Page 48 of City Of Thieves
“Tell me your observations about the varnish, Ivan.”
“Mildly streaked. As you would expect for artwork of this age.”
“If it was a forgery, it wouldn’t do that,” I tell him, knowing he doesn’t really give a damn about my world unless he can manipulate it, but while he’s here, I may as well teach him something. “Look at the signature.” I point to an elaborate squiggle of black paint in the bottom left-hand corner. “We always check to see if it matches up with the artist’s size and technique.”
“Anything unusual?”
“No, it’s perfect. Worth every cent of five million. Tell me,” I add, lowering my voice to a whisper, “are you sure this painting’s connected with your brother’s murder?”
“Would you like my dick measurements, too?” he growls, echoing the bra size quip I tossed him yesterday. I watch him glance over at Ivan, who’s pretending to stare at his polished brown Oxfords, and his expression tightens. “Not here.”
“Renzo—”
“Just tell me whether it’s fake or not.”
“Ninety-nine percent it’s not, but let me check…” Turning back to the painting, I stop abruptly when I spot a minuscule blemish on the modest black frame.
It can’t be.
“Is this the original mount?” I blurt out, startling Ivan.
He nods. “We’ve had it authenticated, too. Made in New York, 1952.”
My heart starts to pound. To anyone else it’s a tiny blemish in the wood, so slight and so subtle. Barely a millimeter in length and completely vertical. To me, it’s the same rebellious middle finger moniker he uses in all his forgeries.
He swore to me that he was done with this.
He promised me…
No one in the world has his talent, his attention to detail, his methods to navigate every single authentication process like it’s child’s play. No one else has his complete and utter “fuck you” attitude to the law, except for maybe our father…
I’m going to kill him.
I’m already pulling out my phone for a verbal assassination as I’m striding towards the door. “Thank you, Ivan,” I say, forcing another smile as I pass him. As I do, I notice the slightest flicker in one eyelid.
It’s a nervous gesture.
He knows.
He fucking knows.
Is my whole family in on this?
Keeping my composure in check, I slide my arm into Renzo’s as we reach the hallway. He stiffens at my gesture, but he doesn’t react. This man is a pro at reading when the shit hits the fan. He knew something was up a split-second after I did.
“We have an hour until the auction,” he says coolly. “We’re going to find ourselves a drink.”
Marching me out ofWeatherby’s, he hangs a sharp left, pulling me into the first narrow side street we come to. Backing me up against the side of a restaurant, he pins me to the brickwork with a palm to the base of my throat.
“Talk.”
“It’s a fake,” I blurt out.
“How do you know?” His eyes are jet-black and gleaming. I’ve never seen him this angry before.
“I recognized a mark on the frame. The forger wanted me to recognize it, too… He used to call it his ‘middle finger at the establishment.’”
“Who did?”
