Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Rowen
The vibe in the meeting room we’d reserved at the Tivoli Palazzo Gaddi Hotel was tense as hell.
Unsurprising, since Giano’s lawyers are glaring daggers across the table.
What also shouldn’t have been a surprise was that I didn’t give a shit. I had no doubt these sharks in suits would have been more than capable of defending their client without my help, but in my expert opinion, humoring Markel’s “anonymous tip” wasn’t a good use of anyone’s time.
Because Markel himself isn’t worth our time.
We had bigger fish to fry at the moment, and it was obvious that no actual evidence against Giano had ever been presented. Otherwise, we would never have been allowed to walk out the door with the billionaire with no forwarding address.
The bribe money helped!
Luckily, snatching Giano out of the slammer fell under the trust fund jurisdiction of “keeping up appearances.” Or maybe it didn’t, but digging up some dirt on the lawyer Giano’s mother had hired to manage the trust had done the trick.
In fact, all the ridiculous stipulations on that veritable hoard of money were now miraculously lifted, but I was saving that surprise until after we’d cleared Giano’s name.
Another trick our friendly neighborhood hacker was able to accomplish.
After Mick and I had left the pub this afternoon, we’d returned to the privacy of his apartment to call his sister.
“Lucifer”—as Lucy was known in certain circles—was one of the best menaces in the business, so all we’d had to do was give her a brief rundown on the situation before she’d offered up twenty ways to digitally ruin everyone’s life.
My kind of people.
My family.
I’d received a lot of flack over the past couple years from both my foster siblings, specifically for not asking for her help with the job where I got caught.
For example, Lucy could have easily hacked into the museum’s security system and erased any evidence I’d been there before—or at all.
At the time, I’d claimed the idea just hadn’t occurred to me, but the truth was, I hadn’t wanted to need her, or anyone.
I could see now that I’d been too addicted to my usual practice of self-sabotage. This lovely cycle involved blindly trusting in my own abilities, having things go wrong, and then using that as “proof” of how much I not only sucked but didn’t deserve to have anyone help me out anyway.
Yeah, yeah, I know.
I should use the black card for some fancy therapy.
It wasn’t for lack of trying on my siblings’ part but, oddly, the past couple of weeks with Giano was what had me seeing myself in a different light.
Him getting so adorably angry when I talked bad about myself didn’t hurt, but it was mostly just the fact he never doubted me.
He not only trusted in my abilities but trusted me from the start, even when I continuously tried to prove how untrustworthy I was.
I guess he was onto me all along…
While this level of intimacy would have had me curling up like a bug and retreating into the earth with anyone else, I found it gave me the disgusting warm-and-fuzzies when it came to him.
Oh well.
Looks like I’m a fuckboy boyfriend too.
I fully intended on telling Giano that—maybe—but first thing on the agenda was convincing the attorney army that whatever legal defense they’d just spent the last several hours planning while en route to Florence needed to be thrown out the window.
Sorry not sorry.
Mr. Quincy is in charge now.
“To be clear…” Bob Decatur—the man with his name on the scary shark lawyer marquee—placed his well-manicured hand on the stack of “confidential” paperwork I’d graced him with upon arrival.
“Your contact has found indisputable evidence linking Stanley Monmouth and Abraham Divani to the theft of Mr. Luxford’s art collection? Am I understanding that correctly?”
Sure.
“Yes, sir,” I politely replied, having decided that a new disguise—Earnest Nice Guy—would help me avoid being dismissed by the legal professionals in the room.
Not that Giano would ever let that happen.
Of course, Mick and I had briefed our men on the “evidence” rounded up by Lucy beforehand, so we could present a united front at tonight’s meeting.
My billionaire was easy enough to convince, especially after I dutifully washed the dye out of my hair, but Daddy Pinstripes was more resistant to the idea of lying, even for the greater good.
Too bad, Boy Scout.
You’ve been licked, claimed, and tainted by one of us now.
He grudgingly changed his tune once we pointed out that, while the art heist connection may have been fabricated, both Monmouth and Divani had enough actual skeletons in their closets to get them locked up otherwise.
So what we were doing here was just helping the justice system move a little faster than usual.
Release the files, bitches!
What we were also doing was sending a clear message to the rest of the Luxford Holdings shareholders that kicking a bunch of orphans out of the only home they knew to build luxury condos was universally frowned upon in the court of public opinion.
Especially once it’s been blasted all over the nightly news.
“As you can plainly see, Monmouth and Divani realized me selling Mother’s art collection was a threat to their plans, and so conspired to thwart my efforts to raise the funds.
” Giano helpfully pointed at where Lucy had faked an entire, time-stamped email thread between the two men.
“Divani knew the keypad code to my apartment as an emergency contact and just yesterday, Monmouth threatened me over the situation at a watch retailer in Rome—with multiple witnesses. Both were also quite noticeably absent from my art viewing party.”
“Probably because they assumed being seen there would make them a suspect.” I oh-so-earnestly added. “It's what happened to me, after all.”
That last part was partly meant to be a dig at Franz—who was slouched at the far end of the table—but he was too busy glaring at the hat still perched on Mick’s big head.
Of course, there was another incriminating email in the stack, from Monmouth to Divani, implying Giancarlo Luxford’s connection to an ex-art thief should be enough to get us both locked up and out of the way.
Gotta clear my name while we’re at it!
A clearly exasperated Bob Decatur removed his glasses and set them aside before rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“I must say, Mr. Quincy, I’m still unsure how exactly you managed to get my client released from custody.
It was my understanding that la polizia would only discharge him to a member of my staff. ”
Whoops!
That part would have to remain a mystery.
By the time Daddy Pinstripes had sent the email to Decatur and company, Lucy had scrubbed their staff page clean of the faux employee profile she’d added for the occasion.
I also hadn’t actually handed out any of my Dan Cooper business cards to anyone other than Giano and Franz, so no one saw anything but a peek they couldn’t prove at a later date.
Never let them touch the cup.
The question now was whether the suits in this meeting would insist on operating by the book, or would they be willing to play by my rules?
Maximum damage before we light up the bridge on our way out of town.
“I told them the truth,” I lied. “Said I worked for the FBI Art Crime Team.”
Bob stared at me, while his entire army of rich bitch attorneys stared at him, waiting for their boss to speak. Franz dropped his head into his hands with a groan while Mick snickered, but Giano was deadly quiet.
Shit.
For one terrible moment, I wondered if I’d fucked up. I mean, I knew I’d fucked up, in increasingly significant ways, but I wasn’t sure if dicking around with Giano’s lawyers was a step too far.
Don’t tell me I have to apologize again…
Gross.
The silence continued for another excruciating moment before my billionaire slowly stood and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Why are you questioning Rowen when that’s not what I pay you for?” he growled, and I swear, I started ovulating.
Apparently, Bob Decatur was used to dealing with mild threats from his clients as he nodded once and continued on as if nothing had happened.
That’s what Giano pays him for, I suppose.
“Mr. Luxford, we’ve already corroborated alibis for both you and Mr. Quincy for the night of the robbery.
Between that and Agent Lowry acknowledging that the accusations were based on little more than hearsay from an Art Crimes Team employee who may have also leaked those accusations to the press, well…
” Bob clasped his hands on top of the conveniently damning evidence.
“Frankly, it’s up to you if you want to simply take down your shareholders for burglary, grand theft, and corporate conspiracy or pursue a defamation settlement with the FBI. ”
Why not both?
Further proving he was the perfect man for me, Giano rested his other hand on the boardroom table before leaning forward, smiling wolfishly.
“All of it. I want our names cleared, for whoever leaked these baseless accusations to face the consequences, for Rowen to be officially released from his contract with the FBI on grounds of a hostile work environment, and for those responsible for the disappearance of my art to be found guilty of their crimes.”
Easy, Moneybags.
Don’t give me a boner in the boardroom.
As hot as Ruthless Billionaire Giano was, there was only one problem.
“Unfortunately, Agent Markel—because we all know it was fucking Markel—won’t lose his job,” I sighed, thirsty for blood but wanting to be pragmatic.
“Federal agencies and their employees are shielded from most litigation, including defamation lawsuits, if what they said was said while acting within the scope of their employment.” I grinned sheepishly at the army of wolves in the room.
“I know that from personal experience, unfortunately.”
Bob Decatur actually cracked a smile. “That’s correct. Sovereign immunity protects federal agencies and agents. However, from your tone, it sounds like this… Markel may have had a personal vendetta against you. I would say that falls outside the scope of employment, wouldn’t you agree?”
Okay, I like this shark.
Giano straightened and squeezed my shoulder, but when I glanced up at him, his gaze was still locked on his lawyer. “Yes. At the very least, I want Markel to personally—and publicly—apologize to Rowen, and I want him to mean it.”
Jesus.
I think I’m pregnant.
Bob huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Well, Giancarlo, you are certainly your mother’s son.”
Giano hissed in a breath and tightened his grip, making my heart pang. “Yes,” he replied, and I could practically hear his mask sliding into place. “My mother taught me everything I know.”
Oh, baby.
Forgetting we had an audience, I reached up and squeezed his hand. “It’s okay, Moneybags. The big, scary attorney army will take everyone for all they’re worth.”
This time, Bob released a full-bodied laugh, along with an approving nod, just as Franz’s phone rang.
Right on schedule.
“H-hello? Yes, Mr. Samuel, I’m with Mr. Lux…” Franz paused for what felt like a full minute until the voice on the other end—his boss at Sotheby’s New York—stopped speaking. Then, after another long moment of absolute silence he added, “Y-yes, I’ll tell him.”
We all waited expectantly for Daddy Pinstripes to catch his breath after what was surely groundbreaking news.
I guess we didn’t tell them everything…
“Your entire art collection has been found, Giano.” Franz’s gaze darted to me before landing on his equally surprised family. “In Stanley Monmouth's summer home on Long Island.”
GASP!
Of course, I had to throw one last wrench into the plan. What with all these new developments—with how Giano’s enemies were now my enemies—I couldn’t stick with the art showing up again just anywhere.
It pays to have friends in low places.
“Well, that’s convenient,” Bob Decatur shot me a wink. “How kind of everyone to deliver such a tidy collection of incontrovertible proof.”
One of us, one of us!
“Indeed,” Giano replied, taking his seat again but keeping my hand clasped with his, out in the open on the boardroom table for all to see. “Now let’s take these rich assholes for everything they’re worth.”