. In essence, he saw the love he’d had with your mother. Your dad believed Alex was your soulmate.”

  A tear slipped free. “It was all a trick. Fabricated.”

  His grip tightened as he consoled me. “It was. Baby girl, for some reason this is your journey. It’s not finished yet. I’m not disappointed in you. I hate that your road to love has been more difficult than most, but you’ll get there. And the love will be that much sweeter.”

  Tack popped into my head. Was the journey leading me to him? I knew I felt something pure when I was near him.

  I hugged Nonno, cherishing his wisdom. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too. Let’s go back to the living room and enjoy the evening with family who loves you unconditionally. We can take everyone some of the muffins Mildred made.”

  Sounded like the perfect plan.

  Company had left about an hour ago, and Carson excused himself about ten minutes ago when Francesca called. I was enjoying the silence for the time being. The effects of jet lag took their toll. My phone vibrated.

  Trent: I’m pulling up to the gate.

  Me: Thanks for letting me know.

  It was still awkward around Trent. He had a secret about my father he’d sworn to keep unless something happened. Yeah, it was messed up. I wondered what they talked about. Trent said my father spoke of me often. Had he mentioned any disappointment about me marrying Alex?

  When the doorbell did its fancy chime, Andre went to the door. From the text message, I knew Trent had arrived, but Andre insisted it was protocol for him to answer. I glanced down the hall, hoping Carson had finished his call.

  There was more security around the house. A man guarded the gate, and two more were stationed around the perimeter. In addition, I had a new security system—top of the line.

  Trent insisted it was necessary. For the time being, I agreed.

  I waited in the family room, sipping mango water. It was refreshing and hopefully gave me the energy boost I desperately needed.

  “Evening, Ms. Russo. Thanks for coming back so quickly.”

  Rising, I greeted him. “Come in. Would you like anything to drink?”

  “I’m good. Thank you.” He wore jeans and a T-shirt—very casual. A sense of familiarity came over me again. I wasn’t sure where I had met him before. For a second, I racked my brain if I had met him somewhere. Nothing came. “Sorry for the attire. I’ve been working from home all day.”

  It was a little weird that he knew what I’d been thinking. “No worries. I’ve been on a plane for what seems like forever.”

  “I hate jet lag, too.”

  Another silence fell as I listened to his accent. Tack and Trent were from Ireland, but the dialects were from different regions.

  Tack.

  Shit! In all the chaos, I’d forgotten to let Tack know I made it home. Double shit. I’d call him later.

  I gestured toward the upholstered chair. “Please have a seat.”

  Sitting, he positioned himself on the edge of the chair. His knee bounced. “Is Carson joining us?”

  “He may. He’s on a phone call. You can go ahead and start.” Glancing down the hall, I could see the door was still shut. You could hear the doorbell from the study, so if Carson was still on the phone with Francesca, it had to be important. I’d fill him in later. I flexed my fingers against the dark leather couch and crossed my legs at the ankle.

  Trent took a steadying breath. Why is he nervous? “There’s a reason your father’s Botticelli is in the Uffizi.”

  That was an odd lead-in, and then it clicked. “What?” The air nearly left me.

  The statement was thrown out there—I knew my eyes bugged out. I’d never known the reason for the request in his will; the letter I received with the will left no explanation. “H-how—” I cleared my throat. “How do you know?”

  Trent rubbed his forehead. “While you were in Italy, I found something. And this something means I need to tell you everything.”

  This had to be the incident that had been kept from me. This was it. But… that meant something bad had been unearthed that led to me needing to know. By the look on Trent’s face, this wasn’t good. I set my drink on the table and re-crossed my legs, trying to prepare myself.

  I had survived Mom’s, Dad’s, and Alex’s deaths. I would survive this.

  “Please just tell me, Trent.” My voice grew stronger.

  I remained silent as my mind churned with thoughts. “Nine months ago, the Botticelli was stolen while on loan for a local exhibit. You were away at college. It was a month after you met Alex. Your father and I were already good friends. He contacted me immediately. Everything was kept low key. I found it quickly. The scene was clear when we got to the warehouse to retrieve the painting.”

  Trent spoke in fast and short sentences making it hard to follow. I had to pause for a second before I asked, “Why didn’t I know about this?”

  I knew I sounded like a broken record, but I didn’t understand the need to keep something such as a stolen painting from me.

  Trent’s crystal-clear green eyes met mine as he relayed the story. “Let me backtrack for a second. When the Botticelli was taken, there were fingerprints left all over the scene. Nothing identifiable. We found two sets. One set of prints was professionally removed, leaving only indiscernible smudges from the oil on his fingers. I almost missed it. The other set was poorly removed and left a scar pattern, almost like a finger print, which would be easily identifiable.” He sighed. “Your dad didn’t want you to worry. He didn’t come to that decision lightly.”

  I’d never imagined. Not in my wildest dreams did I ever think the painting had been stolen. “Were the thieves found?”

  As an answer, the set of his jaw spoke volumes. “That’s why your dad put the Botticelli on loan indefinitely to the Uffizi in Florence. He thought if they tried once, they would try again, and he couldn’t put you in danger like that.”

  So much made sense now. The security at the Uffizi was top notch. Dad knew the painting would be safe, and the change of location would take us, specifically me, out of harm’s way.

  It was still hard to believe Dad kept something like this from me. Trent continued when he realized I had nothing to say. “I’m sorry, Ms. Russo.”

  “It’s fine. Continue.” My head was swimming.

  He pulled out his folder and handed me a piece of paper. There were two smudged fingerprints side by side. “After Martha’s Vineyard, I had a thought. I went back to Cocktails and lifted one of Harley’s prints to do a background check.” A pause. Pauses were never good. “On a whim, I checked them against the crime scene. They matched one of the sets.”

  “And the other?”

  Trent responded, “Is still a mystery.” Another dramatic pause. I was about to strangle Trent with his dramatic pauses. “The other I think belonged to Alex.”

  The air left me, and I closed my eyes. “Think?”

  “Yes, I wasn’t able to get a set of his prints.”

  This was getting worse. So much worse. “When did you say the theft happened? Before or after I met Alex?”

  I knew the answer but needed it confirmed. “After.”

  “That asshole!” I stood and paced a few steps. Trent was surprised at my outburst and stood as well. “Did Dad have any idea? Was he on to Alex at all?”

  He shook his head. “Your dad asked me to look into Alex later after you got married. I found no surprises. Military background. Only child. Lived in Jersey as a kid. There wasn’t anything suspicious to make him a suspect.”

  Sitting, I cradled my head for a second. Harley had been one of the thieves. He was in on the scam with Alex. Having Commander Taylor put a tap on my phone and follow me confirmed tha
t. At Cocktails, Harley acted as if he hadn’t known me. “Did you try to get his prints before he died?”

  “No. I had no reason to.”

  I massaged my temples. “What’s next?”

  At this point, I wanted to keep Trent onboard. Carson assured me he was on the up and up.

  “I think we should keep security tight. You mentioned an art show on the plane; do you have any other commitments after this art show?”

  I had a feeling I was about to become a prisoner in my own home. “No, my schedule is clean.”

  “For what it’s worth, Ms. Russo, I am sorry we kept you in the dark. I know this must be difficult.”

  I searched his face. There were no threatening or malicious vibes coming off him. Something still wasn’t adding up. “I’m still just surprised he never mentioned anything about you.”

  Trent met my gaze head on. “In the beginning, we were acquaintances. Your dad helped me get into security at the major art galleries. About five or six months after we met, he saw me. It had been about two months since we last talked, and I’d been promoted to head of security. He invited me out for an espresso.”

  My lips turned up. “Dad loved getting to know people over espresso.”

  A chuckle came from Trent. “He did. I came to enjoy espressos because of your dad.” Trent cleared his throat and then dragged a hand through his hair. “While we drank, he asked me what I wanted in life. I think he put it as ‘what did I see my canvas looking like.’”

  I sat back, lost in the story of Dad. It was similar to getting a rare unexpected prize that made him feel a little closer. After he died, I was frightened I would forget the essence of Dad—the small and special things that made him Dad. This refreshed it and made it seem as if he were here.

  I hung on Trent’s every word, and he seemed to relax. “I told him about my dreams of always wanting to own a security firm. How when I was a child, my parents had been killed in a bombing because of lack of security. It’s what drives me to keep people from reliving what I had. We went our separate ways that night. A few weeks later, your Dad called me and asked me to meet him again. Alfonso told me if I showed him I was ready to run my company, he would help. I busted my ass pulling it all together. We kept talking and got to know each other better. Next, he introduced me to Carson. He called on me to help after the theft, and I dropped everything. Alfonso was my mentor. He reminded me what it was like to have a father again.”

  The sadness emanating from Trent touched me. “Alfonso died not long after that.”

  And Trent had been silenced out of loyalty to Dad.

  “Ms. Russo—”

  “Willow. Please call me Willow.”

  He smiled. “Willow, I’m going to figure this out. I promise.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate all that you’re doing, Trent. Truly.” At this point, I needed the help. “Is there anything else we need to talk about?” Exhaustion had gained the upper hand rapidly.

  Trent stood. “You must be tired. One last thing—do you happen to have anything Alex touched that hasn’t been cleaned? There may be fingerprints I can compare against what we found at the art gallery.”

  It had been nearly a month since he died. It came to me. “I have some paperwork I think Alex accidentally left. There’s a bank statement, some cryptic notes, and a picture of his child.”

  Trent raised his eyebrows. “Can I take those for comparison purposes?”

  “Sure. Let me get them.”

  I already had copies of everything. I took the stairs two at a time and found the satchel with the folder in it near the seating area of the room. Taking the folder out, I took a deep breath. Trent was the second man I trusted somewhat blindly. It was nerve wracking as I second-guessed myself. Am I making the right decision?

  I stopped for a second and took a steadying breath. Dad trusted Trent. This was my decision… right or wrong.

  Back downstairs, Trent lingered near the front door with Andre. I handed over the files. “Here are the files. When will you know?”

  “Give me until tomorrow to confirm. I’d like for Andre to stay in the house, if that’s okay with you. Is Carson staying?”

  Looking at the time, it was late. “I would imagine so. There’s another guest bedroom next to the one Carson stays in if Andre wants it.”

  In a deep timbre, Andre answered, “I’ll be fine, Ms. Russo. Thank you, though.”

  I was too tired to argue, so I saw Trent out and showed Andre the kitchen. “I’ll be up in my room. Thank you, Andre.”

  “Of course, Ms. Russo. Everything will be fine.”

  Carson came out looking frazzled from the office. “Has Trent left yet?”

  “Just now. Andre is staying in the house. Want to talk about it?”

  He sighed and stared at me, the dark circles prominent under his eyes. “Not really. Can we talk about it in the morning?”

  Now, I was a little worried. Carson looked like I felt. We both needed sleep. “Whenever you want. I’m always here.”

  “Thanks, Willow. What did Trent say?”

  Carson looked exhausted. I was exhausted. “Let’s talk about it all in the morning after we get some sleep. Our problems will wait.”

  Giving me a brief hug, we exchanged good-nights. Weary, I trudged to my room. I heard my phone vibrating in my purse.

  It was Tack.

  “Is everything okay?”

  He sounded panicked. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  “What happened?”

  I kicked my shoes off and sat on the chaise lounge while I moved my toes, stretching my feet. This was the scary part of the night… when the impact of the truths made themselves known. What the hell, why not tell Tack at this point? “You know the painting on loan at the Uffizi?”

  Hesitantly, he responded, “Yes.”

  “Turns out it had been stolen.”

  “I know.”

  More irritation came to the surface. “Why did you keep this from me?”

  He sighed before he said, “I found out while I was in Italy when I dug a little deeper. What else did Trent tell you?”

  I took a deep breath. “Just about Dad. And the fingerprints found at the scene when the painting had been stolen.”

  Silence. “Does Trent know about me?”

  “No. Honestly, Tack, I’m tired of playing games. Who are you? What is your end game?”

  I knew I sounded short and bitchy, but I was tired and stressed.

  Letting out a frustrated noise, Tack became serious. “I have no ulterior motive, Willow. My end game is you.”

  Oh my.

  “Tack…”

  “Sweetheart…”

  Apparently, we were both at a loss for words. The connection between us deepened without warning. I was unprepared for it. I wanted to keep him on the phone, not ready to let him go, not ready to let the realness of the moment go.

  “I don’t want to hang up, Willow. Let me read to you.”

  “Please.”

  There was something so private, so intimate, and so loving about listening to Tack’s words as they lulled me to a peaceful sleep.

  I finished pouring the batter for the last crepe as Carson walked into the kitchen looking a hell of a lot better than he looked last night. He went straight for the cappuccino machine and made himself one without saying a word. I waited to see if he was ready to talk. I knew I was.

  Last night, Tack hadn’t pushed after he started reading to me… he’d simply been there, which I’d needed more than I thought. I still hadn’t truly processed what all had happened with the painting being stolen. A part of me felt violated by the act. Maybe that was why Dad hadn’t wanted to tell me. He’d known how it would affect me—by slightly jading my view of the world.

  The thin layer of dough finished cooking, and I folded the fresh strawberries into the crepe and placed it on a plate. I added a small amount of powdered sugar. Strawberry crepes were something Mom always made after I had a rough day. She’d learned from a woman visiti
ng Florence from Paris one summer while we were overseas. From that point on, it became a comfort food. Once, after I’d broken my arm, I got crepes with ice cream. That had been a magical day.

  I handed Carson a plate and we went to the bar, where he sat beside me. The worry lines on his face were clear, which troubled me. Normally, he would have told me by now. He took a bite. “I remember your mom always made these whenever we’d had a rough day.”

  “I was thinking about that. I woke up this morning thinking we probably both needed these. If it gets too bad, we can always get the ice cream. I think I spied some gelato in the freezer this morning.”

  Some of the life was back in Carson’s face. After taking a sip of his coffee, he nodded. “You first.”

  Finishing my bite, I turned his way. “Well, the Botticelli was stolen not long after I met Alex. That’s the reason behind the indefinite loan to the Uffizi. At the crime scene, there were two sets of prints. One was professionally removed, one not so professional. Trent determined the not-so-professional prints belonged to Harley.”

  Carson pinched his brows together. I clarified. “The guy at Cocktails.”

  He nodded, obviously remembering the sleaze bag. “Trent thinks Alex was the other person. I gave him those papers I found to see if Trent could make the connection.”

  Carson’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “Holy fuck. Willow… I’m sorry I wasn’t there last night. I wish I’d known.”

  “It’s okay. I promise.” My throat tightened. “I was a mark from the beginning. I’ve known this… but it hurts. I really thought there was something there. I—” Abruptly, I stopped, knowing if I didn’t, a sob fest would be eminent.

  Arms came around me. “He never deserved you.”

  The words were sweet, but did little to take away the sting of the lies, betrayal, and deceit. I wanted to change subjects. “Your turn.”

  Carson sat back abandoning his crepe too the worry from earlier returning. “Francesca is pregnant. She found out the day I left, which is why she was off—she thought I bailed on the relationship. I’m going to be a dad. Her father was less than thrilled when she told him. He’s old school. Last night, I arranged for her to come here while we work it out. I don’t want her father stressing her out. She’s on her way now.”