Page 12 of City Of Thieves
“Bunch of champagne sensationalists,” Richard clucks disapprovingly, glancing around at the latecomers. “The only reason British portraits are so popular this year is because of the recent scandal with the monarchy.”
Not even the ghost of a smile disturbs my red lips. I’m determined to live up to my nickname today and then some.
“I have to say, I’m surprised to find you here too, Tatiana. You specialize in abstract expressionism, do you not?”
“I’m diversifying.”
“How tedious for you, darling... Did you hear thatRegency’sare thinking of upping their commission on each sale from twelve percent to thirteen?” I watch him nod at several familiar faces from the art world like the obsequious asshole he is. “I guess even the sharks need to sharpen their teeth in the current economic climate… Why,hello,” he trails off in breathy upper-class awe. “What have we here?”
Mildly intrigued, I angle my head to see who’s caught his attention. Amongst the arrivals of generic gray and navy-blue suits, there’s a three-piece black tailored affair hanging back from the rest. The cut of the material is exquisite... And then my eyes travel north to register the face of the man inside it.
He’s an electric storm about to break.
He’s Lucifer from Milton’s “Paradise Lost…” Beautiful, but capable of utter devastation.
Momentarily jolted from my icy throne, I watch as the man’s dark eyes travel the room at a measured speed, taking in every face. When he lifts his hand to rub his jaw, the glimpses of tattoos on his knuckles are like lightning flashes of danger.
He should be putting himself up for auction,I think, shocked by my visceral reaction to a total stranger. To me, most men are pawns to be manipulated, not kings to command my attention.
“Who’s that?” I ask Richard.
“Renzo Marchesi... I wonder which dive bar he’s crawled out from? And since when has the New Jersey mafia been interested in procuring artwork by legal means?”
“Mafia?” I say sharply.
“So, the rumors go… His family operates an old world, Camorra-type cash flow across the bridge.” At my raised eyebrow, he adds, “Extortion, stolen goods, labor union infiltration...”
“An outdated business plan,” I say dismissively. “Therearemore profitable ventures these days.”
“Like dealing in stolen artwork? Pah! That’s just a side venture for them. Renzo’s father has had his finger in the Mexican’s honeypot for years. According to my sources, he lets the Carrera Cartel trade through his port, then sits back and collects rent.”
“How entrepreneurial.” My tone drips with sarcasm, but my instant dislike of the Marchesis doesn’t stop me from indulging in another glance over my shoulder. To me, art is a joy to be savored, not a mafia game to be exploited. “He doesn’t have a paddle,” I observe.
“No, but I hear he has a very big gun.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Richard!”
Just then, Marchesi turns his head in my direction, meets my eye, and the full power of his storm hits me. The air sizzles with something intense and undefinable. The rolling thunder in those brutal dark eyes threatens to shake something loose inside me.
No.
Not happening.
I quickly turn back to the stage, refusing to be distracted by some enigmatic mobster in a good suit who took a wrong turn somewhere near Brooklyn.
The auction starts, the lots progressing at Regency’s usual efficient pace. The only one I’m interested in is way down on the list, so I have a little time to sit back and observe the buying power in the room. All the while, I can feel Marchesi’s stare heating up the back of my neck. It’s making me squirm in my seat like a carbon copy of my ten-year-old self.
Beside me, Richard has his phone glued to the side of his head, whispering commentaries of the play to his ‘money’, bidding efficiently and discreetly when instructed.
I also have my orders for today:buy at all costs or suffer the consequences.
Unlike Richard, I won’t be making any commission here. That’s not how Konstantin works.
Half an hour passes.
The auctioneer adjusts his glasses and glances down at his guide sheet. “Up next, we have lot twenty-four, a stunningly modest nineteenth century British portrait by Sir Thomas Webster, entitled ‘Mary...’”
All eyes flick to the right as a man in white cotton gloves carries a small portrait onto the stage. Placing it on the easel, he moves to one side, and my breath catches.
