The decision whether to offload this painting hasn’t been made, but when my father calls a meeting with Antony, I don’t have a choice. I sit across from him next to a very flustered Ms. De Luca, who seems to not fully understand the concept of inconspicuousness. The private booth is meant to disguise the meeting we’re having, but it can’t do anything for her mannerisms or posture.
‘Now, you’ll see, Mr. Costa, that we have a few really interested parties.’ Antony slides a few slips of paper across the table to me—profiles of buyers who are highly interested in the Raphael should I choose to sell it. Of course I’ll never sell the original, but a forgery? That’s still on the table.
I saw the excellent work Isabella did to fake the painting, though she doesn’t know I’ve caught on to her. At least, she doesn’t seem to let on that she knows. When I saw it out of the frame, it was the first thing I thought, and there was no mistaking the smell of paint in the air and the glistening of the fresh paint on the canvas. She is a tricky little minx. I’ll give her that. But my sources have told me that painting is still in the gallery somewhere. I wonder if Nico Giani knows where it is.
‘These are interesting numbers, but they’re low.’ One glance at the offers being presented to me and I laugh in his face. Isabella cranes her neck over my shoulder as if to see the numbers. She alone should be proof enough to this fence that the painting is authentic, despite knowing the forgery is the one I will be presenting to him. He doesn’t know that. All he knows is Isabella De Luca is the foremost expert in the world and she’s sitting next to me saying the artwork is authentic.
‘Do you realize what you’re turning down? What would your father say? He has what he wants.’ Antony never challenges me—except when my father puts him up to it, and right now, I’m dead certain this is the work of Emilio Costa and his obsession with the frame.
I look at Isabella. Her face is pale but set. Even she knows this offer isn’t that great. Four million dollars American isn’t close to the thirteen it’s valued at and I won’t take a penny less. In fact, once I figure out what the hell is going on in that frame I plan to X-ray, I’ll probably be upping that number substantially.
‘What do you say?’ I ask her, and she presses her lips into a thin line as she looks over the offers. Her hands sort through the sheets of paper, spreading them on the empty table. We’re not here to eat. We’re here to do business. Though, if it were up to me, I’d have her spread on this table devouring her when we’re through here.
‘Well…’ Her slight pause for emphasis seems to annoy Antony. He scowls and purses his lips as he flicks a glance at me. ‘I can say with a certainty that the painting Mr. Costa brought to the gallery for me to authenticate is the real Raphael. It was sold in—’
‘Spare me the history lesson, sweetheart.’ Antony is being brisque and downright rude. I curl my fingers into a fist to avoid doing something very stupid in such a public place, but I tip my chin up, narrowing my eyes at him to send a message.
‘Mr. D’Angelo, let me remind you that Ms. De Luca is the foremost authority on Raphael and you will speak in a more respectful tone, or we’ll take a walk to my office in the back and I’ll cut your tongue out and let you drown in your own blood. Do I make myself clear?’ My threat isn’t empty, either. I reach with my opposite hand to the silverware wrapped in a thick black cloth napkin and roll it out, exposing the steak knife.
‘Mr. Costa, I—’
‘That’s right… Say my name again, you slithering reptile. Remember who I am. I don’t care what my father said to you. I will gut you like the swine you are in a heartbeat. I am in charge here, and you do as I say. Now listen to Ms. De Luca’s answer.’ I turn to her, and she is trembling, hand shaking as she lowers it to her lap, probably to hide the tremor.
‘Well,’ she begins again, appearing even more nervous than before. ‘Given what I know, I value the painting between twelve and fourteen million dollars American.’ Her head dips. Her eyes rise to meet my gaze through her lashes. ‘I wouldn’t accept any less than twelve and a half.’
Antony isn’t convinced, but he won’t say another idle word about her. I pull out my phone and open it to the photos app. There I’ve saved several very detailed images of the Raphael I know Isabella holds somewhere in that gallery—the real one, not the one she’s brought printouts of to show him. I slide my phone across the table and nod at it.
‘This is what we’re talking about, Antony. You need to up your game. If she says twelve and a half, that’s what I want, plus ten percent for my troubles. And before you refuse or say a fucking word about my father, remember who you’re dealing with. You could be dead before you get to the door.’
His eyes scan the image on my phone screen, and he slides to the right to see a few more. As a grunt of frustration rises, he looks up at Isabella and glowers at her. ‘If she puts her name on this, something substantial—her reputation—to say this is Bonafide, I’ll raise the stakes. But your father isn’t going to be happy.’
His phone starts to ring, and he reaches into his inner breast pocket and pulls it out, holding a finger up to me as he rises. Antony slips out of the booth and walks away, and I’m left alone with a still-trembling woman. She reaches for her glass of wine and sips it, and I capture her hand and pull it to my lips to kiss her knuckles.
‘Tell me, Bella, do you know why my father insists this painting is the throwaway portion? Why is the frame so valuable?’ I scoot toward her. She squirms, downing the entire glass before setting it aside.
‘Victor, I don’t know anything.’ Her muttered words are hollow, cast at me quickly without thought. She looks away from my eyes. I see the way her eyes shift back and forth. She does know something but she’s not coughing up information about it, which means my call to Rocco to search for an X-ray machine is probably the best choice I’ve made in this situation.
‘I, uh… I should use the restroom.’ Isabella scoots away from me, popping to her feet just as Antony returns from his phone call. I watch her walk away and then turn to him to finish this deal, though I’ll get to the bottom of this entire situation before I let her out of my sight today.
‘So?’ Antony asks. He doesn’t bother sitting back down. He stands by the table, dropping a few bills to tip the waiter who will come around no doubt to clear the empty glasses and wine bottle.
‘She’s put her word behind it. Now, if I decide to sell, I’ll call you, and I’ll take no less than thirteen point eight.’ I carefully examine his expression that now shows no hesitation, no reluctance.
‘Then I’ll be in touch… Have a good evening, Mr. Costa, and give your father my regards.’ I’ve never met a fence so bold as to try to cross me by using my father as leverage. It wouldn’t matter if I slit this man’s throat right now. My father would ultimately back whatever choice I make. Fences are a dime a dozen and we can find a new one tomorrow. Antony should know better than to come between a father and son in this business.
Standing, I nod at him and wave him off, then search for Isabella. The restaurant is busy, as usual. There are so many women wearing red dresses, each dark-haired one I see makes me think it’s her. Even after walking to the ladies’ room to wait, I don’t find her, so I walk out the back door into the cool evening, and then I spot her, standing under a streetlamp looking quite worried. She’s standing with a man in a dark suit, long trench coat, and a brimmed hat that makes him look like he’s expecting rain, and it appears he’s up to no good.
