Chapter 27 Raven
RAVEN
My phone buzzes; it's Morgan responding to my text.
Don't worry about it. Focus on what you've got going on. We'll hit the gym next week. Here if you need anything. Hugs.
I blew her off. Not because I wanted to—no, I had to—because I've got two weeks to come up with a large chunk of money to buy us more time. I didn't dive too much into my dad's sudden return and kept mostly to myself for the rest of the day. She didn't pry. She's cool like that.
I set my phone down and go over my list. I've come up with about 25 small landscape paintings as possible contenders to get this terrible damn idea going.
It won't get us to our end goal, but it should line our pockets with 1-2 million if what my dad says is true about the Russians supplying buyers.
And while I've only seen one or two mafia movies in my life, I feel like whoever they sell these paintings to doesn't really have a choice in buying them or not.
I hear a familiar grunt when the basement door flies open. My dad comes down carrying a large duffel.
The bag hits the floor with a heavy thud.
"I got some things to get us going," he says, pulling out tubes of paint, brushes, and canvases. "The good stuff."
He looks up at me. "Is that the list? Here, let me see it."
I hand him what I've got thus far. "It's just a start."
His eyes scan the page, and I can't help but notice how his hands tremble as he looks it over.
"These," he says, tapping the paper. "They're too ambitious.
The brushwork is too distinctive, and the materials would be hard to age convincingly.
" He mock-crosses them off the list with his finger.
"We should stick to lesser-known artists.
Late nineteenth century. The authentication process isn't as rigorous. "
I nod as he hands the paper back to me. "Whatever you think is best."
I pick up one of the canvases he's brought. The texture is wrong. "This won't work," I say, running my fingers over the surface. "The weave is too uniform. We need period-appropriate materials."
"Yes, you're right. Okay, I can get different ones."
"Maybe leave it to me. I've analyzed a lot in school, so I know the brands. We'll need to age them properly—UV exposure, careful application of tea stains, controlled craquelure, everything if this is to work. You can get those things."
He nods. "Okay, just tell me, and I'll take care of it."
I pick up a brush, testing its spring against my palm. "The timing is impossible. Two weeks isn't enough, so you better be sure they'll accept something to allow us to continue."
My dad rubs his face. "Yes, they will. If they see money, they'll be happy."
The basement door slams open, and I jump.
My heart stops as heavy footsteps descend the stairs. Shit, I know those steps.
It's Gio.
I toss the brush down and turn to see Gio standing there. His towering presence is not as intimidating as what fills his eyes as he takes in everything—the supplies spread across the table, my father, who stands nervously in the corner.
His jaw tightens, and I can tell he's not liking what he's seeing.
"What the hell is this?" he asks finally. "And what the fuck is he doing here?"
"Gio, I can explain—" I start, but my father cuts me off.
"The Russians agreed to give us more time if we can pay them back. And we will," he says, smiling, "with paintings. Ravenna's agreed to help with the forgeries. Her skills are perfect for this, and it'll save her from having to—"
"Dad, stop." My voice comes out sharper than intended.
Gio narrows in on my dad and, in a deadly stern tone, says, "What did you just say?"
I step forward, hands raised. "Gio, let me explain—"
"Explain what?" His eyes, usually warm when they look at me, turn to ice. "That you're planning to commit art fraud for the Russians? The same Russians who want to make you their property?"
"It's not like that," my father interjects. "This is a way out. They'll accept the money instead of—"
"Shut up!" I turn and yell at my dad.
"Instead of what?" Gio's attention snaps to my father, who actually takes a step back. "Instead of forcing her to be their whore because of what you fucking did?"
He turns back to me, and the disappointment in his eyes hurts worse than his anger. "Forgeries? You agreed to this?"
"I..." My voice falters. How do I explain that I felt trapped? That I was trying to protect everyone? "I was going to tell you."
"When?" He takes a step closer. "After you started backroom deals with people who don't keep their word no matter what you think? After you put yourself deeper in their debt? Or after you got more involved with the fucking Russians?"
My father, apparently oblivious to the danger he's in, decides to help. "Now wait just a minute. This is family business. We're doing what we have to do to survive. You have no right—"
In a flash, Gio has my father pinned against the wall, his forearm pressed against his throat. "I have every right," he snarls. "Your daughter is under my protection. And you," he presses harder, and my father gasps, "you're the reason she needs it in the first place."
"Gio, please," I beg. "Let him go. You're hurting him. This isn't his fault. It's mine. I agreed to help."
Gio stares at my father for a moment before releasing him. My dad slumps to the floor, coughing. He turns to me, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and something else—disappointment? Hurt?
"Why?" he demands. "Why would you agree to this? Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? You should have just come to me."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling very small. "I didn't know what else to do," I whisper. "They were going to kill him, and they'd do so much worse to me."
"So you didn't trust me? You thought I couldn't handle it? Keep you away from them?"
I swear I hear some hurt in his voice. I reach out to touch his arm for the first time, but he pulls away.
My father rubs his throat. "Look, we appreciate your protection, but this is a family matter. We're doing the right thing. Her mother would be proud that—"
"Dad. Please, don't!"
"A family matter?" Gio's voice is a growl. "Like when you sold your daughter to save your own worthless skin? Is that how you handle family matters?"
Gio turns to me.
"Your father is using you, Raven. Can't you see that?
He's a piece of shit for doing this, for dragging you into his mess.
For manipulating you, using your mother's memory like a weapon.
" He pauses, looking at my dad and then back at me.
"You really think your mother would ever want you to put yourself at risk like this?
For him? He'd sell you as soon as there's any pressure. "
I blink, repeating his words in my head, trying not to cry, trying to process the storm of emotions and thoughts swirling inside me.
"You told me your mother built this place," Gio continues. "And this piece of shit is using your one weakness to drag you into his mess."
His words hit me like a brick, and I stumble back, my mind reeling. The truth of what he's saying clashes violently with the desperate hope I'd been clinging to—the hope that maybe, just maybe, I could fix this mess and save what's left of my family.
But as the reality of the situation crashes down around me, something inside me snaps. The fear, the confusion, the bitter disappointment—it all morphs into a white-hot rage that spills out before I can stop it.
"Oh, and you're so much better?" I spit out, my voice trembling with anger. "Where do you get off judging him when you're doing the exact same thing? At least he's honest about using me."
Gio's face goes still, his eyes widening. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb," I say with sarcasm. "You're using me too, aren't you?
I'm just a job to you, remember? A means to an end.
You only got close to me to satisfy your own goals—to find out who ordered Marco to be shot.
" I step closer, jabbing my finger at his chest. "Everything else?
The protection? The sex? They're all probably just tools to get what you want. "
The words taste like acid on my tongue, but I can't stop them. I'm aware, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I'm pushing him away deliberately, creating distance between us when I need it least. But I can't seem to stop the self-destruction.
"What, did you think I'd forget? That I'd be so grateful for your 'protection' that I'd overlook the fact that you're probably just manipulating me like everyone else?"
Gio takes a step back, looking as if I'd physically struck him. "Raven, that's not—"
"No, let's be honest here. You moved in across the hall to watch me.
You put cameras in my apartment to spy on me.
Everything you've done has been about control, about getting what you want.
" My voice cracks. "So don't stand there acting like my father is the only one using me.
I'm done playing your little mafia chess game.
I sell these paintings, and then both of you can just leave me the fuck alone. "
I can see the betrayal in his eyes, the disbelief etched across his face. Good. Let him feel a fraction of the pain and confusion I'm drowning in.
"What the fuck, Raven. You don't actually believe that," he says.
"Tell me, Gio, was any of it real? Or was it all just part of your plan to keep me close and compliant?"
Gio doesn't respond. He doesn't move. He just stares at me, and I take that as confirmation.
"Yeah, I thought so. I trusted you," I say, keeping my voice firm. "I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, you actually cared. But I was wrong, wasn't I? I'm just a job, and when this is all over, when you've gotten what you need from me, you'll disappear."
I can see Gio's fists clenching and unclenching, his entire body vibrating with barely contained rage, and I feel like at any moment he might attack.
The words I've just thrown at him hang in the air between us, poisonous and cruel. I said them to hurt him, to push him away, because maybe I need to protect myself, help my family—for my mom.
"You know that's not what this is," he says coldly.
"Do I?" I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hold myself together even as I tear everything apart.
Gio stares at me, his jaw clenching so hard I can see the muscle twitching beneath his skin.
Then, without warning, he grabs the nearest object, a half-empty can of paint, and hurls it across the room and it crashes against the far wall.
Paint explodes, thick white streaks dripping down like fresh wounds, smearing over everything in its path. It's ruined now. Stained. Just like us.
"Fuck!" he roars, and I flinch at the raw fury in his voice. "Is that what you think of me? That I fucked you as some kind of goddamn strategy?"
My heart is hammering in my chest. I know I should stop, that I'm crossing a line I can't uncross, but I can't seem to make myself shut up. "Why not? Isn't that what men like you do? Use people until you get what you want and then discard them?"
His eyes darken, and he takes a step toward me, then stops himself. I can see him struggling for control, his hands making fists so hard his skin is turning red.
"Men like me," he repeats, his voice dangerously soft now. "And what kind of man is that, Raven?"
"A monster," I say, and the word feels like a blade cutting through my own heart. "A killer."
"You want to talk about monsters?" Gio's voice interrupts my thoughts. He turns to my father, who shrinks back against the wall.
He takes a breath, visibly restraining himself from going after my father. "And you're defending him. Standing there telling me I'm the monster when I've done nothing but try to protect you."
My father clears his throat.
I turn back to Gio, and I can see the hurt and anger warring in his eyes.
"You don't get it," I tell him, my voice trembling. "He's my father. He's all I have left."
"He's using you," Gio says flatly. "And you're letting him."
"So what if he is?" I shoot back. "At least I know where I stand with him. He doesn't pretend to be something he's not."
He stares at me for a long moment, and I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with physical nakedness.
"You know what? Fuck this." He turns away. "You don't get to tell me what this was," he says, turning back to me.
"You know exactly what you are to me," he growls. "You've known since that first night. Since every night after. Since each fucking moment I've let you see parts of me no one else gets to see."
"I can't..." My voice breaks. "I can't be what you want me to be. I can't just sit back and watch my father die, even if he deserves it. I can't be this perfect, obedient woman who just trusts that you'll fix everything."
A sob builds in my chest, but I force it down. I'm doing this for him as much as for myself, I realize. Pushing him away before I destroy everything he's built. Before I become one more weakness his enemies can exploit.
"Maybe I don't want your protection now or ever," I say, making my voice as cold as I can. "Maybe I don't want to be another thing you own. I think you should go. Let me live my life. You've got all the info you needed."
He flinches as if I'd slapped him and for a second, I think he's going to say something—fight back, call me a liar. But he doesn't. Instead, he just stares at me, his eyes dark, unreadable.
He then turns and does exactly what I asked him to do—he leaves.
I should feel relieved that he listened.
So why does it feel like I'm dying inside?
The sound of his footsteps receding up the stairs feels like a physical pain in my chest. My lungs can't seem to get enough air.
My fingernails dig into my palms so hard I'm sure they'll leave marks.
I've pushed away the one person who might have actually cared about me, not just what I could do for them.
"Ravenna," my father starts, his voice cautious.
I raise my hand, unable to even look at him. "Not now," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Not a single word."
I've made my choice, but as I stand in the silence of the basement, the smell of spilled paint filling the air, I wonder if I've just made the biggest mistake of my life.