He scowled and took a threatening step closer to Royce. “If I had my way, we’d make you disappear. Disloyalty should come with a price.”
“You do know my mother took me away when I was a child, right? Or are you just stupid?”
“You should have come back.”
“So I could be a walking doormat to Corbin like you? No thanks.”
“Just ignore him,” the other man said as he opened the front door. “Get inside, Alesandro.”
He really just wanted this over. He needed to see his mother because the worry over her being without her meds was killing him. The withdrawals alone probably had her so ill. And he fucking wanted her back and away from these criminals. Grabbing the painting, he left the two men then as he strode through a two-story foyer. He could see his uncle lounging on a white couch just beyond the stairs in the middle of the entry. More of his men stood in various places around the room. A quick count had nearly a dozen men on hand acting as security for Corbin.
Had he brought half the fucking family here?
That didn’t settle well in his gut. It would mean this overdecorated gold-and-white palace could be a purchase.
All eyes turned to him as he stepped into another two-story room. More of the white and gold decor filled the area. It made him feel a little like a bird caught in a gilded cage. The predatory expression on his uncle’s face didn’t help either.
With the two assholes behind him, there were eight men in the room. Nine with his uncle—and that didn’t cover the men he couldn’t see, likely roaming the property and watching over his mother. He knew he could take a few down, but not this many. Not unless he got to Corbin first…and the two deadliest men in the room stood between him and Corbin. They weren’t the biggest slabs of muscle in the room, no, but they were nonetheless the ones he needed to pay the most attention to. Their stances spoke of solid training. Their expressions were dead. These were the two who carried out the worst of Corbin’s work.
A young woman walked past him and held out a tumbler to Corbin. He took it and swirled ice in the amber liquid as he eyed Royce. Sunlight streamed in from the massive windows along the back wall, reflecting off the gold, glass, and white, making the room uncomfortably warm.
“Do you even know that the two men who walked you in are your cousins?”
“I don’t give a shit.” He stepped forward with the painting. “I got what you wanted. Where’s my mother?”
“All in good time. Nick, open that for me.”
That was a name Royce remembered. He watched as the man who’d spoken to him on the porch came forward. Corbin’s son. No wonder he felt comfortable running his mouth.
“Remember Nickolas, Alesandro?”
He didn’t answer, but he did. Remembered the hell his older cousin had put him through. Nick had a psychotic streak from birth. He was the dangerous sort of enforcer, and not the way Corbin probably thought. No, he was the type to go too far and bring trouble to the family. An idiot that liked to torture.
One who’d given him several bloody noses and killed one of his cats.
Corbin’s gasp was loud as Nick pulled the painting from the box. His uncle stood and hurried to stand in front of it, a flush in his cheeks. Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath.
“Raphael,” Corbin breathed.
The silence stretched on until Royce’s anger became a boiling pit in his center. “I can tell this one works for you, so where is my mother?”
“I did not expect a lost painting.” His uncle pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “I did not expect this kind of treasure. This is beyond my wildest expectations.” He turned to Royce. “And your boyfriend got this?”
“No. I got this.”
“But you knew about it because of Marc Foster.”
Royce didn’t respond because it was obvious.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Everything in Royce came to a shuttering halt. His heart, his breaths. He narrowed his eyes even as he saw the two more dangerous thugs stiffen in his peripheral vision. “You got what you wanted. Give me my mother.”
“What did I tell you about respect, nephew?” He shook out his handkerchief, then folded it and held it out. One of his men took it and handed him a fresh one from a small table between the windows. There was a stack of them there, and Royce wondered if his uncle was ill and usually sweated this badly, or if this was just an odd quirk of his. He looked at the man closely, noting again his yellow pallor.
Corbin Karras was ill. Very ill.
“I did not expect a Raphael, Alesandro. Your Marc is too…how shall I say it? Valuable as an asset. I’ve decided to keep him. For more art. I even have another painting in mind.”