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Benito watches on, unimpressed. He’s more level-headed than the two of us and prefers cooking books to barbecuing betrayers.
As my nostrils fill with the stench of burning flesh, I pull another long drag from my cigar. The rich taste of tobacco cancels out Vincent's stink, and I inhale the smooth, smoky aroma.
“How’s the plan going to ensnare Emberly Kay?” I shout over the melody of Vincent’s broken screams.
Benito pulls out his phone and fires up an app. “I’ve installed surveillance in the apartment she shares with another girl and sent leaflets offering free VIP entrance to the Phoenix. It’s only a matter of time before one of them visits the club.”
“Good.”
The screaming stops when Vincent loses consciousness. My nostrils flare, and I’m tempted to pick up a rake to shake him awake, but I’m distracted by an image of a half-naked woman. She’s slender with a head of wild curls and a peachy ass I’d like to fuck.
She walks across her bedroom and out of the range of the camera, robbing me of what looks to be a promising show.
“Do we kill her?” Benito asks.
“Not unless we want the lawyers to give our assets to Tommy Galliano. I’ll get a few contracts drawn up for each of the assets Capello stole, and she’ll sign them over to me.”
“How are you going to get her to do that?”
I smirk, imagining her begging for mercy. “I can be very persuasive.”
Vincent’s body tumbles out of the bonfire, but I shove it back into the flames with my foot. Burning him alive wasn’t nearly as satisfying as I imagined. Five minutes of agony isn’t equal to five years on death row.
My gaze drops back to Benito’s screen, where the dark-haired woman in black lingerie slips on a dress and a pair of heels.
I’ll just have to exact the rest of my wrath on Emberly Kay.
TWO
EMBERLY
I glare down at the man who swore to the gods that my paintings would achieve a five-figure sum at auction. He’s a greasy little slug with beady black eyes he conceals beneath pink sunglasses.
Gerard Lafayette sits primly in his gilded chair, pouring himself a cup of tea. Rings adorn each of his fingers, including his thumbs, each of them probably costing the sum he promised me for my art.
“What else can I tell you, Ms. Kay?” he drawls. “I can only auction paintings for what the buyers are prepared to bid, and that’s five hundred.”
My hands curl into fists. “You promised me a ten-thousand-dollar reserve?—”
“Did I?” His eyes widen in mock surprise, and he opens a drawer and pulls out some papers. “Where, precisely, does it say on the standard contract that Gallery Lafayette guarantees such a lofty sum?”
I snatch the papers from him and scan the wording, only to find a page at the back with the schedule of commissions. As discussed, artwork sold for over ten thousand would result in a fifteen percent commission.
Now I see the scam. The contract mentions nothing of the promised reserve price. Without a law degree, it would be impossible to spot this kind of loophole.
“This isn’t what we agreed,” I say.
He tilts his head and smirks. “It’s not my problem if you failed to employ an attorney to dissect the terms of our agreement, Ms. Kay. Consider yourself lucky to have sold anything at all in this declining market.”
My blood simmers at his condescension. “But five-hundred dollars isn’t even enough to cover the cost of my time and materials.”
He takes a sip from a gold-plated cup and raises his pinky finger. “Like I said. New artists seldom reach princely sums.”
That’s not what he told me last month. In fact, Gerard Lafayette invited me to one of his auctions, where every painting had sold for at least twenty-five thousand. Hell, all the starting bids were five-figure sums.
I’d been looking forward to watching my paintings sell for small fortunes at tonight’s auction, only to find that they weren’t even on display. When I asked if he’d decided not to include my art, Lafayette told me they’d been sold… for a fraction of what he’d promised.
“Give me back my paintings. I’ll sell them online myself.”
