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“Pretty much. And—”

“My darling! Here, your favorite.” Aurelio arrives again out of fucking nowhere and passes Cillian a glass of wine, but I intercept his hand and take the glass away.

“Apologies, Mr. Harrington-Hale is not drinking tonight.”

“Excuse me! How dare you talk to me like that?” Aurelio squeals, all pissy, and I almost laugh. “Do you know who I am?”

“A random plus-one?” I ask, signaling a waiter to come over and placing the glass on her tray.

“A plus-one?!” the dickhead gasps, spinning to Cillian for backup. “Sweetheart, are you really letting the staff talk to me like that?”

“He’s not staff, Aurelio. And I’m not your sweetheart.”

“Stop it. Why are you being so weird?” Aurelio huffs, throwing his hands up. “First, you haven’t looked for me today, and you don’t hang around me. Then I find out that you’re running around asking others if there’s anything you can do to make them happy, just like you asked me.”

“Aurelio, I am the host. Of course I asked if you needed anything, just like I’ve asked every other guest. It’s my job.”

“Ugh, sweetie… you’ve changed so much, it hurts me.” The asshole’s eyes get watery as he reaches for Cillian’s hand, trying to twine his fingers through his.

And it takes everything in me not to laugh at the man’s face when Cillian moves his hand away.

“Excuse me, Mr. Harrington-Hale,” calls one of the female assistants behind me. “Astrid asked me to give this to you.”

I stretch out my hand and take the folder, checking to see if it holds anything harmful or another threat.

There’s nothing inside that can cut Cil, and the papers are all about some boring shit with prices and names.

“And… Mr. Harrington-Hale…” the assistant stutters nervously.

“Oh, no… did the swans go to the ocean again?”

“Worse. Mrs. García wants to inspect the Rembrandt,” she says, squirming.

Cillian huffs, annoyed. “Of course she does…”

He gives an apologetic smile to the British man, who still looks shocked that Aurelio had the nerve to interrupt our talk and demand things from Cillian.

“William, it was a pleasure seeing you again. Thank you so much for coming.”

“Lovely to see you, too, Cil. Do let me know when you’ve got a free evening for a pint, and bring Mr. Adler along. I’d love to hear more of those Harknett adventures.”

“Will do.” Cillian hugs him goodbye, and we leave the gallery.

One hour and twelve minutes… that’s how long Cillian and some other guy have been locked inside a glass room “helping” a lady authenticate a painting.

I use the word “lady” very loosely here… because, oh, my God!

I don’t know what she was thinking when she dressed up like that.

She is wearing a long, tight orange dress in a fabric so plasticky it looks like it would squeak if I touched it.

Kinda like when you scratch a Styrofoam plate with your fork and it screeches so bad it gives you goosebumps.

Ugh…

I’m pretty sure that horrendous thing cost a year of my rent, but why anyone would pay that much money to look like a prison condom is beyond me.

“Alright, mates.” Law arrives and stands in front of Damián and Logan, who are leaning against the wall, keeping an eye on the glass room in case Cillian needs a hand. “What are you lot staring at—bloody hell!”