37. Ancient history – Elijah
37
ANCIENT HISTORY
ELIJAH
“H ave you ever heard of The White Rose?”
A small knot forms between Aurora’s brows. “Sounds familiar, I think.”
Seven pours a couple of ounces of whiskey into a glass and slides it to me. I only take a small swallow. As much as I hate talking about it, somehow, this time feels different. That chaotic vibration in my veins and the buzzing in my head, that always comes with thoughts of that man and what he did to my family, are muted. A bit distant. Tolerable without the need to dilute them with liquor.
“The White Rose is a famous art thief.”
I swirl the whiskey in my glass.
“ Was ,” I correct myself. “He was a famous art thief. He’s also my father.”
Aurora glances at Seven, He already told her a bit about the circumstances that led him to my family. So, she probably already knows his name. Both of the names of my parents.
My angel is now one of only about four people who know the true identity of The White Rose.
“Julian Ashford.”
Nothing is known of his wife, Florence Ashford. It was never suspected that The White Rose married a talented artist who was able to forge artwork so precisely that not a single one of her forgeries has ever been discovered, even to this day.
“He was never caught,” I tell her. “And neither was my mother. She was a painter. Taught me everything I know about art forgery.”
“They taught us, too,” Seven adds. “Not to paint. Atty and I were shit at that. But Julian taught me how to crack a safe in under thirty seconds.”
“And he taught Atticus how to read blueprints and account for every possible scenario in every situation,” I fill in for Atticus, who grunts his agreement.
My parents taught them so much more than that, but those were the areas where they each excelled.
“When my mom got sick, we started helping my dad more with jobs, but we were still young. Inexperienced.”
I remember the first time my father brought Ambrose De La Rosa into our house. It felt wrong right from the start. He didn’t bring anyone into the house. Not ever. Seven and Atticus were the only exceptions, and they became family. This man, this stranger, was not family. Not even a friend.
“That’s when he brought in Ambrose. He was my father’s competition. A rival art thief. The two of them had been racing against each other to get their hands on various artworks for years. My father won most of the races, but Ambrose got his hands on a fair few pieces my father had his heart set on.”
Atticus snorts. “Remember how Sev almost slit his throat that first time?”
“I thought he was a suit.” Seven shrugs. “You know, like CIA or something, with that slick, all-black getup and the fuckin’ sunglasses.”
“Too bad you didn’t get the knife in before Dad saw you.”
I wish he had. Then none of this mess would’ve happened.
Seven’s expression darkens. “Yeah. Too bad.”
“Anyway,” I sigh. “My dad got it in his head that they should team up instead of working against each other.”
“He wasn’t in his right mind after we got Florence’s cancer diagnosis,” Seven injects, sounding like he’s trying to make an excuse for Dad’s choice, but back then, it did seem like an all right idea. Even if Ambrose seemed like the wrong man for the job. I could look at it objectively.
If the two of them could work together, Dad thought they could double their acquisitions. And with me able to forge the less complicated pieces by then, we could become a money-making machine. But more than that, for my father at least, and his father before him, it was about the collection .
And he decided it was his mission to add every piece of art my mother ever wanted to that collection before it was too late. He wanted her to have them all. Like each one would somehow buy more time for her on this earth.
“Were any of us in our right minds?” I ask, looking pointedly at Atticus, who won’t meet my stare. As much as I try not to be angry at him for having to leave, I know why he did. Why he had to…after Mom died. I didn’t want to fucking be there, either. Everything reminded me of her. Everything.
“From that day on, Ambrose and my dad were business partners,” I continue even though it’s more of a struggle to keep my voice steady with my chest collapsing in on itself. “We still helped with the jobs, but our roles were less than before. Eventually, it got to a point where Dad didn’t need us at all sometimes, and we were getting older and able to run smaller jobs ourselves. For a while, it was very lucrative.”
“You were already forging art then?” Aurora asks. “How old were you?”
I think back. “I started forging when I was about eighteen.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t long after I started that it all fell apart.”
“How long ago was this?”
My brows cinch together. “You mean when it all started to fall apart? I guess it started right after Mom…”
Her death really did mark the beginning of the end of everything.
“That was six years ago,” Seven finishes for me.
I clear my throat and take a swallow of whiskey, giving myself a mental slap to combat the burn in my throat. “Right. Yeah. Six years ago. By then, we all trusted Ambrose. He was a regular fixture in the house. Dad’s best friend as well as his business partner. Ambrose lost his wife, too—a number of years before we met him—so, in a way, Mom’s passing just brought him and my dad even closer together.”
“He was at her funeral, for fuck’s sake,” Atticus growls.
The vibration starts low, a hum beneath my rib bones that breeds heat from the friction and makes my hand ache.
Fuck.
I won’t lose my shit in front of Aurora again.
I’ll stop, I tell myself. If I can’t control the panic, I can just stop talking.
Aurora reaches over and takes my hand in hers, bringing me out of my spiraling thoughts. Her fingers are cool against my skin, soothing the rattle in my bones, forcing me to take a deliberate breath.
I wet my lips and push on. “It was all bullshit. Up until then, my father never told him where he kept our family collection. That’s what it was all about for my dad—the legacy of it. My grandad before him was also a collector . And before Ambrose, we already had over ninety pieces in our family collection. So many incredible artists. Lots of Monets, Van Goghs, a Rembrandt or two, a Botticelli, a couple Picassos. Even a Da Vinci and a Johannes Vermeer.”
“Wait, I know that one. He did Girl with a Pearl Earring , right? I read that book back in high school.”
I smile. “Yeah. It was in our collection. The one on display at The Hague is my mother’s forgery.”
She scoffs incredulously, clearly impressed, and it only makes me want to impress her more, but this story doesn’t have a happy ending. Not yet, anyway.
Aurora picks up on the shift in my expression and rubs her thumb over the scars on the back of my hand. “You said was in your collection?”
“The bastard took it all,” Atticus growls. “Every last piece, save for what we had on the walls in the house.”
Aurora gasps. “So, your dad told Ambrose where it was?”
“Yeah. Ambrose didn’t take it right away. It was a few months before he made his move and then he just…vanished.”
“Florence took a turn, then,” Seven recalls, and from the faraway look in his cold blue eyes, I know he’s reliving it. He’s remembering the raw, scraping, bleeding sensation of his guts being ripped out, because it’s how I felt, too.
“It wasn’t just our entire collection of stolen art, it was my family's legacy,” I explain. “It was all my mother’s and my forgeries, too. And her personal work. My father liked to keep it all next to the greats. Told her it belonged there with them. That it was every bit as good, even if some critics thought differently earlier on in my mom’s art career.”
“ He killed her,” Atticus says decisively. “Maybe not directly, but her heart was broken after what he did. She might’ve—” He struggles with the words. “She might’ve been able to hold on for the next round of…of treatment if he hadn’t?—”
Seven lifts his own glass of whiskey and hands it to Atticus, who takes it and swallows it in one, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” Aurora whispers. “I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like to have something so meaningful taken from you like that.”
I nod solemnly.
“The fucker wasn’t done yet,” Seven seethes.
“It wasn’t just my mom who was affected by it. Her illness took her within a couple months of Ambrose’s double cross.” Another longer swallow of whiskey. “Then my dad started to show signs of…”
I don’t know how to put it. It was all so disjointed at first. We didn’t know what to think. Weren’t sure if we should worry.
“Mental distress,” I decide. “At first, we just thought it was the grief and it would get better.”
“It didn’t,” Atticus interjects, and Aurora pulls just a little tighter into herself, her shoulders tense, feeling the energy shift in the room. Ellie senses it, too, letting out a soft whine from the floor, where she’s stopped playing with her chicken and lays sullenly as she listens.
“At first, the doctors thought it was a temporary psychosis. They said it should get better with time and treatment. That it was a symptom of losing his wife and wasn’t uncommon among the newly widowed. But they didn’t know he’d also lost his entire life’s work—our family’s legacy—all in the span of eight weeks.”
“Oh my god.” Aurora’s eyes turn glassy as she covers her mouth with trembling fingers.
“In a way, we lost them both that summer,” Atticus says, toneless. The calm before the storm.
He really needs to go let off some steam.
“Atticus, maybe you should?—”
“No, I’ll fucking stay.”
I take a deep breath. There’s no arguing with the stubborn bastard.
We’ve talked about this—all of it—more than a few times over the last year and a bit since I’ve been home, but this time feels different. We aren’t going over what we know. Or reminiscing. We’re sharing our truth with someone else.
Atticus doesn’t like his part in this story. He blames himself for what happened next. He has no idea that whether or not he was with us, I still would have done what I did. He wouldn’t have been able to stop me once I’d made up my mind.
“It’s developed past that now, into dementia. My dad remembers things, remembers us, sometimes, but when he does remember, it’s always the art. And it’s always Mom. He wants to see it again, the collection. And the pieces Mom painted for him.”
“You never should have taken the deal,” Atticus says through his teeth.
“What deal?” Aurora asks.
I finish my whiskey and push the glass toward Seven to refill. This is the part that’s harder, because Atticus is right. I fucked up.
“Ambrose reached out to me. He had his cake, but he wanted to eat it, too.”
Her face pinches.
“He had Julian’s entire collection,” Seven explains. “But no one to forge the pieces for him. He could sell the originals off, but why do that when you can replicate them, keep the originals, and sell off the forgeries for the same price?”
Atticus’s knuckles turn white where they grip the countertop. “He wanted to take the title of The White Rose. Every fucking petal and thorn. Leave us with nothing.”
“So, what?” Aurora asks, struggling to follow. “He wanted you to paint for him?”
I nod gravely. “Yes.”
“And Eli agreed,” Atticus seethes, pushing off from the counter to pace to the edge of the room and back.
I drop my gaze to the countertop, to the now untouched food littered over its surface. “For a year,” I add, meeting Aurora’s searching stare, trying to implore her to understand.
“The deal was I’d paint for him for one year, and afterward, he’d send me home with my mother’s art. I wanted my family’s collection back, too, but that wasn’t on the table. I was desperate. I’d just lost my mom, and my dad’s health was failing. I had to do something. I thought if I could return some of the art to him. Bring a piece of Mom back…”
My throat burns, and I fight to speak through the flames as my eyes prick. “I really thought that if I did, he’d come back to us, too.”
“Oh, Elijah,” Aurora fights tears of her own, and I quickly wipe at my nose, a hollow laugh on my lips.
“I knew Sev and Atticus wouldn’t like it,” I say, changing tack.
“So the fucker didn’t tell us,” Atticus finishes for me.
“Come on, man.” Seven shakes his head at him, and the old wound starts to open between them. “You weren’t even here.”
Atticus’s jaw tenses, but he says nothing. He can’t, because he wasn’t there. After Mom passed, he lost the plot. And then when Ambrose double-crossed us, he was a raging bull. We were doing everything we could to get the collection back, but he was driving himself mental with it. Not sleeping. Not eating. Nit-picking everything. Chasing useless theories. Driving us all fucking mad with his obsessive need for everything to be in perfect order all the time.
He’d mentioned a desire to join the military when we were teenagers, so Sev and I pushed him into it.
We all had our vices back then, but I do wish he’d been in the right state of mind to stay. Not having him around much in the beginning of Dad’s mental illness made it harder. I know Atticus regrets going, even if he needed to. And I know that no matter how hard things get now, that he would never leave again.
Even if it was only a few years ago, the person I was back then was a fucking child compared to the man I am now. I’m sure Atticus feels the same.
We all have our regrets.
Maybe they won’t be so heavy once we take our vengeance.
“Why weren’t you here?” Aurora asks Atticus, and she must feel me tense because she flinches and asks. “What?”
“Atty here joined the military,” Sev says. “What was it? About ten weeks after Florence passed? Just when Julian was starting to really lose it?”
“Enough,” I hiss. “That’s ancient history. And you know he needed to go.”
Seven tips his whiskey back. He really shouldn’t judge. Not with the way he flew off the fucking handle after Mom’s passing.
He hated that her enemy was one he couldn’t see. Couldn’t fight. Couldn’t eliminate. It drove him crazy, to the point where I thought we might lose him to a sort of madness, too. He went out sometimes after the house was asleep and didn’t come back until dawn, reeking of whiskey and blood with a new souvenir to add to his own private collection of teeth and bone.
Sev said they all had it coming. That they were terrible men who did bad things to good people. I believed him, but I still had to worry about his sorry ass every night, counting the minutes until he got home.
I wondered if he’d get caught or killed and if I’d end up motherless, fatherless, and brotherless after Atticus left.
But at least Sev always came home. Always .
Atticus stops pacing. “I wasn’t the only one who left.”
I hang my head.
“No. I left a note. Told Sev to take care of Dad. I said I’d made a deal, and I’d be back in a year with Mom’s art.”
“He gave us no choice,” Atticus snaps.
“Because I knew what your answer would be,” I snap right back. “And I had to try. You know I had to try.”
“A lot of good that did.”
Aurora brings her other hand to join the first, cupping them over my broken one. “What happened?”
“Exactly what you’d imagine. Ambrose had already proven he was a traitor. I don’t know why I expected any different. He brought me somewhere. I don’t know where. He had me drugged and blindfolded to get me there. When we arrived, he put me in a room.
“It was a big room with good light and a nice bed. That’s where he kept me. I thought our deal was still on, so I painted. He brought me the pieces he wanted me to forge, and I painted for him every fucking day for a year.”
Aurora searches my eyes, and her hands lightly squeeze mine. It feels so good. I don’t ever want her to let go.
I brush my thumb over her knuckle. “He didn’t let me out of the room. Not once. I had no phone, no computer, no communication with the outside world. When I didn’t paint, I slept, took long-ass showers, and read the books one of his guards occasionally brought me. After a while, I realized I needed to keep track of time and started marking the days. When the day came that marked a year, I was ready to go. But that day, Ambrose brought me a new piece to forge.”
“He never intended to let him go,” Seven fills in the blank.
“I argued with him. I told him I knew it’d been a year, and we made a deal. I tried to reason with him. In the end, I refused to paint until he would let me go.”
“What did he do?”
She looks down at my hand in hers, her chin quivering, but she’s got it wrong. Ambrose didn’t do this to my hand. I did.
“He did what he had to do to make me perform for him. At first, he hurt me. Well, not him personally, of course—he never did like to get his hands dirty—he had his men do it. And when that stopped working after a few months, he tried a new tactic. He burned one of my mother’s paintings right in front of me. Promised me he would destroy them all, one by one, if I didn’t cooperate.”
“We tried to find him,” Sev tells Aurora. “When we realized what Eli had done, Atticus used his contacts in the military to try to find where Ambrose was keeping him.”
“I went as deep as I could, but everything led to a dead end.”
“When the year was up, and he didn’t come back, that’s when we really started to fucking panic.” Sev’s piercing eyes meet mine, and in them, I can see the hell they went through during those seven months, when they didn’t know if I was alive or dead.
“Eventually, I knew I couldn’t stay another day—another second— in that room. It got to a point where I thought I’d rather die than lift a paintbrush for him one more time, and if he was going to keep me anyway, then Dad would never get to see Mom’s work again, regardless. They were careful then, about letting me have sharp things. Things that I could injure others with. Injure myself with. But it was an old building, and there was this marble bench running the length of one wall, and it had a loose bit of stone.”
My stomach churns, and a sour taste coats my tongue.
It comes back in a flash of brutal white stone splattered with red.
It broke away from the corner of the bench easier than I thought it would.
“It was heavy. Jagged. I knew it would work.”
Aurora draws in a shaking breath. “Oh no…”
The flashback lashes itself at the barricades of my mind. All violence and pain and red, red, red.
I shove it away, not realizing I’m shaking until Aurora grips me tighter, trying to steady me. I think it helps.
It helps enough that I can skip the ugliest bits and tell her plainly the only thing that matters.
“Can’t paint with a fucked-up hand…” My laugh is anything but joyful. “I made it so he couldn’t use me anymore. “
I didn’t realize it then, but when I brought that piece of jagged marble down on myself again and again and again, I was also breaking off some part of my soul that I would never get back.
“My mother taught me how to paint, but she also taught me family comes first. Somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten that.”
“You didn’t know,” Aurora says, trying to comfort me. “You did what you thought you had to at the time.”
Whether it’s true or not, it’s no consolation for the truth. “I traded time with my dad that I’ll never get back, Angel. And all I had to show for it when Ambrose dumped me at a train station in Philly, was a broken hand and a fucking mountain of regret.”
“You’re lucky he let you go at all,” Atticus says. “He could’ve killed you.”
I’d never tell them, but for a long time after I got home, I wished he had.