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Alexander
SometimesIpullbackat my life to wonder if this is truly what I want to do. I get this feeling when I exit this meeting. It made me question my capacity to find great art. Of course, art is subjective, but there are three collections I’m bringing to Carvel that two connoisseurs turned investors just flipped their noses up at.
One of the artists they snared at was Panter Duke. I think he’s a fucking genius, and the only reason I imagine the investors don’t like him is because he speaks up for the oppressed. If you take one look at this man’s detailed works and try to deny its beauty, you are a fucking liar, period.
Micola understands.
She has one honest eye I downright trust when it comes to art. She’s broadened how I critique art as she looks at every corner, every detail, until she can hear the pulse of the artist within their work. She’s great with this stuff, and too bad she isn’t an investor.
The other two artists the two investors were snaring their noses up at are European. One from Belarus and another from Germany. According to them, they weren’t ¨cutting edge¨ enough in their words. I think both of these artists are marvelous at displaying the classic sophistication of sculptures. Anyhow, the end result is that those particular art investors pulled a pinch of the money they said they were donating after reviewing the video of each exhibition room of Carvel.
Leaving the meeting, I push open the restaurant’s side door, stepping into London’s night with a huge sigh. Benjamin’s parked a couple spots down. He gives me a honk as I lift my hand to acknowledge him. I want to go home and pour myself the largest glass of wine that I can. I don’t want beer as it’ll bloat me, and I don’t need any more spirits at the moment. I don’t want to wake up to a hangover. I probably should take a good run in the morning when I think about it. But, in all honesty, I’d like to spend one full night with Micola so fucking bad because I know she’s exceptionally capable of making me feel so damn good.
¨ How’s it going?¨ Benjamin asks.
I find it pretty amazing how well he’s been driving in these London streets. Didn’t take him long to adopt the driving expertise on this side of the world.
¨ Can’t lie. I could be a lot better.¨
I look out the window. It’s fairly busy on this side of London for a Thursday night. And by the looks of things, it amazes me how often I can spot people I know outside the window.
¨Bloody Wanker.¨ I curse under my breath like the best of the Brits as I watch Simon Bell nearly jog across the street.
Micola enjoyed hookah with this man a few days ago. She told me he came onto her and even asked her if we were in an open relationship to try and get at her. I told her several times he had more than one mission, and she ignored it, of course. I suppose I should be grateful she was honest enough to let me know about it.
¨Do me a favor, Ben. Let’s follow that blonde fellow with the glasses. Blue trousers.¨
¨Sure, boss, but if he goes down those underground stairs—.¨
¨Yes, I know. I need to get to the bottom of this… guy.” I rub my chin as Ben pulls off.
I hope Simon gives me some kind of clue this evening about his true identity. I googled him, and he does exist and is a dedicated advocate for children’s art. He strolls with an odd sway as he appears to be headed into a small dark door sandwiched between a tea shop and a bar. Perhaps the door leads to one of the businesses or something else.
¨Let me hop out here.¨
Benjamin slows to a stop, and I hop out. I stroll lightly toward the door while I glance into the tea room.
The lights are dimmed as if it’s closed. Inside, a couple lit candles sit at a random circular table off to the side. Here sit four men. They appear in deep, close conversation, and by their composure, they remind me of my kind, Italian.
Wait, is that fucking Ciro? I blink hard as I can only make out the back of this man. Ciro is Micola’s younger brother. He has similar hair to his sister in that it’s thick, and he keeps it longer for a man, falling right below his ears. And that posture, erect and arrogant like all the damn Costa men, I can’t see how this is not Ciro. But the only way I can confirm is if he turns around.
I watch as Simon strolls in from a side door. He yanks a metal chair from an empty table and plops it down between the men. I step back and make my way to the side door Simon pulled open.
As soon as I open it, an extremely tall red-haired man stands up.
¨This is private property. Do you need something?¨
¨I thought I spotted a friend of mine in the Tea room. May I have a look?¨
He places his hand on his belt loop, identical to how the male family members do whenever they grow suspicious. It only insinuates they are used to carrying guns or are carrying guns.
¨Call them.¨ He suggests with a stoic shrug.
I nod. ¨Sure thing,¨ as I turn around to step back out.
Something’s up. As I go to take one last look into the room, the red-haired man is in the tea room with a small device in his hand. He points it at the window. I step farther back and out of its view as I catch electric black blinds closing.
Fuck. I wish I had taken a picture of them all together before I stepped in. Time to get home. Time for a word with Micola.
