Life’s Golden Escape Turns Tragic: Natasha Romanoff Kidnapped in Paris, $1.2M Art Ransom © continues

Hans took us for dinner in Blindekuh (‘Blind cow’). This is a real restaurant, but it feels like a dining art performance experience titled ‘Dining in the Dark.’ You eat in near-total darkness, served by visually impaired staff. They give you a tiny flashlight when you go to the bathroom. By coincidence, Natasha somehow dropped the light in the hallway, as its batteries fell out. She was in complete darkness, panicky, and slightly scared.

She was lucky—about half a minute later, another woman was going by. They shared her light for the bathroom visit. I wondered why it took her so long, as the waiter wanted to take orders and asked to see why the guest was missing.

V.F.: “Her experience seems like a Rumi story. You had a candle to show the way; the wind blew it out, and in the dark, someone placed a lantern in your hands. What was the menu like? What did you order?”

PCR: “Hans and I had poulet duck ragout with trofie pasta, olives, sun-dried tomatoes, and fried onions. Natasha chose Zürcher Geschnetzeltes—sliced veal in creamy mushroom sauce, usually served with Rösti potatoes. We drank Gantenbein Pinot Noir. For dessert, we split a double Bündner Nusstorte, a walnut-filled pastry with caramelized nuts in a short crust shell, paired with Kafe Lutz mixed with Swiss pear schnapps.”

V.F.: “Pedro, it sounds like a magical culinary experience. Did it bring you closer to investing in your art? Life’s Gold Escape had risky exposure, yet it proved successful.”

PCR: “What you said unfolded like a crescendo in Ravel’s Boléro. We ate in near-complete dark, talking about putting Life’s Gold Escape into progress. At one point, Natasha yelled, ‘Scheiße!’ (shit in German)—she’d dropped a mushroom on her Steve McQueen vintage azure-blue silk skirt, bought the day before at Reawake, Brandschenkestrasse 43, Zürich. Hans dropped two forks. The restaurant has an unusual suggestion rule: if you drop silverware, ignore it—new pieces come from the lit porcelain swan vase at the table’s center.”

V.F.: “Josh Lauer here. Pedro, I have the answer for the vanished silverware from Hans’s grip. It’s a short-term sensory impairment: low light weakens vision and hand–eye coordination, making it easy to misjudge movements and drop things.”

PCR: “A precise psychological explanation—thank you. I’ll tell Natasha; she was worried about her senses after a mushroom landed on her vintage Steve McQueen skirt.”

V.F.: “Pedro, let’s step back. Before your artistic elevation and you're in a lucky Zurich encounter with Bank Julius Baer, you were barely getting by. How did you even make it from Portugal to Switzerland?”

PCR: “It was May 2021. Natasha and I flew on EasyJet—Lisbon to Zurich. Two tickets, $250. Flying is cheap in Europe. We planned to spend only one day in Zurich, but Hans offered to book a hotel so we could detail Life’s Gold Escape, and I’d have time to review the contract. The bank’s lawyers had prepared an agreement. Hans said, ‘No one should be pushed from a golden throne art idea.’

He was generous—he reserved us three nights at The Home Hotel Zurich, Kalandergasse 1, Sihlcity, CH-8045 Zürich, a place embodying the playful spirit of Dadaism, and picked up the bill. That was two years before everything changed. After the media storm and my sudden fame, Natasha and I slowed life down. In 2023, we went to Paris to celebrate.”

V.F.: “Yet Paris became something else entirely. The dark clouds over your amorous vacation. People want to know—what happened?”

PCR: “That day is buried in my memory. The trauma never leaves. Natasha and I came dangerously close—too close—to death. I won’t tell the full story… but here’s the part I can share.” Besides that, my publicist secured a deal for a book and a documentary by Jim Jarmusch, last year’s Venice Golden Lion winner.

V.F.: “Pedro, I agree—it was a one-of-a-kind experience: a sensational media story, tinged with danger, a brush with death. Paris was on edge for three days until the kidnappers of the silent courage couple were caught.”

PCR: “Here’s the story, for Italian Vanity Fair. Two years ago, on May 28, 2023, a Sunday morning, Natasha and I had breakfast at Angelina, 226 Rue de Rivoli, 75001 Paris. Our table was by the sidewalk; the weather was perfect. Large Mousses Étoiles—Gastro—and a green parasol shades our romantic breakfast. We spoke about our future, planning a move to New York, where I’d just signed a lease for a Brooklyn studio.”

V.F.: “How did you feel before the kidnappers arrived? Did you sense something good—or bad—was about to happen?”

PCR: “Not at all. The morning was a daydream—perfect, like a scene for a marriage proposal. I even imagined what it would be like to reach into the right pocket of my BAPE velour track pants for a ring. But it wasn’t the right moment. Natasha and I had decided to live together for one year before marrying, to truly understand each other, see our strengths and flaws, and face challenges without risking the relationship. That agreement felt wise, giving us space and clarity. In that perfect morning, nothing hinted at the danger that would arrive.”

V.F.: “What were you having for breakfast? Champagne, coffee, hot chocolate with croissants?”

PCR: “You are close. Natasha and I were sipping Teuscher chocolat chaud. I had a tartine with Échiré butter. Natasha had a French novelty—pastry hybrids, like croissant plus cookie or croissant plus creamy filling. The garçon explained: the baker splits a croissant, fills it with chocolate-chip cookie dough, then bakes it again. The cookie softens and bakes, while the croissant stays flaky.”

V.F.: “I had a similar delicious encounter with my boyfriend Lucas. We waited fifty minutes at Julien Boulangerie on Madison Ave, New York. Our croissant was filled with hazelnut praline cream. As he ate it, some dropped on his hand—I licked it. He looked embarrassed, noticing people watching, and I whispered, ‘see how much I love you."

PCR: “On or off the record? You just eased my tense thoughts. I’ll tell you about our little passionate game—we call it Feeding the Flame. Usually, we get mini petit fours from Dominique Ansel Bakery, 189 Spring Street, New York—Cookie Shot (cookie shaped like a shot glass with mini vanilla milk), Canelé de Bordeaux, or Dream Squares. We also get mini macarons from Baked by Melissa, 110 Fulton Street. We get wild coffee, closing ceremonies, and carrot dreams. The fun is always in the bedroom, placing petit fours on sensitive spots. Natasha’s belly is especially ticklish. The crumbs? “The pigeons find them on the window’s copper ledge the next morning.”

V.F.: “Pedro, now tell me in detail—how did the drama spiral into horror in the café?”

PCR: “At that moment, an elegant couple suddenly pulled chairs onto either side of our table, as if they were old friends. The woman wore Gentle Monster Her 01 glasses (later identified by police from restaurant video footage), which she placed into her bag. Both wore masks and stylish hats, blending in with others still cautious about Covid. That’s when a jolt of alarm hit me.

The woman dropped her wide Balenciaga bag onto the table—hot chocolate splashing across the light-blue tablecloth and onto my pants. The burn stung, yet I couldn’t move, paralyzed by shock. Slowly, she reached into the bag and slid out a gun, letting us see it. My mind raced, heart hammering, but I stayed frozen.”

V.F.: “Could you say what type of gun it was?”

PCR: “It looked partly plastic, partly metal. Two days later, at the police station in Paris’ 8th Arrondissement, I recognized it from the firearm police catalog—it was a Glock, made in Deutsch-Wagram, Austria.”

V.F.: “What was your reaction? Did you think you or Natasha would be kidnapped or robbed?”

PCR: “I was thinking: What is next? Will they kidnap her, or both of us? What do they want? Will I lose Natasha? That thought grew louder and louder in my mind. Then the woman leaned closer—right in my face. Her piercing eyes locked mine, like lasers, sending a shiver through me. She said, ‘Pedro. It depends on you if you ever see Natasha again. I will call your Hotel Marceau this afternoon at 3 PM.’ Her voice—a cold, commanding tenor—left no room for doubt.”

V.F.: “What was the woman’s companion doing? Did he look around, checking if anyone noticed the table invasion—the spilled chocolate, for example?”

PCR: “No. It was too intense to look for that. The table was meant for two, and the four of us were pressed tightly around it. To an outside observer, it might have looked like best friends discussing their romantic escapades. I had no instinct to look around. I couldn’t care about anyone else—I was focused on their faces, so close. I was terrified—for myself and for Natasha.”

V.F.: “Pedro, did you sense any disagreement between the kidnappers during your ordeal? How was their coordination? Body language? Nervous?”

PCR: “No. On the contrary, they were perfectly rehearsed, like actors in a Julius Caesar play—precise and confident. Again, the woman’s face was just a foot from mine, leaning in, her eyes venomous. She repeated: “Don’t call the police or any friends with a gun. If you do, Natasha will be sold as a sex slave, sent to Africa—you will never find her. You are wealthy now. Pay the ransom duty, and Natasha will be free.”

VF: Was the woman attractive? Could you describe her—any distinctive behavior, any detail?
 

PCR: I couldn’t see their full faces. Her eyes were brown. Her behavior struck me as slightly hyperactive, as if she’d swallowed Molly. Both wore masks. The ten minutes of that brush with death seemed like hours. Then the phone rang. A blue Peugeot and a motorcycle pulled up to the curb.

Natasha was instructed to get into the car with the woman. She obeyed. The woman slung her Balenciaga bag—and Natasha’s blue Vuitton—over her shoulder with casual efficiency.

In that moment our eyes met. Tears of desperation slid down Natasha’s face, a few falling into the champagne, dissolving into its dying bubbles as she rose shakily to her feet. The woman looped her arm through Natasha’s, guiding her like a close friend toward the blue Peugeot. They drove off.

VF: It must have been an extreme shock hitting your mind. How did you feel?

PCR: I felt like a coward, like I had failed.

A man’s voice—sharp and controlled—cut through the moment. It was the kidnapper. He pulled his mask over his nose, then picked up Natasha’s champagne glass. He said salute to the artist and his fiancée and drank from it. The psychological shock came from realizing what that meant: Natasha’s tears had fallen into the glass, and he was drinking it deliberately. He then walked to the motorcycle with the rider waiting and sped away.

VF: The psychological strain appears to have been immediate. Can you describe your mental state afterward, particularly as you watched the kidnapper deliberately drink from your girlfriend’s champagne glass?

PCR. It was a psychological shock. I was with a difficulty surveying the surroundings. Most of the café tables are empty. The waiter smokes a cigarette in the distance. He somehow noticed our table. Chair disorganized champagne glasses overturned laying on the tablecloth. He walked quickly toward the table.

I spoke. ‘Please call the police—my girlfriend was kidnapped.’ My French wasn’t good enough to explain the full horror.

He understood instantly. His face changed—he knew he was witnessing a shocking personal tragedy. He ran to the restaurant’s front desk, pointing back at me, as the woman at reception grabbed the phone and dialed the police.

I wanted to sit, to breathe, but my legs betrayed me. I collapsed to the floor, unable to move. My vision blurred into streaks of white and shadow as indistinct figures rushed past. I could hear their footsteps, the scrape of chairs—but my body refused to respond. 

The waiter returned with bench cushions from the dining room and slid them under my head. I drifted in and out of consciousness, caught between awareness and blackout.

Then the sirens. The ambulance. Voices. I didn’t know about a phone recording the scene—because, of course, someone filmed it. Within twenty minutes, it was online.

The next day, I watched the footage on TV—TF1, France 2—seeing the waiter wiping blood from my face. This is the type of sad story humans perversely and addictively love to watch—one of the darker traits, unshakeable and buried deep in our DNA. 

V.F.: “Did anyone recognize you from the media coverage?”

PCR: “Yes. A French gallerist, the owner of Galerie Vanessa Quang, thought the man on the news was me. She kept it confidential, and I appreciated that deeply. She even came to the hospital to say hello. But the art/style/celebrity paparazzi found out soon enough. For them, my suffering was the perfect ‘hip’ story.

The hospital listed me under a fictitious name. Police stood guard in front of my room.”

V.F.: “Which hospital have you been brought? Did you lose consciousness in the ambulance?”

PCR: “I was taken to Saint-Antoine, 184 rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine, 75012 Paris. I had an oxygen mask on and, I think, some calming shots. I was told we arrived at the hospital in about fifteen minutes. Later, the police were permitted to speak with me—for no more than ten minutes.”

V.F.: “Pedro, this was a horrible experience. If you could see the future—if you were clairvoyant—and knew what would happen to you and Natasha, because your shared fate had been unknowingly tied to your artwork Life’s Gold Escape, would art become a destined curse, even if only for a moment? Knowing that, would you still choose to walk into this unpredictable artistic experience… or step away entirely?”

PCR: “You asked the very same question I asked myself in the hospital. I was desperate to know what would happen next. I asked the hospital’s trauma psychiatrist, Dr. Matthieu Gasnier. His answer was precise: when the brain’s reward drive overtakes logic, decisions are led by impulse and desire, not careful thought. In that moment, a person takes the risk despite the danger. Later, they feel the weight of ‘If I had known…’—because emotion overruled reason.”

V.F.: “Could you explain to the police clearly what happened, given your limited French?”

PCR: “That was the problem—communication was limited. I insisted on knowing where Natasha had been taken. They said it was under investigation; she was still missing. They had a record of the phone call to our room at Hôtel Marceau. I tried speaking English, but they insisted on a Portuguese interpreter, who would arrive in three hours. They gave me a sleeping pill, and I fell into a short, uneasy sleep.”

V.F.: “The police at the Commissariat de Police du 8e Arrondissement figured the getaway car had been parked nearby. Did you notice it at all?”

PCR: “Not at all. I was in the kidnappers’ grip—too panicked to think or scan my surroundings. I didn’t see the car, but later I was told it was captured on the Protection pour Paris (PVPP) surveillance cameras. It had been waiting in the shadow of the famous gilded bronze statue of Joan of Arc by Emmanuel Frémiet. The police also found several cigarette butts at the location—though I don’t know whether they were tested.”

V.F.: “Paris Match covered the story with sensational detail. Front page: Paris’s Bonnie and Clyde vanish into thin air. But the police tracked them quickly—within three days. Vanity Fair investigators obtained the police report on the same day Natasha was freed. The decisive evidence leading to the kidnappers’ arrest came from the fingerprints lifted off the champagne glass left on your café table—and matching prints recovered from the cigarette butts found where the kidnappers’ car had waited before the abduction.”

V.F.: “Most peculiar was the fact that the male kidnapper had been arrested just a month earlier for shoplifting three men’s pants by the iconic and wildly creative French designer Jean-Paul Gaultier from Galleries Lafayette in Paris. So, his fingerprints—and mugshot—were already on file. He also had prior narcotics issues. This combination of preponderant evidence ensures rapid capture. Both kidnappers were arrested at the Hôtel Marceau three days later. The press christened them into the ‘Charm and Chains’ couple. Both are now locked up at La Santé penitentiary, 42 Rue de la Santé, 75014 Paris, awaiting their 2023 court hearings.”

Absurdity found: A movie might be planned about this story by Jacques Audiard—the French director of A Prophet and Rust and Bone, winner at Cannes—as reported by the Italian magazine Cinematografo in Milan.

The cruel enigma: Natasha was held for three days, drugged, on the sixth floor—room #517—of the very same Hôtel Marceau where she and Pedro had stayed just days earlier, celebrating their joy in Paris. Their room had been #438, one floor below. Romance transformed into a nightmare. A brutal reminder of Dostoevsky’s eternal truth, as in Crime and Punishment: “Only through suffering does a person become capable of love, and only through love does suffering gain meaning.” Beauty and suffering are inseparable, and art always carries a measure of sorrow. Always.

Four days later, Paris police spokesperson Monsieur Laurent Nuñez revealed the kidnappers’ identities: Jacques Marmont and Silvia Derouant—both former Beaux-Arts students, suspended two years earlier for drug addiction, erratic attendance, and more. Their Parisian spree lasted only four days. The plot for the artist’s abduction had been conceived two months earlier. They had stalked Pedro and Natasha after watching his ARTE.TV interview, learning they would soon arrive in Paris.

They abducted Natasha and demanded two paintings by Pedro, works comparable to others collected across Europe, the Emirates, Russia, China, and Thailand. Each painting has an official market value of around €536,345 ($628,000).

In the end, what began as a celebration of love and art in Paris became a stark reminder of life’s fragility. For Pedro and Natasha, survival was tied to mental endurance — creativity, courage, and an unbreakable bond. Even in the darkest moments, art and love endured.

Wednesday, in the afternoon, 4 PM, from a building across the street from the Hotel Marceau Champs-Élysées at 37 Avenue Marceau, Paris, the police fired a tear‑gas projectile straight through the window of room 517. At the same time, they busted into the room. On the bed, Natasha lay groggy, her hands tied with the sash of the hotel’s silk bathrobe. Even bound, she sensed liberation.

Jacques, the policier, was the first in the room. Gas mask in place, he noticed a woman lounged, reaching for something — likely in her purse.

At the same time, everyone choked in the thick gas. In the hotel hallway, guests were being escorted out, gagging and stumbling through the haze. Jacques had his revolver trained on the woman. It was Silvia Derouan — the evil kidnapper — trying to reach the gun in her Balenciaga bag. The hectic, choking gas likely contributed to her misstep. Her left foot caught on the purse’s tote handles. She crashed forward, face-first, onto the food — the unfinished troutfillet ‑dish with celery-root mousseline and special vinaigrette/infusion, ordered from Le Grand Café Fauchon at Place de la Madeleine, 75008 Paris.

“They simultaneously faced the same obstacle. Jacques, the policier, tripped over a chair and fell, losing his gun. Silvia Deroux noticed it, desperate to get to the weapon. 

Jacques was lucky — he grabbed her foot. Silvia Derouan, the kidnapper, went down a second time as other policiers entered the room, handcuffing her. Natasha was freed and taken to the hospital, where she was reunited with Pedro.

They spent the next few days in the hospital. In Paris, this only happens in such places, but Natasha and Pedro were moved to a room with a big bed for two. Even after such misery, the room carried the promise of romance. Watching them, one could almost feel the pull — the envy of any writer or onlooker: the human longing to taste love, to experience connection, to choose intimacy over the shadow of tragedy. Both were recovering, looking forward to their lives.

 
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