Page 47 of Trailer Park Billionaire
“What’s the value?” he asks finally, his eyes still scanning the notebook.
Ben looks at me, waiting for a response.
“Priceless,” I say simply. “It should belong to a museum, to the public. A long-lost painting like this? For decades—centuries even—there were only rumors of it existing. The fact that it was found after all is just incredible. Stuff like this rarely ever happens. And then it gained even more public notoriety when my grandpa forged it. Plus, Artemisia is one of the most well-known women artists in history ever. It’s literally priceless.”
Ben interjects. “It’s privately owned. It could be sold. And it would fetch a price.”
I mean, yes. But also—it shouldn’t.
This painting is far too valuable to be sold and disappear into some rich asshole’s private collection. At least, for now, that rich asshole has it on loan to a museum.
“Look for someone who has actual knowledge of art. Not someone using it as an investment or a money laundering scheme.”
“And someone extremely wealthy,” Alex adds.
I rub my eyes, the pain stinging immediately. I am tired, and hungry, and… yeah, no, that’s it. I don’t have the emotional bandwidth today to feel more than that. “This wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t be smart,” I say and rub my eyes, while Alex quietly hums in agreement. “First of all, security would—hopefully—be increased for the exhibition, making it harder to get the painting.”
“Harder but not impossible,” Ben comments.
“Right, but it’s a moot point anyway since I wouldn’t be able to produce a forgery this big, that quickly. And without a forgery there would be a massive hunt for a painting that already has a lot of attention on it.”
“You wouldn’t have to create a new forgery,” Ben says, more sure of himself now. “We already have one.”
Of course.
He’s talking about my grandpa’s forgery.
“It’s already nearly indistinguishable. You’d just have to fix it up and finish it. And then there’s the forgery for our other painting, for our other job. But that one’s a lot smaller.”
I drum my fingers against the table, watching Ben watch me. He’s not entirely wrong. It could be done. The question is: should it be done?
This feels a bit like fate.
Or, you know, complete and utter folly. A cosmic joke dressed in oil paint. Me standing in the footprints of the man I love most in this world, committing almost the exact same crime that tore us apart for years. Alexei mumbles something about‘Bad Omens’to himself, and I’m inclined to agree.
Then again, how else am I going to get the money?
How else am I going to prevent more bad stuff from happening to me if I can’t pay the debt?
This is what it ultimately comes down to: money.
Everything is always about money.
The fact that I’d be directly responsible for the fucking St. Clairs losing maybe their most coveted work of art is just karma. I’ll be able to pay one criminal with the money from another.
So if this is what I have to do, then so be it.
“What amount should we ask for?” Alex inquires again.
“Twenty…” I sigh. “Twenty-five million.”
His head jerks up from the notebook, his eyes wide. “That would be our biggest score by a long shot.”
“The highest amount ever fetched for a painting by Artemisia was a little over five million,” I go into detail. “This was years ago, and unless we’re in a significant economic crisis, prices don’t drop. Add inflation, the fact that this painting has one of the most compelling and astonishing backstories since the Mona Lisa, the growing recognition and appreciation for women artists—her being practically the original one—and the work going on a literal world tour… then twenty-five million is a reasonable asking price on the black market. With a bit of luck, it could go for double that at an auction. With a lot of luck, ten times that. Who knows these days.”
And with the right amount of luck, my grandpa would have never gone to prison if it weren’t for this painting. In a way, it would be poetic justice to finish what he (unwillingly) started.
For a second, Ben touches my hand that’s resting on the table and sends shivers down my spine. “What do you need to create the forgery?”
