Airing My Dirty Laundry
Evelyn
Dante had gone out for some air, and through the window, I saw him talking to one of the two armed guards who’d arrived sometime after Rocco had left. Judging by his pally demeanor and the way they thumped each other on the shoulder, they were firm friends.
Curious. Dante didn’t seem like the type to have friends. He wore the mask of a hardened mafioso—suave, ruthless, completely in control. I didn’t doubt he was all of those things, but there was something else beneath the surface. A flicker of humanity he probably didn’t even know was there.
Strangely, I felt it in his touch.
As bizarre as it sounded, there was a kind of warmth in his fingers. Something that had nothing to do with blood or body heat. When he’d wrapped his hand around my throat, it should have terrified me, should have made me feel small and powerless.
But it didn’t.
It felt… charged. Erotic, even, in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I’m not saying I liked it. I’m just saying I didn’t hate it.
I let out a shaky breath. Maybe that was worse.
Call it twisted, but it was the most possessive anyone had ever been with me. Not just physically, but emotionally. Dante looked at me like I was his to unravel, and a growing part of me didn’t want to stop him.
My parents had died when I was young. I remembered them fondly, but they’d always seemed more consumed by each other than by me.
My relationships since then have been short-lived and easy to manage.
Passionate flings with musicians and artists, the sensitive, creative types who burn bright and fade quickly. That always suited me.
I didn’t want to be trapped in a loveless relationship.
But Dante wasn’t like anyone I’d ever known. How could I be attracted to someone like him? A man who wanted to kill me. Who would kill me if he believed I was guilty of betraying him to Malakov.
I watched as he strode to his car and lifted the trunk, tension visible in the straight set of his shoulders, muscles popping on his inked neck. I held my breath. Was he going to pull out a gun? Was this it?
My eyes burned as I watched, then I let out a long sigh of relief when I saw the briefcase.
Except it wasn’t any normal briefcase. It was chunky and made from some type of sturdy metal because it caught the light, making me blink. From where I stood, I could just make out the steel combination locks on either side.
I wondered what was inside. Whatever it was, he was bringing it back to the cabin.
Darting back to the couch, I sat down and picked up the book, trying to look casual and uninterested as he stepped through the door. The very picture of bored captivity.
His mouth quirked and I knew my ploy hadn’t worked.
“Enjoying the book?”
“Yes, actually.” I held it up so he could see the cover. “The count reminds me of you. Not the noble version, though. The controlling, vengeful one.”
I felt a surge of victory as his jaw tightened.
He set the briefcase on the coffee table, then eased himself onto the couch next to me. He looked tired and more than a little dangerous with those dark-rimmed eyes and five o’clock shadow.
“What’s in the case?” I asked, scooting over as far as I could.
“Information.”
I waited, eyebrows raised.
“On you,” he added, flicking open the latches with a metallic click.
Uh-oh.
“Is this my phone records?” I croaked.
“Among other things.” He opened it and took out a pile of papers, some stapled together, some loose. I saw it was printouts of my accounts. I recognized the format.
“What are you doing with those?” I asked. “I thought you had someone looking into them.”
“I did, and he sent me these. I need your help to understand them.”
I smirked, gratified that he didn’t know what the transactions were for. To be fair, if you weren’t in the art world, you wouldn’t know what the references were.
“To make sure you’re not lying to me.”
My smile faded.
“Fine,” I huffed. At least he was giving me a chance to prove my innocence. An open-minded monster.
He spread them out over the table. As he did so, I slid off the couch and sat on the rug to study them. He raised an eyebrow at me, but I crossed my legs and ignored him.
He prodded the sheet he’d placed in front of me. “Let’s start with this one. It’s your personal account.”
I tensed but nodded. Did we really have to go through how many cappuccinos I’d had at Amigo’s last month, and the amount of money I’d spent at Victoria’s Secret? It was my guilty pleasure, okay? Some women bought shoes; I bought underwear.
“Here’s the payment from the Russian source.”
I scanned the transactions, settling on the one foreign payment. I’d noticed it, obviously. It was too large an amount not to, but I’d just assumed it was an error. A simple accounting mishap.
“It’s a mistake,” I explained. “It’s a reserve on a painting. If you look at the business account, you’ll see the balance.”
He frowned and picked up another bunch of papers. I was surprised he’d bothered to print them all out. Didn’t he believe in digital copies, or tablets?
“Show me.”
I took it from him and studied the figures until I found the one I was looking for. Vincent was my accountant, but I tried to keep abreast of the earnings and expenditure on a month-to-month basis for strategic reasons.
“Here,” I said, pointing to it.
His brow creased. “This is what Malakov paid for the painting?”
“I don’t know that it was Malakov,” I said. “I mean, it’s an intermediary. A foreign buyer. Sergei usually uses Mikhail, but I guess he could have used someone else.”
I arched an eyebrow at him. “Again, Mikhail could confirm.”
He didn’t reply.
“Why have you highlighted these?” I asked, nodding to the line items further down the transaction list.
“These are the questionable ones,” he replied.
I bristled. Nothing in my business was “questionable”.
“Allow me,” I said tartly, snatching the print-out from his hands.
He snorted, and leaned back on the couch, watching me in that unnerving way of his.
“That’s the shipping and customs fee for Echo Study No. 4 by Sienna Markell,” I replied, keeping my voice even. “She’s a contemporary abstract artist out of LA. Her pieces are handled through a specialist art freight company. They’re large-scale, high-value, which requires custom crating.”
“Like Mateo’s?” he asked.
I nodded, surprised he remembered the Colombian artist’s name.
He pointed to the next highlighted item. “What about that one?”
“That’s a framing expense,” I said. “We stage the paintings before every exhibition. That means custom frames, museum glass, archival mounts. The presentation sells the piece.”
I could tell from his expression that he wasn’t interested in the finer details. His eyes were already on the next row.
“That one?”
“That’s a conservation retainer for Lakeshore Stillness, the early Neumann Rask piece. It’s old pigment on raw linen, and the canvas is delicate. We have to bring in a conservator quarterly to make sure it’s stable before showing.”
He blinked. “You pay someone just to look at it?”
“To preserve a seven-figure investment? Yes.” I paused, lifting my eyes to his. “It’s standard procedure, especially with older works.”
He flipped to the next page, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “And this?”
“That’s a fair submission fee for Vantage Art Week in Miami. We had to submit digital mockups, portfolio materials, insurance coverage. It’s all part of applying to exhibit.”
He studied my face, then nodded.
“None of that is ‘questionable,’” I said, nodding to the sheet in my hand. “It’s normal stuff. Normal for my world, anyway.”
Dante didn’t reply.
I was about to hand over the print-out when a figure at the bottom caught my eye. It looked like a deposit, but it was way too high. I frowned and leaned in to take a closer look.
“What is it?” he asked.
I shook my head. “This payment says it’s for Still Life in Monochrome, but it’s not right.”
“What do you mean it’s not right?” He was frowning too now, his gaze fixed on the printout.
“I remember that piece. It sold at auction for seventy-five thousand, but this is double what it should be.”
Dante didn’t reply. Instead, he took out his phone and started searching for something on it.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Googling the painting.”
“That’s not going to help. The buyer was anonymous. They used a local broker and it was all done over the phone.”
He glanced up. “That normal?”
“Yes. International buyers operate that way—like your friend, Malakov. He uses Mikhail.”
At the Russian’s name, or maybe it was the insinuation that Malakov was his friend, Dante’s expression darkened.
“Could this be a money-laundering attempt?”
“I—I don’t know.” I’d never considered that before. “I don’t know anything about money laundering.”
He studied me as if trying to determine whether I was lying or not.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I snapped, my voice cracking. The thought that my gallery was being used for money laundering as well as shipping drugs was too much. “I’m not a criminal. That’s your area of expertise.”
“Then allow me to explain it to you.”
I went still, not sure I wanted to hear what he had to say.
“The art world is perfect for cleaning dirty money. Paintings sell for high figures, and there’s very little regulation. The price is whatever someone’s willing to pay.”
“That’s the nature of the industry,” I said stiffly.
“Exactly,” he confirmed. “So, let’s say I’ve got a million dollars that I can’t deposit without the authorities noticing.
Instead, I buy a painting for that amount.
” He nodded to the statement. “On paper, it looks legitimate. Then, a short time later, I ‘sell’ it for eight hundred grand to another shell company I own. I take a small loss, but that eight hundred is clean. Taxed and untraceable.”
I felt sick. “And you’re telling me this happens regularly?”
He scoffed. “Galleries, dealers, private collectors. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the book.”
My breath hitched as the ugly realization dawned. “Do you do that?”
He didn’t answer right away, but that hesitation was all I needed.