Page 63 of Chandelier Sin
Roper motioned toward the exit. “Let’s walk.”
I felt a jolt of uncertainty.
I could refuse. Walk away. Head back to my car, but would I make it?
More importantly, would he return to harm Eve?
I turned my back on her, not wanting to see the fear in her eyes for what might happen to me.
I followed Aemon out to the lawn. As we strolled over the crisp, green grass, I felt Eve staring at my back from the cottage door.
I kept walking, even though I wanted to turn and see her one more time.
Aemon calmly gave me the side eye, assessing me with the focus of a man who held all the power.
When we reached the back door to the main house, he said, “How much are your services?”
“On the house.”
“You’ve done this before?”
He meant house calls under suspicious circumstances.
“I help when I can.” That seemed a reasonable response.
Stepping inside the manor, I was hit by the chill of airconditioning. Aemon led me along a hallway, and I memorized each step, the direction of each turn.
He motioned for me to go on ahead.
As I entered his office, the hairs on my nape prickled. Above the fireplace hung a familiar painting by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, showcasing the stark depiction of Schicchi biting into Capocchio’s throat.
Super welcoming,for fuck’s sake.
Dante and Virgil watched in horror as a man was brutally attacked. They were both wearing the same expression I wore right now.
I’d seen the original at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris.
Last year, I’d traveled to Europe with Greyson. He’d dragged me from one gallery to another. This painting stood out as unforgettably provocative and terrifying.
I guessed that’s why Roper owned it.
It had to be a reproduction. If he’d gone out of his way to own the original, it would reveal so much more about his reach.
Roper’s office was dominated by a large, highly polished desk. He’d be able to see his baldness on the shiny surface, be reminded of his own mortality.
Atop it sat a stash of well-organized documents, as well as a desktop computer. A roomy leather chair was where he sat giving orders for others to do nasty things to people.
To the left of the desk stood a large bookcase. The spines of the collection showed titles pertaining to tech, money, and politics. There were a few novels you’d expect a warlord to own, like that book by Ayn Rand, for one.
The certificate on the wall gladly gave up this man’s identity.
And there was the man, standing in front of me. Fate had a sick sense of humor.
My eyes were once again drawn to that painting…
“You recognize Bouguereau?” He studied my face.
“A disturbing masterpiece.”
