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I can’t let him terrorize the best thing that’s happened to my career.
THIRTY-SIX
ROMAN
The applause is dying down when Emberly grabs my arm. “Don’t say anything.”
Lubelli already explained to me that she’d insisted on a fixed price for her paintings, but I need to demonstrate some amount of protest about her getting an unfair deal. Anything to distract her from asking questions about that blonde. How the hell did a high-ranking lawyer from the Di Marco group know I had control of their client’s missing daughter?
“Bullshit,” I snarl. “You’re leaving twenty-four grand on the table.”
“It’s my choice,” she hisses.
“Why?”
“You remember the gallery owner who framed me for assault, criminal damage, and the theft of his spoon?”
“What about him?” I ask.
“I signed a contract for the sale of five paintings, which he sold before the agreed date. After commission and some bullshit fixed fee, I ended up owing him money.”
My brows crease. “Who did that to you?”
“The Elton John-looking asshole who runs Gallery Lafayette.”
“Where are your paintings now?”
“Already with the buyers,” she replies, her words bitter.
The assistants carry Emberly’s painting off the stage, and the shill I sent to bid on it rises from his seat and follows them out.
While another pair of assistants carry in a second piece of art, I take Emberly’s empty glass and replace it with a full one. She takes a long drag, her attention fixed on the stage, while I pull out my phone and look up Gallery Lafayette.
Her description of its owner is pretty accurate, and I forward a picture of Gerard Lafayette to Gil with a set of instructions.
Gil replies immediately to inform me he’s on his way and will text back with updates.
I barely pay attention to the auctions, instead focusing on Emberly, who leans forward in her seat and gasps at the increasing value of bids. After each successful sale, I hand her another glass of champagne until she’s drunk.
Fuck. I hate to be the bastard who plies a woman with alcohol to get what he wants, but I’ll compromise my morals to get back our casino. That asset isn’t just Dad’s legacy, or even one of our most efficient methods of laundering money. The casino employs hundreds of employees needed to rebuild our ranks.
At the end of the evening, I walk Emberly to Lubelli’s office, where he awaits with the bogus Art Purchase Agreement.
His room hasn’t changed in the half decade I was away, with the same male nudes on the wall, framed in gold. Walking here is like stepping back in time.
Lubelli rises from an oak desk sporting a broad smile.
“Miss Kay, I owe you an apology.” He places a gloved hand on his heart. “When your painting arrived, I was so eager to show your work to my audience that I sold it without getting you to sign the agreement.”
Emberly giggles. “I can’t believe it reached that much.”
He pushes a contract across the table. “Please sign. I can’t collect payment from the buyer until I legally own the painting.”
My fingers twitch to turn the sheets of paper to the final page, but I hold back, remembering what Benito said about needing her fingerprints. Lubelli’s security cameras add a nice touch, as they’ll record her consensual signature.
Emberly takes hold of the contract, and I stand at her back, wrapping my arms around her waist.
“You did so well, baby,” I murmur into her chignon. “Hurry up and sign so we can celebrate.”
