Chapter 29
29
FIONA
“ W e can absolutely conduct auctions,” Alix Key says. “Art, maps, books, jewelry… We can deliver top dollar on all of them.”
I’ve read up on Diamond Freeport. It serves people with a hell of a lot more in assets than I’m taking from my father. Alix herself is calm and sophisticated; she looks like she was born in that designer suit. She took this meeting on short notice, and she’s treated me with nothing but respect.
But I don’t know how willing she is to skirt the law.
“Let’s talk about the artwork for a moment,” I say, glancing at Patrick to see if he thinks I should tip my hand. He offers the slightest nod, which loosens my tongue enough to say, “What if it wasn’t all acquired through strictly legal channels?”
I’ve had a chance to review the long lists of assets Q handed over. I’m starting with art because everyone’s heard of Picasso.
In fact, everyone’s heard of my father’s Picasso— Screaming Woman in Mirror .
It was stolen from the Caterina Marcus Corman Museum in the most famous art museum heist of all time. Thieves managed to walk off with the precious canvas in the middle of the June Gala, thirty-five years ago.
I’m certain Da didn’t arrange the theft. That sort of thing requires expertise far beyond what the Old Colony Crew can handle.
But I’m also certain my father was willing to pay a shitload of money to acquire the painting after it was stolen. Even if he could never show it in public—maybe because he could never show it—he did whatever he had to do to get the Picasso. It’s a perfect fuck you to the museum that never let him sponsor the Gala.
A frown ghosts across Alix’s face, but it’s quickly replaced by serene competence. “In general, buyers expect a rock-solid provenance, proof of a painting’s prior ownership. Museums require it. But certain private parties are willing to be more…flexible.”
Yeah, she’s saying. I can sell your hot Picasso.
“Of course, the reappearance of…missing work can generate a lot of attention from law enforcement. There have been several recent incidents where people were required to return artwork stolen by Nazis to the families of original owners.”
But , she’s saying. If word gets out, you might lose everything.
Sitting back in my chair, I remind myself that I’m Fiona Fucking Ingram. The painting is mine, no matter what I decide to do with it. Just like the Crew will be mine.
My deep sigh shifts my black silk corset, the one that’s embroidered with cream-colored roses. It’s strapless, with a sweetheart neckline. I loved the way Patrick’s eyes flared when he saw it this morning—or maybe he was reacting to my thigh-high black boots, the ones with stiletto heels. It might have been the flash of bare flesh between the top of the boots and the bottom of my tight leather skirt that got him going .
But sitting across from Alix, I feel less like a woman taking on the entire universe and more like a little girl playing dress-up. I wish I’d taken a cue from how Patrick dressed for this meeting. He’s in his black suit, wearing a blinding white shirt and his Fishtown tie.
Fuck.
Right now, his raised eyebrows are an invitation for me to ask more questions, but I’m not sure what else I need to know. I flick my hand, telling him to say whatever’s on his mind. He asks Alix, “Does it make sense to move the artwork here if we aren’t ready to sell it?”
She gives him a professional smile. “Of course, I have a vested interest in answering that question.” She immediately returns her attention to me. She recognizes that I’ll be her client, not the man sitting beside me. For that reason alone, I want to do business with her. “Our galleries are designed to withstand fire and flood,” she says. “The entire building is hurricane-proof, tornado-proof, and built to withstand a direct hit from a one-thousand-kilogram bunker-buster bomb.”
I haven’t seen the storage facility where my father put his stolen goods, but Da was famous for pinching every penny until it screamed. I’m fairly certain he’s kept the Picasso in a heat- and humidity-controlled environment. But the rest of it? I suspect he never considered bomb-proofing his collection.
Alix continues: “We shelter some of the world’s great art treasures here at the freeport. We’ve auctioned Monets, Van Goghs, and Matisses. One of our premier clients, Braiden Kelly, is selling an illuminated manuscript in two weeks. It’s a medieval Irish book that has never before been offered on the open market.”
I don’t know why Braiden’s name makes me uncomfortable. I have nothing to hide about the time I spent in his mansion. Nothing happened between us—no matter how many offers I put on the table.
But Patrick is the one who fills the awkward silence by telling Alix, “Kelly and I are…business associates. He’s the one who gave us your contact information.”
Alix doesn’t blink, although she surely knows exactly what business Patrick and Braiden have in common. She says, “Of course. And I’ll be certain to thank Braiden for sending you our way.”
Wracking my brain for an appropriate question, I ask, “What sort of security measures do you have for individual galleries?”
Alix flicks her fingers over her laptop keyboard, sending an image to the screen at the front of the room. “As you can see, we have state-of-the-art biometric controls—both fingerprint and retina scans.” She brings up another picture, which looks like an office in any high-end building in the world. “Of course, you can furnish your gallery any way that works for you. Some of our clients maintain business offices down there, along with whatever storage they need.”
She goes on with various facts and figures, details about computer access, Internet connections, some sort of direct link to banking systems in the Caymans and in Switzerland…
Alix passes a thick binder across the table. “This document summarizes everything we’ve talked about so far. I’m sorry our General Counsel couldn’t be here today, but if you have any legal questions, Samantha will be happy to answer them.”
“Samantha?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I know who she’s referring to.
“Samantha Mott. She’s served as our chief legal officer since the freeport opened. She?—”
“I know Samantha.”
I spent the better part of the last six months jockeying with Samantha for power in Braiden Kelly’s Philadelphia household. I did my best to make her think we were competing for Braiden’s attention.
I never had a fucking chance.
Now I stand, because I can’t think of anything else I could possibly need to know about Diamond Freeport. Alix shakes my hand first, before she turns to Patrick. Her fingers are cool on mine.
We exchange pleasantries, and I promise to keep in touch. Alix escorts us to the building lobby, where a limousine waits to take us back to the nearby private airfield and our chartered jet.
I chose not to use Da’s private plane this morning. I didn’t want any chance that Uncle Aran would find out where Patrick and I went. I don’t want to give my uncle any hint that I know about Da’s hidden property.
“That went well, Scáthach ,” Patrick says once we’re aboard, sitting in massive leather chairs beside a polished teak table.
My frown at the Irish word is erased by the flight attendant coming in with a tray. She’s remembered that Patrick doesn’t take ice in his orange juice, and she found the perfect balance of sugar for my cup of coffee. She leaves us with a plate of fresh fruit, promising lunch once we’re in the air.
“We learned a lot,” I say. “Thank you for setting up the meeting.”
He brushes aside my thanks as the jet taxis down the runway. I stare out the window until the freeport fades to a tiny dot in the distance. When I look up, I’m surprised by the indulgent smile on his face. I say, “I can’t believe this is my life now.”
“Welcome to the big time, little girl.”
The endearment snags my breath. From Patrick’s wicked smile, I know that’s exactly the reaction he planned. But I shake my head and set my shoulders. I know he’ll disagree with what I’m about to say. “Even if I move everything to the freeport tomorrow, I still need to get the last million dollars from Rónnad.”
Predictably, his face darkens. “You can’t trust that?—”
“I have to. She’s kept her end of the bargain so far.”
“Bargain? You gave her a feckin’ pair of sunglasses. You have no idea what angle she’s really working. ”
I shake my head. “Her deposits have shown up like clockwork. Just one more, and we’ll be done.”
“Sell the feckin’ Picasso.”
“You heard Alix. I can’t sell it without getting the law involved.”
“You can’t sell it publicly .”
“The Gala’s in three weeks, and I need my ten mill before that.”
He scowls, but he can’t contradict me. Even Diamond Freeport has its limitations.
I try to change the topic. “What do you think it’s worth? The Picasso, and those maps? The books and jewelry and everything else Da hid away?”
He makes a sound between a sniff and a snort. He knows exactly what I’m doing, distracting him from Rónnad. But he agrees to be led away from the raw topic. “Depending on what Q meant by a lot of jewelry ?” he asks. “You might be looking at a billion dollars.”
I count the zeroes in my mind, but they make no sense. They’re a magic spell. A fairy tale. I wave my hand over the fruit tray and my coffee. “So I can afford to get us both refills on coffee?”
Patrick sits back in his chair. “Do you have any idea how much a billion is?”
I shrug.
“Let’s say you put a million pennies in a stack. They’re almost a mile high. But if you stack a billion pennies, they’d go all the way from Boston to Chicago.”
I laugh. “And you just happen to know that off the top of your head.”
“I’ve thought a lot about it. That’s what I get, working for a feckin’ billionaire.”
I don’t think he says it to remind me Braiden Kelly is his boss. After all, we both know he’s sworn to Philadelphia. The past six weeks have been temporary. This—whatever we have between us—will end when I take the Old Colony throne. Once I defeat Uncle Aran, Patrick has to head back to his real job.
Unless I can convince him to change his mind. Once I’m Queen, I’ll need a Warlord, just like Braiden. Patrick can be part of my Council.
I just have to convince him he wants to stay. That he wants to work for me.
Sliding my ass forward on my chair, I stretch out my foot until the toe of my boot nestles between Patrick’s legs. At the same time, I pluck a slice of pineapple from the fruit tray and bring it to my mouth, extending my tongue to catch a drop of golden juice.
“Mmm,” I moan, just loud enough for him to hear over the plane’s engines.
His fingers close around my ankle, tight enough for me to feel through the leather of my boots.
The flight attendant chooses that moment to return from the plane’s tiny galley, carrying a tray with silverware and glasses and two huge snowy napkins. I pull my foot back quickly, balancing on the edge of my seat like a proper young lady. The attendant shakes out my napkin and places it on my lap.
Patrick snatches his own napkin from her fingers. Covering himself, he shifts in his seat, grimacing in obvious discomfort. I fight to smother a laugh as the attendant returns with a charcuterie board and a basket of bread.
I make a point of eating very slowly. I purse my lips a lot more than necessary. I use the tip of my tongue to test my food.
Patrick’s eyes narrow with an unspoken promise.
There’s nothing he can do to while we’re six miles in the air—not with the flight attendant standing guard just inside the galley. But after we land in Boston, our driver meets us at the charter terminal. As soon as we’re secure in our rented limo, behind a privacy screen and tinted windows, my Daddy makes me pay for taunting him.
Three times, he makes me pay, because he knows exactly what to say, exactly how to make my body melt under his touch. I’m still recovering from his last lesson when his burner chimes with a message.
Swearing fluently in a mix of English and Irish, he tugs his phone from his pants pocket, which would be a lot easier to do if his zipper wasn’t tented like a circus big top. When he glances at the screen, his face shifts to unreadable stone. “There,” he says, before he finally shows the phone to me. “You won’t have to deal with her, ever again.”
The message is from Rónnad. She’s delivered the last of her promised money.
I wait. We both do, for some final demand, for a threat to expose our business arrangement, for something that explains why she made it so easy to collect the money I needed.
Nothing.
No further texts. No claims. No commands.
I want to get back to the game interrupted by the burner’s chime, but one look at Patrick’s scowling face tells me the moment has passed. That’s fine, though. It has to be.
There’s plenty of work to be done after we climb the stairs to the Back Bay apartment. I need to find a photo of my father, one presentable outside the dún . I need to decide what to wear. I need to issue a press release, to put the media on high alert.
Because tomorrow morning, I walk into the executive offices of the Caterina Marcus Corman Museum and hand over ten million dollars—on condition that the Gala publicly recognizes Kieran Ingram’s dying gift.