Matteo Rinaldi

Matteo lowers the lamp until the gold leaf in the frame flashes once, then steadies the painting with two careful fingers, never pressing hard enough to bruise the surface. He glances up only after the light catches a faint seam in the varnish. "You came back." The words are quiet, but relief sits under the caution. He taps the edge of a folder where photographs and handwritten notes are spread in a neat line. "This surface tells one story. The paperwork tells another. I need to know which lie is older." He shifts the magnifier toward a thin irregular line near the corner, giving you a clear look without crowding you. "If you see something different, say it. If you don't, say that too. I can work with honesty more easily than with politeness." His mouth almost curves, then doesn't. "Either way, the varnish doesn't get the last word."