Art restorer Giovanni Fabrizzi is haunted by an unsigned renaissance portrait. Obsessed to learn the truth of its origin, he becomes increasingly convinced the painting could be the work of one of history's greatest artists, which if true, would catapult its value to the stratosphere. But in learning of the painting's past, he is faced with a dilemma. He believes the portrait was stolen during the greatest art heist in history -- the Nazi plunder of European artwork. If true and a surviving relative of the painting's rightful owner were still alive, Giovanni, in all good conscience, would have to give up the potential masterpiece. His obsession with the portrait puts a strain on his new marriage, and his son thinks his father has lost his mind for believing an unremarkable, unsigned painting could be worth anyone's attention. Regardless, Giovanni persists in his quest of discovery and exposes far more truth than he ever wanted to know.

CHAPTER 1

Seated at the vanity in their bedroom, Arabella Fabrizzi faced the mirror as she selected jewelry to complement her evening gown and upswept dark strands. Consumed with herself, she failed to notice her husband’s troubled expression.

Behind her, Giovanni stared into the mirror, first at her loveliness and then at his sagging face, that of a man thirty years her elder. His wife was the epitome of elegance, yet he felt his insides wither. She was still attractive to him, physically, as she had been a year ago. Many had teased him about taking a child bride, mostly other men, no doubt envious.

The color drained from his face, washing away his normally dark, Mediterranean complexion, leaving him more the color of his graying hair and wispy beard.

He watched in horror as Arabella cinched the clasp of a delicate bracelet with thin strands of gold and silver intertwined, circling a total of nine rubies.

“I rather like the way it looks.” She raised her wrist to admire the jewelry. “I certainly hope you do.”

He did not reply.

She turned to him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Giovanni stared helplessly at her. He was speechless and she was puzzled, each waiting for the other to say something.

“You’re upset,” she said. Then she noticed Giovanni looking down at her arm.

“This?” She held her wrist high to display the bracelet.

He turned away.

“You gave it to me. You said I could wear it.”

“You’re right,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. “I said that. I just didn’t know it would affect me like this.”

“I don’t know why you’re holding on to it.” Her resentment grew stronger. “I mean, I know it makes you think of her, and then you get morose, and then you have no…” She began to remove the bracelet. “No passion. For anything.”

“No, wear it.” Giovanni stopped her and tried to clasp the bracelet but his aging fingers could not manage.

“No!” She pulled free and dropped the bracelet into a jewelry box on the vanity. “I can’t get you out of this flat, or your studio, so I go to these social events on my own. The least I was hoping for is that I could without you sulking, but I suppose that’s too much to ask.”

Up from her seat, Arabella went to the closet and sifted through her coats, looking for one heavy enough to keep out the chilly London night.

Giovanni felt helpless. “I know. I just cannot get rid of her things. Not all of them. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to go on like this.” She made an effort to contain her aggravation. “I think we need to see a therapist about this.” She threw on a coat, grabbed her keys to the Jaguar, and started downstairs. “You’re either married to me or to your memories, Gio. Not both.”

* * *

The next morning after breakfast together, during which nothing of substance was discussed, Giovanni kissed Arabella on the cheek, carried his dishes to the sink, and promised to be home by six o’clock.

As he did each morning, Giovanni traveled by train to Green Park’s underground station where he joined scores of commuters pouring from the exit. Outside the station, he flung back his scarf and buttoned his overcoat, ready to endure the early drizzle. His fellow travelers hustled past, rushing about like sheep and scattering as each sought out their individual offices. How he hated his new daily routine.

It was not his occupation, at which Giovanni excelled. The restoration of fine art was a craft passed down by his father, which Giovanni was equally pleased to pass on to his son, who oversaw the family’s operations in Florence. That he was among a family of talented conservators should be reason for pride, and it was. The part that gave Giovanni daily grief was the new location of his office. If his father were still alive, he would probably be dismayed as well.

For decades, Fabrizzi & Sons conducted business in Soho Square, occupying the top floor of a building that had served it well since Giovanni’s father, Federico, had come to England and established the London branch of the world-renowned art restorers.

Federico Fabrizzi soon established good relations with the National Gallery, the two major auction houses, Christie’s and Sotheby’s, and the curators of many of the major collections. It was not unusual for Federico and one of his assistants to disappear for weeks, traveling across the country to visit many of the great estates, where they would take up temporary residence and perform their craft.

In time, Federico became a regular at Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle, leading to further prestige when the firm was granted the Royal Warrant, allowing the addition to its letterhead By Royal Appointment to His Majesty King George V. Similar honors followed from George VI and Queen Elizabeth.

Eventually, Federico entrusted the London studio to Giovanni, who was proud to follow in this father’s footsteps. Father and son continued working side by side, but as the years passed, Federico split more of his time between London and Florence. Giovanni assumed that his father, in his later years, yearned for his homeland of Italy. After his father died, Giovanni entrusted his son to manage the Florence studio while he remained in London, where increasing pressure from clients demanded him to find a new location.

Moving from Soho Square was not only a physical drain but an emotional nightmare. Giovanni felt it had been forced on him and that it was ultimately unnecessary. But the art business had changed. It had new blood, though that didn’t make it better. Young turks in St. James’s concluded that Soho Square was no longer a convenient place to have their artwork restored. They claimed that parking was difficult. The building, they insisted, was impossible to adequately secure against break-ins. There was a constant risk of fire on account of the old wiring, and the potential for water damage due to the ancient pipes. Some of them had the audacity to present Giovanni with an ultimatum—Either move to safer premises or we are likely to take our business elsewhere.

What a bloody nerve. The House of Fabrizzi had been in Soho for decades and never as much as a paintbrush had been stolen. When Giovanni told his neighbors in the building that he was seeking a new location, all were saddened by the news. Mr. Genaro, a restaurateur whose family had served the Fabrizzis lunch for decades, was inconsolable. Regardless, and against Giovanni’s futile protests, the auction houses prevailed. They demanded a modern studio and even suggested a site that suited their preferences.

So Fabrizzi & Sons was forced to take residence at the corner of King Street and St. James’s. The new construction still smelled like the glue that held together all the granite, glass, and chrome. Ah, but it had, as the realtor pointed out with an air of superiority, all the latest amenities. Climate control, security cameras capturing every angle inside and out, bulletproof windows, and alarms with direct lines to Scotland Yard, Savile Row Police Station, Brinks Security, and likely, Giovanni surmised, to the Prime Minister himself. It was all too much. He hated it. It had no soul.

A mere two miles away, Soho Square was such a different world. Even the Soho hookers and pimps, nightclub bouncers, strippers and drug dealers treated him with more warmth than the scarce few who might recognize him arriving for another day of work at the impenetrable St. James’s facilities.

He thought of Beth, the hooker who worked the corner of Frith and Old Compton Streets. She had fallen in love with one of Mr. Genaro’s waiters. She had a nest egg built up over the years, so he quit the restaurant, she quit the corner, and they bought a coffee shop in the north of England. The last Giovanni heard, they owned three hotels and had a villa in Sardinia.

Another of Mr. Genaro’s waiters had a son who qualified as a barrister and later became a high court judge. There was another, the son of the chef, who became a cabinet minister. Prestige didn’t keep them away from the Soho neighborhood, and their visits weren’t accompanied by displays of class difference or attempts to impose their superiority. They remained the same people just like everybody else. People who enjoy the simple pleasure of knowing a bit about each other’s lives.

Then there was Harry, who had a stall at the Berwick Street Market. He always picked out the ripest fruit for Giovanni. And the French patisserie around the corner where he went every morning for a croissant; the newsagent on Wardour Street who stocked the Italian newspapers; the hefty bouncers who kept an eye on Giovanni when he got in or out of a cab, laden with paintings. The old neighborhood was a melting pot of big-time entertainment executives, the denizens of late night clubs, ballet dancers, and restaurant staff. In contrast, the St. James’s crowd was strictly business. They all dressed alike, talked alike, and few rarely explored the world outside their offices. Most of Giovanni’s fellow tenants were dour old men who couldn’t crack a smile if they tried. Thinking about it, perhaps he had become a perfect fit for his new neighborhood.

As he did every day, from his wallet Giovanni pulled out a business card, on the back of which he’d written the long list of codes to gain access to the building and get into his studio. He had given up all hope of trying to memorize them.

At the building’s entrance, there was a panel of buzzers for each business that shared the premises. Giovanni wanted to put up the old brass sign that was proudly displayed outside Soho Square for so many years, alongside King George V’s Royal Warrant, but the landlord had refused.

Giovanni slipped his key into the lock and studied the business card with access codes. After punching in the required numbers, he waited for the green light and then turned the key. A buzzer sounded and the door unlatched. Past the threshold, he proceeded into the lobby as the heavy door swung closed and sealed out the world, along with any audible hint that it still existed. The white marble floor stretched out before him, flanked by barren gray walls. The sterile facility was devoid of art and furniture.

At the elevator, again Giovanni had to study his card with access codes. Apparently, the fortress’s front entrance wasn’t enough to thwart intruders. Perhaps the developers should have added a moat.

After mistyping the code and retrying without sounding any alarms, which as Giovanni had understood, would occur after three failed attempts, he boarded the elevator and ascended to the fifth floor. He was the only tenant on the floor. In fact, there was only one tenant for each of the seven floors. He had met most of them, but none were interested in pursuing a conversation of any length.

At the door to his studio, another key and code were required. The light turned green, he turned the key, and he pushed his way in.

No alarms yet, but Giovanni was greeted by the high shriek of warning that alarms would sound in sixty seconds if the proper codes were not entered. He moved quickly to the panel past the doorway, studied his list of codes, and silenced the annoying squeal.

The glass-topped desk and chrome lamp gave the reception area a sleek and modern look. His secretary and bookkeeper, Mrs. Anderson, was not present as she only worked Fridays, so the room was dim and the computer on her desk was turned off.

Bookcases surrounding the room were teeming with art books and endless archives relating to the many restoration commissions that Fabrizzi & Sons had completed over decades. In the center of one wall was a barred gate from floor to ceiling, beyond which was his work area. Another key and code opened the gate and again another alarm had to be disabled. Giovanni waved at the motion sensors and security cameras with the same contempt that he had greeted those in every corridor since the building’s entrance.

His workshop was fifty feet square with bulletproof windows that overlooked St. James’s Street. Instead of the homely wooden floors of Soho Square, with the cracks that Giovanni found charming, the marble floor was like glass, the walls were bright white, and small spotlights shone down from the dark void above. Of all Giovanni despised about his new quarters, he had to admit the lighting was an improvement, as it aided his restoration work. Two large easels were stationed in the center of the room, and a large oak table along one wall was stocked with brushes, paints, oils, and other tools of his trade. An armoire on the opposite wall held more equipment.

Giovanni took off his coat and scarf and hung them on the coat stand, which stood alongside the Fabrizzi & Sons sign that he was not allowed to display outside the building’s entrance. Next to that were the Royal Warrants and framed letters of appreciation from grateful clients, a number of whom included several monarchs, curators of the world’s major museums, and some of the most important collectors and dealers such as Paul Mellon, Baron Thyssen-Bornemisza, Lord Duveen, and others. He went to the armoire and turned on the stereo. He liked to work with music in the background and chose one of his favorites, Vivaldi, to put his mind in a more relaxed state.

Deeper in the room were two steel doors to the fireproof strong rooms. Each had a separate key and access code. In one of the strong rooms, Giovanni kept works in the process of restoration. In the other he stored those waiting to be restored and paintings of his own that he had collected over the years. As he did each morning, Giovanni unlocked both strong rooms.

He went to the stereo and adjusted the volume, then into the kitchen and made a cup of espresso. After a few sips, he returned to the first strong room of work in progress and brought out the Pieter Brueghel that he had started months ago, and still it was not complete. It takes as long as it takes, he would tell the client and justify his procrastination, when really, deep down he knew the restoration was dragging out far too long. The turmoil of life delays such things, he would conclude, only further justifying his inability to finish the job.

With great care as always, he set the Brueghel on the easel, then fussed with the adjustments until it was secure and positioned at the correct height. He fetched his stool, rolled his cart of tools closer, and sat facing the painting.

Sweeping melodies of Vivaldi poured from the stereo as Giovanni worked on the Brueghel, concentrating his tiny brush on one little square after another, bringing the color of each back to life. The process of improvement was tedious, but it energized Giovanni to engage in the gradual transformation, leading to the ultimate triumph when he would present the fully restored work to the museum, collector, or dealer and watch their smile stretch wide.

Lost in his work, all sense of time vanished, and Giovanni became detached from reality. Enough so that it took him a minute to realize the telephone was ringing. He kept working, thinking that Flavio would get the phone as usual. But reality came crashing back—his assistant Flavio was in Florence, helping restore a large canvas. Giovanni knew that. He was lost indeed, to have forgotten that he was alone in the studio that day.

He put down his tools, then went to the stereo and muted the volume. The phone rang again as Giovanni reached for it.

“Fabrizzi & Sons. May I help you?”

“Giovanni, dear boy.” It was Martin Bryar, an English gentleman who had been a client for over a decade. “I have a request, and it is a bit different from the usual.”

“Anything to help,” Giovanni said.

“Well, I don’t require your excellent restoration skills this time. I know you have a considerable collection of art of your own. I have a nephew who is getting married, and I thought about buying him a painting for his new home.”

“I see.” Giovanni smiled. “You aren’t asking me to sell my Titians or anything like that, I hope.”

Bryar laughed. “No, Giovanni. I know you have a nice stockpile of paintings in your strong rooms. If there is something you can part with at a fair price, I would be very obliged. Dinner whenever you and Arabella can manage, too.”

The mention of her name brought the sadness of their last encounter back to Giovanni. He shook it off.

“Martin, you don’t have to take us out. God knows, you’ve brought me enough work over the years.”

“But we haven’t seen you two in quite a while. Is everything well?”

Giovanni could not find the courage to say anything about the widening gulf between him and his new wife, nor could he admit to the confrontation that had recently occurred, despite his need to address it in some way.

“All is well,” Giovanni said. “You know, Martin, come to think of it, there are some items my father had stored in our Florence studio. I never did find out why he hadn’t stored them here in London. Anyway, they were shipped here after he passed away. I could look through those.”

“Oh, Gio.” Martin Bryar became concerned. “I don’t want anything that might have sentimental value to you.”

“Don’t worry about that. The shipment was a considerable collection, surprising really. Dozens of paintings, and most I haven’t even looked through yet. There’s probably one that will suit you and your nephew.”

“There’s a good man,” Martin said. “Have a look at what you have, think about what you’d like for them, and I’ll come by at your convenience. You let me know. And dinner for the four of us. On me, I insist. All right?”

Giovanni was struck by the second offer for dinner in the very same call. Martin was more than a client—he had become a friend, and here it was being demonstrated. His interest in Giovanni was sincere. But it only reminded Giovanni of how he had withdrawn from so many friends since his marriage to Arabella.

“I look forward to seeing you,” Giovanni said, and he meant it. “I’ll call soon.”

Off the phone, Giovanni sifted through a toolbox for a hammer and screwdriver. The crates that had belonged to his father were in the second strong room and most of them remained unopened. Not all were mysteries though. Many were labeled outside of each crate, which Giovanni had studied when the crates first arrived before the move to St. James’s. They were valuable and he would not be parting with any of those. However, deeper in the room were other crates that arrived at the same time, all without markings to indicate the artist or subject. One of them should do.

The first crate he opened revealed a landscape. It was decent work, competent, and it was signed, but not by a recognizable talent that would garner much attention from a dealer or collector. The next two crates produced similar results, one of the paintings depicting a bridge over a river. Nothing of particular value, leading Giovanni to wonder why his father had collected them. Any of the three might please Martin Bryar, but having a greater selection to choose from would be best, so Giovanni continued sorting through the remaining unmarked crates.

A crate leaning up against the wall was probably too large, but another crate hidden behind it looked a more appropriate size. Giovanni reached behind the larger crate and strained to slide the smaller one along the wall and into view. Then he laid it flat and used the screwdriver to pry open a small gap, bringing up the nail heads enough to get the hammer claw underneath. He worked the nails one after another, each squealing as they were pulled from the wood.

Giovanni reached into the crate and slid the painting out, then removed the wrapping to discover a panel rather than canvas. He propped it upright atop the crate but the room’s light cast a glare across the face. He lifted it from the crate and shifted the angle so he could better study it.

Clearly, the painting was old, evidenced by cracking of the paint in one corner. Giovanni judged the style to be Italian but it lacked an artist’s signature, so he couldn’t be sure. The subject of the portrait was an Italian, he was confident of that. A nobleman, probably early Renaissance. The subject’s haughty expression exuded supremacy, disdainfully proud of himself while looking down his nose at the inferiority of others, certain to find fault in anyone who dared to approach. Giovanni found it amusing that any artist would portray their subject, even if it were true, with such an air of arrogance.

Beyond the pretentious subject, there was something impressive about the painting. Even though it was not signed, it had a fine style. Giovanni could not understand why the artist had not identified himself. Of course, an unsigned painting of any quality was worth less on the market. Perhaps this portrait, he thought, or one of the landscapes would please Martin and his nephew.

Giovanni set the painting atop one of the crates and stepped back. The work looked less impressive from a distance. He started toward the bridge and river landscape to have another look at that one.

Stepping away, he was stopped in his tracks by a guttural sound, like a man groaning. Giovanni whipped around.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

Not a soul was in view.

Giovanni seized the hammer and screwdriver, his only defense, and rushed out of the strong room. He scanned all directions but there was no one. He searched the reception area and then the kitchen, but still he found no one else present.

He must be going mad. It was impossible for anyone to break in to this fortress, he concluded.

Calmer, after convincing himself it was just the day’s strain, he went back to his work area. He approached the toolbox to put away the hammer and screwdriver, then rubbed the high bridge of his nose, massaging out the tension that had twisted his brain into a tight knot.

Again he heard the groaning sound, but it was quieter.

It was a human sound, Giovanni was sure. And it was not his imagination.

He stood motionless, surrounded by the art. He slowed his breathing and listened.

Another groan. It came from the second strong room.

He crept closer, past the doorway, and scanned every corner of the strong room. There was no one, only the crates and the few paintings that he had pulled from them.

Speaking Italian, an unseen voice said, “Get me out of this room. Please. I need light and air.”

Giovanni bolted out of the strong room and then swung around. He stepped back, another and another step, staring at the open door to the strong room, until he backed into a wall and could go no farther.

He advanced on the strong room door and slapped it shut, then dug into his pocket and pulled out keys to lock the door. Once secure, he hurried from his studio to the elevator and out of the building without activating any of the alarms.

* * *

Moving at a brisk pace along the sidewalk, Giovanni embraced the cold air, but out on the street without a coat drew attention from passing pedestrians, all of whom dressed appropriately for the chilly day and developing drizzle.

The voice was right, whatever its source—he needed air. Giovanni certainly did. The cool weather was calming, and though he soon realized his lack of warmer clothing, he would not immediately return to the building. Not yet. It was all too strange.

Giovanni’s thoughts were stuck on the language—Italian. His father spoke Italian, English, and some French, as did Giovanni himself. Perhaps that was it—Giovanni himself—was urging for a needed breath of fresh air. It was possible, given the strain he was under, and the fresh air was helping to clear his mind. But doing so only opened the door to thoughts of the recently deceased.

This must be what they call a psychic experience, he thought. Nothing like it had ever happened to Giovanni before. He did not believe in ghosts, at least, he didn’t want to. At that point he had to question his sanity, but then again, he had plenty of reasons to lack perfect mental health. He had lost his dear father, and then his first wife, Serafina. Any man would go mad. Her death had affected him deeply. He still could not part with her clothes, wanting to occasionally smell them and recall the warmth of her embrace, of course, only when Arabella was not present, and there was no risk that she might suddenly appear.

After six months of wondering what to do with it, Giovanni had willingly given Serafina’s ruby bracelet to Arabella, but he had no idea how it would affect him. Seeing her wearing the bracelet brought it all back—like being forced to relive the agonizing loss of his beloved Serafina. He could not bear it.

He knew his inability to release Serafina was threatening his marriage, even before the confrontation over the bracelet. Each day he was on the verge, inching closer to some horrible precipice, past which he would fall into territory that he could not recognize, and from which it might be impossible to recover.

Giovanni realized—he had not secured the Brueghel. If the client knew, they’d have his head. He must return immediately to the studio. view abbreviated excerpt only...

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