Chapter Thirty-Two #2
Granted, I stole it from my last relationship. Remember Giacomo? The stripper you disapproved of? Yeah, he owns the car, and he’s never getting it back.
Luigi would never be successful enough to get it, so he’s out for my life.
Me:
Do you want Luigi dead?
The bubble popped up immediately, but then it disappeared. It did that a couple of times before a response finally came.
Gemma (blonde car highway):
You’re not Uncle Rod, are you?
Me:
No.
Gemma (blonde car highway):
Are you Giacomo?
Serial killer guy?
OR FUCKING LUIGI.
I was amused by the capital letters; I could hear her voice yelling the words at me. It reminded me of my sister.
Me:
It’s Elio.
The bubble disappeared and appeared several times, and then it disappeared for minutes; I didn’t think she would respond until she did.
Gemma (blonde car highway):
I’m just gonna sidestep my embarrassment with everything I typed and pretend I’m the cool blonde who gave you her number at a drugstore.
You can just block me now if your image of me is ruined. I’ll accept that.
Me:
I have no intention of blocking you, Gemma.
Gemma (blonde car highway):
Honestly, I would block me.
My eyes flitted to the time above the screen before I typed in my response.
Me:
I have to go. I will pick this up when I return. Luigi sounds like an exciting topic of conversation.
Gemma (blonde car highway):
The little shit is the bane of my existence.
Where do you have to go …
Does this involve torturing your victims?
Me:
Something like that. Speak soon.
I exited the messaging app, slipped the phone into my pocket, and left for the hot room.
Casmiro and Angelo, alongside three other soldiers from my torture team, stood inside the room. I didn’t acknowledge any of them as I entered. My attention was trained solely on the person I wanted to question.
When I stepped forward, every man in the room, including Casmiro and Angelo, straightened while discreetly inching back even though they were already standing at a convenient distance.
The artist sat in a mid-back iron chair with his back bending in a way that made him look more uncomfortable; his hands were strapped to each arm of the chair. No fingers. Cuts here and there on his arm. Although the wounds were treated and covered, I could still smell burning flesh.
I bottled my irritation, reaching the man, who was breathing heavily, head cast downward, clothes bloodied and dirty.
I admired his strong will. Anyone else would have killed him at this point, registering that he knew nothing and could give no useful information.
But I’d brought him here based on a gut feeling. He wasn’t leaving until I got my answer.
“Look up.” I spoke into the stale air.
His shoulders stopped moving. His breathing ceased for a second before it grew more frantic. His head snapped up, and red-rimmed brown eyes coated in fear stared at me.
“Handling you is already inconvenient, and I wouldn’t like to waste even more of my time because I have a conversation to finish in about”—I looked at my wristwatch—“thirty minutes. So, I will ask the question, and you will answer me. Not with a lie. Not with a half-truth and not with a dismissal. If you do any of these three things, you will lose more than your fingers.”
His chapped lips pressed into a thin line, determination in his eyes.
He was going to do one of the options I listed.
“What’s his first name?” I asked no one in particular without taking my eyes off him.
“Fio,” Angelo answered.
“Fio,” I repeated, “it will be in your best interest to cooperate with me.”
“I know nothing, and even if I do, and I do tell you, you will kill me either way. I know who you are.”
“It is good that you do. That’s why you will not waste my time.”
“My response remains the same. Mr. Garza wanted me to paint the damn chihuahua, and I painted the damn chihuahua. The rest were printed fakes.”
“Yet, millions of US dollars went into your bank account after you painted the original.”
“It was valuable.”
I nodded. “It was. I have spoken once with Arturo Garza. And just like me, he’s a strategic businessman.
He wouldn’t make you set for life with a huge amount of money for one original painting.
Not when each painting has the same intricate brushstrokes and the distinct smell of dried paint and … pine wood.”
He swallowed, panic working its way to his eyes as I continued.
“You disappeared for months. Into a very convenient safe house a few states outside of Mexico City; the said safe house was made out of the pine woods surrounding the area. Am I correct?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Strike one. Dismissal,” I announced, straightening. “The safe house I speak of was registered in Arturo’s name. I believe that is where you decided to paint?”
Fio let out a shaky breath. “Yes, Mr. Garza had given me that safe house. He didn’t want me in the city while I worked on the original painting—”
“Strike two. Half-truth. You’d already painted the original. Arturo gave you that safe house so you could paint the duplicates of the original, am I correct?”
He hesitated, shifting slightly on the chair as he shook his head. “No, you are not. The duplicates were printed.”
“Strike three. Lies.”
He swallowed. “I know fucking nothing, I swear to you. When Mr. Garza gave me that project, my life changed, and I—”
“I will care about your life’s achievement when pigs grow wings and litter the sky.”
He clamped his mouth shut.
“I warned you about wasting my time. Apparently, you are one of those who gets curious to see what I will do next. You might think since your fingers and source of livelihood are gone, there’s nothing else we can take.”
“I have no family you can hunt down. I have nothing. You might as well kill me.”
I watched him for almost a minute, and he squirmed under my stare, discomfort straining his posture.
I brought one hand from my pocket, rubbing my jaw as I looked away from the man to everyone else in the room, watching the scene with curiosity, also wondering what I would do next.
I looked back at the artist. “Last chance, Fio. I insist you tell me what you know about the original painting. What is the tell? What would make finding it easier?”
“Like I said, I know nothing.”
The silence grew—one minute.
Two.
Three.
Four …
Well … I warned.
I bent to his level; both my hands covered his wrists on the arms of the chair as I looked him dead in the eye. “Do you want to hear a story, Fio?”
He swallowed, the sound spelling fear.
“About an artist. He was an orphan, drew little sketches of people in the streets of Paris, wore rags for clothes, but had a brown hat given to him by a respectable sailor after a wonderful sketch he made of him. The artist was so happy. He wore it daily; even when he went to sleep, he would hug it to his chest, his first achievement.”
Fio’s eyes grew wide in horror.
“That little hat seemed to have given him so much hope, and then he started sketching for coins. People would stop by in his open corner, dropping coins for a sketch—couples, families, tourists … He felt like he had found a calling. It made him save up. He then bought watercolors and brushes and started adding colors to people’s clothes in his drawings.
He gave them smiles that reached their eyes, even when the smiles didn’t. ”
Fio’s lips parted, breathing noisily.
“He made so much money, grew up, and traveled to Mexico. He got a part-time job at an antique store and changed his name from Yves to Fio so that he could blend in. The owner of the antique store never paid him a dime, but the basement beneath the store was spacious and had an aesthetic feel; he loved painting there. Made a couple of thousand dollars through online ordering and delivering.”
Fio shook his head slowly, tears gathering in his eyes.
“Through that means, he met a beautiful woman, Sofia. She was also an artist, but she was more into digital art. They fell madly in love. She had red hair and the most dashing smile he had ever seen. They met physically on a sunny summer morning, and her beauty enchanted him; he couldn’t stop smiling at her.
She became his muse, and he painted a beautiful portrait of her, which caught the eye of many collectors. Eventually, they got married.”
“No.” His voice trembled.
“Oh yes, they did.”
“No, please.” His breathing shuddered, and his tears dropped.
“It was a small wedding. Only four attendees. But it was the most important day of their lives; they would finally live their dreams and grow old together as man and wife.”
“Stop—”
“Fio got an amazing offer worth millions of dollars about a year later. It was so huge that he got a lovely bottle of wine to celebrate this good news. Sofia was his biggest supporter; together, they took a renewed honeymoon to a little cabin outside Mexico City.”
“Stop, please…”
“The air was fresher, the smell of pine wood and raw earth, the sheer luxury of peace and freedom. It was the best time of Fio’s life. After six months, he finished the job and returned, receiving extra money for his efficiency. Fio was indeed set for life.”
“I will tell you all you need to know … just don’t finish the story.”
I ignored him. “Years later, his wife gets pregnant.”
His shoulders shook with sobs.
“Unfortunately, she was only six months in when he got kidnapped.”
“Ask me any question; I’ll give you your answer.”
“He was kept in the hands of terrible men, tortured every day, his fingers were chopped off, and he knows he’ll probably never be able to hold a brush to paint ever again, so he decides to be stubborn. To take the truth to his grave.”
“Jesus Christ, I beg of you. There’s a tell, okay! There’s a fucking tell in the original painting!”