CHAPTER 10 #3
“And Damián?” I pause, making sure he understands the severity of what I am about to say. “If there is a choice between talking your way out and picking violence? Always pick violence.”
“I can do that.”
“Take this.” I pass him the lipstick USB, making sure my fingers don’t touch his skin. “It’s the complete list and everything you needed.”
“Thanks,” he says, and shoves the USB into his pants’ front pocket.
“Ah… right… and Rafael might be extra angry,” I warn him. “I sort of split his eyebrow in two a few days ago.”
“You cut him?”
“I hit him with a book.”
“Was he attacking you?”
“No… I was reminding him of his place.” I finish unbuttoning my shirt and walk toward the door. “Ready?”
“Yes.” Damián picks up the gym bag he arrived with and walks toward me. “But after, we need to talk.”
“We don’t.”
“Ollie…”
“I don’t care, Damián… the past is the past, and I’ll make sure we don’t ‘fuck-up’ again,” I say, and get out of the room before he can speak anything else.
We walk in silence down the grand staircase together, pass through a game room, an open living room, and go all the way to the back to the white outdoor table where my family, if you want to call them that, likes to have their breakfast.
Elijah sits at the head of the long table. To his right sits Serena, wearing a long yellow summer dress, and to his left is Rafael.
Great… Lucifer is here…
Rafael glares at us the second we walk out to the garden. He still has his black stitches on his eyebrow, and there’s purple around his eye.
“Morning, Father,” I say, pulling out a chair. “This is Damián Soto. Damián, my father Elijah.”
Damián shakes hands before taking a seat next to me. “A pleasure, Mr. West.”
“We will see about that,” Elijah says.
Damián takes a cup and fills it with coffee, completely unfazed by my father, and if I weren’t this hurt, I would actually feel pride.
“My wife tells me you are an art dealer, Mr. Soto.”
“I am.”
Elijah takes a large hunting knife and uses it to point toward a painting that hangs inside the house, right next to the garden’s French doors. “Tell me about that piece, then.”
I turn around and look at the painting my father is pointing at, an oil painting of red and black slashes… that also happens to be fake.
Oh shit… of course this is a trap.
Damián glances at the painting for exactly three seconds before looking back to Elijah. “I like it. It’s a late-stage Rothko,” he says.
My father’s eyebrows furrow in displeasure, his hand fists tighter around the knife’s handle.
“But that one is a knockoff,” Damián continues.
“The brushstrokes lack the emotional weight he had, and the pigment layering is far too synthetic for the sixties. You bought it at Mercotz, I assume? Since they specialize in high-end forgeries for buyers who want to display the copy while keeping the real one safe.”
“Ha!…Very good.” Elijah nods, pleased. “I respect a man who knows his trade.”
“And I respect one who admits to it,” Damián says back, and everyone at the table goes silent…
Literally, everyone.
Elijah stares at Damián, and for a second, I think my father might pull a gun and shoot him in the face, but instead, my father laughs.
“You have some balls, Damián.”
“I have to,” he says, holding my hand… and fuck, it hurts. “How else would I’ve gained your son’s interest?”
Rafael slams his fork down onto his porcelain plate, making Serena jump.
“This is ridiculous,” Rafael points a finger directly at me, his face twisting with disgust. “Are we seriously going to sit here and eat breakfast while you parade this… male whore around our family? It’s a disgrace.”
“Rafa, not now, honey…” Serena begs, but Rafael ignores her.
He looks at Damián. “How many days do you think slut-boy here will take to get bored and change you? Six? Two?”
Damián cuts a kiwi as he stares at my brother.
“You know, Rafael, I would tell you to keep your mouth shut and mind your own fucking business,” Damián says while stabbing a piece of kiwi with his fork, “but by the cut in your eyebrow, I’m pretty sure you’ve been told before… and still haven’t learned.”
Rafael’s face turns purple. He rises out of his chair, leans over the table, and slaps Damián’s fork out of his hand.
But before the fork even hits the table, Damián grabs Rafael’s wrist, yanks his hand down onto the cheese board, and slams his knife straight into the block, burying the blade a millimeter between Rafael’s splayed fingers.
Serena shrieks, I gasp, and Rafael screams. My father… he just stares.
Rafael yanks his hand back, freaking out. “Who are you?! There’s no way an art dealer has an aim that perfect.”
“What are you talking about?” Damián glares at Rafael. “I missed.”
“You son of a—”
“Sit down, Rafael,” Elijah orders.
Rafael freezes, and by the way he is breathing, I can tell he is furious, but still, he sinks back into his chair, glaring with murderous intent at Damián.
Elijah looks from Rafael’s humiliated face back to Damián and smiles.
“I like him, Oliver.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Keep this one for a little while.”