Page 29 of Possessive Mafia Vows

I know what he’s doing. He’s bombarding me with messages so that I can’t forget about him. He’ll wait an hour and messageme again. Regular as clockwork. Allowing me no time between contact to resume normal life without him in it.

I don’t respond.

I haven’t replied to any of his messages, I haven’t even added his number to my contact list, he’s still sitting there in my inbox as UNKNOWN.

“Unknown, just the way I liked it,” I mutter to myself.

But the thing that’s niggling away at me, and the reason I need to spend the morning painting, is my father’s non-reaction to Kyle’s announcement that his brother owns the Rinse. Like he already knew this. Or another way to look at it is that he already knew who Kyle was.

I press my fingertips to my eyebrows as if I can push the brewing headache back inside my skull.

What reason would Kyle have to find my father and then reintroduce him into my life? None. Victoria would’ve told him that we’re estranged and that I had no desire to reach out to him. But I can’t ignore the timing.

Or can I?

My father will get bored when he realizes that I’m not interested in putting things right or getting to know him. He’ll only put in so much effort with zero return, and then, if the universe is listening to me, he’ll crawl back inside his rathole and forget all about me.

Yes. Boredom is the best I can hope for.

Or death. Maybe he’ll get run over by a yellow taxi, or assassinated in his bed, or pushed off the top of the Empire State Building.

I’m still smiling to myself when I open my tablet and check my emails.

My pulse gathers speed as I read the most recent correspondence from an art collector. He wants to buy a painting. No, scratch that; he wants to buy my favorite piece. Apparently, he saw images attached to the article in theNew Yorkermagazine after the launch and would like to come and view it in person later today.

I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I wander through to the gallery and stand in front of my aura-portrait, soaking up the vibrancy.

I guess, when I painted it, I never expected to sell it. Selling my artwork was a pipe dream, a fantasy, something that only ever happened to established artists, not part-time middle school teachers. I want people to see my art, of course I do. But the idea of this piece hanging on someone else’s wall… I’m not sure how I feel about it.

What if they’re purchasing it for all the wrong reasons?

What if … they want it because it matches their color scheme, or reminds them of Great-Aunt Mabel, or fits a space on a wall that they’ve been trying to fill for a while?

Maybe I’m overreacting. But I’m emotionally attached to my art the way authors are emotionally attached to their books and actors are emotionally attached to their movies.

Besides, I need the money. If I don’t sell my work, I’ll never be able to pay Caleb back for the money he put into the gallery.

I’m so lost in thought that my heart pounds when the doorbell rings. I turn around and instantly recognize the face peering through the window at me.

It’s Bash. Kyle’s brother.

I unlock the door and let him in. He has Kyle’s eyes and the same smile, but his hair and neatly trimmed beard are darker with flecks of copper when they catch the light.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.” He surveys the gallery, lips stretched into a permanent smile. “Wow. Victoria was right. This is exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Victoria sent you?”

“Not exactly. We talked about your artwork, and she suggested I come and check it out before I shop elsewhere.” It takes him a couple of beats to realize what he said. “That sounds worse than it is. I only meant?—”

“It’s fine.” My gaze lingers over my favorite piece briefly. “Do you want coffee? I’ve not had anywhere near enough caffeine today.”

“And it’s only—” he checks the Rolex on his wrist “—nine-twenty-three.”

“Yep. Don’t ask.”

He follows me through to the office, and my cheeks grow hot when I think of what Kyle and I did on the desk. He takes a seat, leans back, one leg crossed casually over the other, and helps himself to a croissant.

“I’m opening a new nightclub. Are you open to new commissions?”

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