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“What does he mean, ‘steal’?” Royce demanded in a low, hard voice.
“We need the painting, Royce.”
Royce released Marc and grabbed his shoulder, turning him so that Marc could meet his gaze. “I’m very aware of exactly how much we need this painting. Trust me, that has never left my mind. But I am not allowing you to break the law and endanger your life. I’m your fucking bodyguard.”
“And you’re also my friend. You need this painting to save your mom’s life. I’m not going to turn my back on you when I can help.”
“Turning you into a criminal is not helping!”
“Royce—”
“This is not negotiable. There has to be another way.”
“The painting is worth more than 100 million dollars, and that’s a low-ball estimate. The Raphael has been missing for many years. If it could be sold at auction, I’m sure it could go for more than double that. Schmid knows that. If I liquidated everything I had, I might be able to raise the money, but it would take months, and Schmid still wouldn’t sell. We don’t have a choice.”
“No.”
“Schmid is evil.”
Marc and Royce both turned at Angelo’s soft comment. He was standing just past the closet, his shoulder pressed against the wall, while his arms were crossed over his bare chest. His stance was loose and relaxed, but a rare serious expression pinched Angelo’s handsome features.
“Marc called me Saturday night, putting me on Schmid. I’ve had two days to dig into this man.”
“Your job was to scout the house,” Marc snapped.
Angelo shrugged one shoulder, completely unperturbed by Marc’s tone. “And I don’t care how well you’re paying me. I research my targets. I do have some standards,” he said with a sniff. “But this Schmid fucker…he’s evil. There’s whispers of assault and even a murder, but he’s got the kind of money that keeps such whispers from turning into actual charges and jail time. And according to Marc, he’s had the painting a long time.”
“I don’t understand. When did it go missing?”
Marc softly sighed. “The Portrait of a Young Man was stolen by the Nazis when they invaded Poland. It was taken from Prince Augustyn Józef Czartoryski. The painting rightfully belongs to the Czartoryski Museum. I’m not saying Schmid was ever a Nazi.”
“Just that he had to know a few in order to get his hands on the Raphael in the first place,” Angelo finished.
“How do you know about this painting?”
Marc paced over to Angelo and sat down on the edge of the bed. He’d known that Royce would eventually ask this question, and he was still drowning in guilt from failing to act all those years ago. The truth was, this was more than a chance to save Royce’s mom; this was also his chance to redeem himself after making one really bad decision.
“I was just starting to establish myself in the art world, trying to work up a solid client list as well as get some good artist contacts. Schmid invited me to this house party. I’d heard some talk that he was shady, but he was a mover and shaker in the art world, still. I saw it as an investment, worth the risk.” Marc looked down at his hands. He couldn’t meet Royce’s gaze. “Around the same time, I’d cooked up this theory on what likely happened to the Vermeer that had been stolen from Boston in the early ’90s. Schmid liked my theory. He wanted to pay me to follow through on the theory, track down the painting, and then buy it for him.”
“From the black market?”
Marc nodded. “I’d laughed at the time. Warned him that it was dangerous and then probably impossible to protect once he had it. That’s when he took me into his library and showed me the secret compartment where he kept the Raphael. He has a thing for collecting lost paintings. I was stunned. I turned him down. I wasn’t going to track down the Vermeer for him.”
“And he was fine with it?”
“Yeah. Said he understood. That it was dangerous. But afterward, he made a point of asking about each of my siblings, by name. He knew about my life, their lives. The threat was clear. I was just getting over the loss of my parents. I couldn’t risk their lives.”
Marc shook his head. He felt like a coward, hating himself. He blinked, and Royce’s shoes entered his line of sight. Flinching at the first gentle touch, he let Royce tip his head back so that he was forced to meet Royce’s dark gaze.
“I don’t blame you for the decision you made.”
“But?”
“No ‘but.’ You were protecting your family. You were in a bad position, and you did what you had to, so they stayed safe.”
“It’s bothered me for years. I should have reported it, but I was afraid he would know it was me. I want to save your mom, but I also need to right this wrong. The painting belongs to the museum.”
