Page 132 of Brutal Truths

Women.

When I re-enter the bedroom, my focus shifts. Clothes. My pants are in the bin, and they’re staying there. They’re covered in that fucker’s blood, and I’m not about to put them back on. Not after we worked so hard to push those thoughts out of her head.

After checking every drawer, I’m close to settling on a towel until someone brings me clean clothes. The last one finally gives me something useful. Sweatpants. I dig through until I find a pair that might work.

They’re larger than her others. When I look at the tag, I groan and push the thought aside on why men’s sweatpants are in the bottom of her drawer. They’re tight and short, but they’ll work.

At least I’m covered. I step back into the living room, attention snapping right back to the task at hand. Both ladies look up, their silence doing nothing to hide their smug faces.

“Fuck off,” I grunt as I stomp past them. “It’s all I could find. Maybe be useful and have someone bring me clothes that actually fit.”

Amanda lifts her phone and winks. “Already covered.”

The gallery door is closed when I reach it, the keys still hanging from the lock. I push it open, pull them free, and slip them into my pocket as I step inside.

Isabel is stretched out on the floor, staring up at the wall now covered in the art I was sure was stolen. Her eyes are puffy, telling me she’s been crying.

She turns her head when I step in, her gaze narrowing before dropping. “Why are you wearing Danilo’s sweats?”

“Who the fuck is Danilo?” I tug the legs up as I sit down next to her.

“My nephew. Esteban’s oldest. He left them here the last time he came to London.” She turns her attention back to the painting in front of her. “You thought they were someone else’s, didn’t you?”

“I admit nothing.” I fall back and take her hand in mine. “What are we looking at?”

Isabel’s head rests against my shoulder as she explains. “The one directly in front of us is the Botticelli.”

I’m no art expert, but I’ll admit it’s pretty awesome. Not sure I’d pay someone to steal it, but that probably has more to do with my moral compass than anything else. Trent has no compass, so no surprise he hired Alma to lift it from his enemy. It could’ve been the ugliest painting on the planet, and he’d have wanted it. Meant more to know the Russian died knowing his once prize possession would forever hang in his mortal enemy’s office.

“The one on the right is a Piet Mondrian. I remember when Grams first showed it to me. I was ten, just starting to appreciate why art brought others joy.”

She falls quiet for a moment, giving us both time to take it in. “It was stolen from the Barretts three years before I ever laid eyes on it. My grandmother purchased it at an auction after it was miraculously discovered in a warehouse a year and a half after the Barretts’ house burnt down. They were forced to sell everything they could to cover the insurance fraud charges brought against them.”

“How do you know that?” I shift so I can see her face.

Reaching behind her she hands me a black leather book. “It’s all in there. My grandfather took advantage of the situation and convinced Mr. Barrett to sell him his first edition of Dracula. According to this ledger, he paid just over forty pounds. A real steal for a book is such excellent condition.”

I flip onto my stomach and spread the book open in front of me. “Where did you find this?”

Rolling onto her side, she stares at the ledger. “Under his desk in a hidden safe. I also found the camera. It’s inside a false, but very realistic-looking, fourth edition of The Canterbury Tales. I was climbing down the bookshelf when I slipped and landed on my arse. When I looked up, there it was.”

“You’ve been busy,” I say, my attention catching when her robe slips and one of her amazing tits pops free.

She fixes it and explains more. “I needed answers.”

“You should’ve woken me.” I glance down at the first page and start reading. Rico Lopez was thorough, meticulous. “If this fell into the wrong hands…”

“My grandmother would spend the rest of her life in prison.” She rolls over onto her back again, eyes fixed on the wall. “I’ve already thought about that. Which is why I plan on burning it.”

I flip the page, scanning the entries. This goes back decades. Long before Isabel came along.

“We can certainly do that.”

“I know it’s wrong.” Isabel faces me, and her eyes are full of sadness. “That I should hand that over to Darius.”

“Also an option.” I turn the page. “But I like the first one better.”

“You do?” She sounds surprised.