CHRISTIAN
The library doorshut with a quiet click behind me.
I crossed the room, my steps slow and deliberate, until I reached the sitting area where Dante had made himself comfortable with a glass of scotch.
A muscle pulsed in my jaw.
If we didn’t have such a long history together, and if I didn’t owe him for the favor he did me, his head would already be shattered on the bar cart near him.
Not only for helping himself to my liquor, but for his less than amusing show in the lobby.
I didn’t like people touching what was mine.
“Lighten that scowl, Harper.” Dante took a lazy sip of his drink. “Otherwise, it’ll freeze that way, and women won’t like your face as much anymore.”
My cold smile told him how little I cared. “Perhaps if you took your own advice, you wouldn’t be sleeping in a different room than your fiancée.”
Satisfaction filled my chest at his narrowed eyes. If Stella was my weakness, Vivian was his.
I wasn’t interested in the ins and outs of their relationship, but it amused me to see him snarl every time I brought up the fiancée he claimed to hate.
I thought I had problems. Dante had two billion dollars worth of them.
“Point taken,” he said in a clipped voice. All humor vanished, bringing back the unsmiling asshole I was used to dealing with. “But I didn’t come here to discuss Vivian or Stella, so let’s get to the real issue at hand. When the fuck can I get rid of the painting? The thing’s an eyesore.”
I forced thoughts of dark curls and green eyes aside at the mention of the other enigmatic woman in my life.
Magda, the painting that had been the bane of my existence for decades. Not because of what it was but because of what it represented.
“No one told you to hang it in your gallery.” I walked to the bar and poured myself a drink. Dante, that bastard, hadn’t recapped the bottle of my finest scotch. “You can shove it in the back of your closet for all I care.”
“I pay all that money for Magda only to shove it in the back of my closet? That wouldn’t be suspicious at all.” Sarcasm weighed heavy on his voice.
“You have a problem; I provided a solution.” I gave a careless shrug. “Not my fault you don’t want to take it. And for the record…” I settled on the seat opposite his. “I paid for the painting.”
Secretly, anyway. As far as the public knew, Dante Russo was the proud owner of one of the ugliest pieces of artwork in existence. Then again, people also thought said hideous piece was a priceless painting worth killing and stealing over thanks to a simple set of forged documents.
I hadn’t wanted people going after it, but I’d needed an excuse for why I’d spent so many resources guarding it.
It didn’t contain earth-shattering business secrets like everyone thought. But it had contained something personal that I’d never share.
He examined me over the top of his glass. “Why do you still care so much about it? You got what you needed from it, and you found your traitor. Just burn the damn thing. After I sell it back to you,” he added. “For appearances’ sake.”
“I have my reasons.”
One, to be exact, but he wouldn’t believe me if I told him.
I couldn’t bear to destroy the painting. It was too embedded in the jagged pieces of my past.
I wasn’t a sentimental person, but there were two areas of my life where my usual pragmatism didn’t apply: Stella and Magda.
Unfortunately for Axel, the ex-employee who’d stolen Magda and pawned it off to Sentinel, my biggest fucking competitor, he hadn’t fallen into the exceptions category.
He’d thought the painting contained highly classified, and therefore highly lucrative, business secrets because that was what I told the few people I’d entrusted to guard it.
Little had they known the painting’s value stemmed from something far more personal and far less useful to them.
I’d dispatched of Axel, waited an appropriate length of time for Sentinel to relax, then fucked with their cyber system enough that it’d wiped millions off their value. Not enough to destroy them, since something of that magnitude could be traced back to me, but enough to send a message.
The idiots running Sentinel were so dense they tried to steal the painting back after they sold it because they thought they could use it as retaliation against me.
They hadn’t found any business secrets in Magda, but they knew it was important to me. They were on the right track; I’d give them that. But they should’ve hired someone other than a second-rate Ohio gang member to do the job.
Sentinel’s attempt to cover up their tracks was so shoddy it was almost insulting.
Now the painting was in Dante’s care, which served a double purpose: I didn’t have to look at it, and no one, not even Sentinel, would dare try and steal from him.
The last person who’d tried ended up in a three-month coma with two missing fingers, a mangled face, and crushed ribs.
Dante made an impatient noise, but he was smart enough not to press further.
“Fine, but I’m not keeping it forever. It’s ruining my reputation as a collector,” he grumbled.
“Everyone thinks it’s a rare piece of eighteenth-century art. You’re fine,” I said dryly.
In reality, the painting had existed for less than two decades.
It was amazing how easy it was to forge “priceless” art and documentation attesting to its authenticity.
“I’ll go blind from looking at that monstrosity every day.” Dante rubbed a thumb across his bottom lip. “Speaking of monstrosities, Madigan was officially booted from Valhalla this morning.”
The atmosphere shifted with the weight of the new topic.
“Good riddance.”
I had no love lost for the oil tycoon currently being sued by half a dozen ex-employees for sexual harassment and assault.
Madigan had always been a slimeball. This was just the first time he’d been held accountable.
The Valhalla Club prided itself on its exclusive, invite-only memberships for the world’s wealthiest and most powerful. A good number of those members, including myself, engaged in less than legal activities.
But even the club had its limits, and it certainly didn’t want to get dragged into the media circus surrounding Madigan’s trial.