Page 47 of City Of Thieves
“I suppose abstract expressionismisyour area of expertise,” he muses, pausing by a set of double doors. “Here we are. Give me a moment to satisfy the security requirements, and then we can talk more inside.”
Stepping back to allow him access to an intimidating line of keycode devices, I collide with the brick wall that’s standing behind me.
“Hidden talents,dolcezza?” I hear him murmur, feeling his hand on my hip, his fingers clenching. “I knew you spoke Russian, but I didn’t know you were fluent.”
“Did you evenreadyour portfolio on me or was it just coffee table decoration?”
“I know all about your grandfather, if that’s what you’re referring to,” he says with a low growl. “Andrei Petrov headed up the most fearedBratva in Moscow, while masquerading as a billionaire shipping magnate and a good friend of the Colombian cartel kingpin, Dante Santiago. That’s until your crazy uncle put a bullet in his head.”
“Then you’ll know it happened long before I was born,” I hiss back. “I never knew him, and neither did my mother. She’s lived in America all her life, and so have I.”
“Even so, your ties to Russia grow stronger by the day…”
I stare at the closed door, ignoring the threat. “The only thing I inherited from my grandfather was a love of art, Renzo. My mother, too.”
“And, in time, your daughter, no doubt.”
I pause. “Now that you know about her, are you going to use her as a weapon against me?”
A beat later, I’m being spun around with force. “That’snothow I fucking operate.” He looks furious at the insinuation. “You entrusted me with your pain—”
“So why aren’t you sharing yours with me?”
We glare at each other before there’s a discreet cough behind us.
“Excuse me, Tatiana…? We’re ready for you.”
Wrenching my arm free, I force a smile for Ivan. “Mr. Marchesi and I were just, ah, discussing pre-twentieth century art in Russia,” I lie, plucking a topic from thin air. “As you might have gathered, our opinions differ.”
To my surprise, Ivan’s face lights up. “Then you know that a huge number of artifacts were looted from the country by the Nazis during the Second World War.”
“Of course,” I say, puzzled by his reaction. “It’s one of the most shocking art thefts in history.”
“Many valuable pieces are still missing from that period, as are many that were stolen across Europe.” He grimaces, as if personally affronted by the tragedy. “As well as my work here atWeatherby’s, I’m part of a private organization that reunites these works with the rightful families. Your mother established the trust five years ago…” He trails off when he sees my face, realizing his mistake.
Renzo’s been unusually silent during our exchange, but his aura of danger is still hovering over me like a shadow.
Opening the doors, Ivan moves aside to let us enter first. It’s like stepping into a windowless white cube. Everything is the same color, from the ceiling to the walls and the floor. There’s no other furniture apart from a large easel in the center displaying the ‘Atonement’, with two grim-faced security guys standing guard either side of it.
Keeping a discreet distance, Ivan hovers by the far wall as I cross the room, reaching the painting in a couple of strides—lured in by the chaotic canvas, like a sailor drawn in by a siren. It’s one of the most beautiful pieces I’ve seen in a while: a six by four-foot masterpiece of thought and improvisation with huge gestural strokes in tones of red and blue.
This painting is a key, I think wildly, raking my gaze over it. To me, it has the propensity to unlock happiness. To Renzo, it’s a chance to unlock the truth.
“What are you looking for?” He moves up beside me as I tilt my head to study every aspect of the canvas.
“Inconsistencies… I assume your experts used black light?” I say to Ivan.
“Naturally. All the artist’s original outlines were present underneath the paint. Nothing has been repaired or modified.”
“Most paintings have five layers,” I explain to Renzo. “UV or black light exposes a forgery’s weaknesses. The ones not seen by the naked eye.”
“You’re good,” he murmurs, sounding impressed.
“That’s why you hired me, I meanblackmailedme,” I correct, under my breath.
Ivan hands me a small flashlight and then retreats to the far wall again. I move in even closer to inspect every inch of the painting for a second time. It’s fierce and flawed, like the man standing next to me. I can feel myself tumbling into the violent, ocean-like brushstrokes, the same way I fell into his arms last night.The same way I fell into my father’s painting on the wall of his office on my eighteenth birthday, when Konstantin held my innocence for ransom and then took his fill of it anyway.
The next half an hour is an oasis of calm before the gathering maelstrom as I carefully consult the condition report and conduct my own assessment, aware, yet again, of Renzo’s gaze on me constantly.
