Page 27 of Broken Pieces
The little I know about him, going out is not his scene at all. He’s all about business, making money, and ultimately, getting a rise out of me every chance he gets. He’s as introverted as they come, never seen out or with women.
Arriving at the gallery, the place is bustling with activity, which is strange considering we aren’t open to the public yet. After much back and forth, we decided to host an opening gala once we complete the gallery collection.We’re still missing one piece, but hopefully, we’ll be able to get one at the New York auction.
Taking the steps to the second floor, I walk to Isabella’s desk, finding it empty. There are lots of people—mostly men, dressed in all black—going in and out. Frowning in confusion, I knock on Damian’s office door.
I hear multiple male voices from that side of the door, angry whispers going back and forth.
“Come in,” Damian says from the other side of the door.
Entering, the first thing I notice are Damian's baggy eyes, messy hair, and his button-up shirt sleeves rolled up. He looks like a wreck, probably didn’t get a lick of sleep.
“You’re dismissed,” Damian says, pointing his fingers at two guys. One looks remarkably similar to Damian, just slightly shorter, and the other guy is blond, with deep blue eyes. They both nod and leave.
“What the hell is going on?”
“Someone broke into the gallery Friday night, right after I dropped you off.” He sighs, sitting down.
Taking a closer look at him, he’s wearing the same outfit from the night of the club.
My voice laces with concern. “Have you been here all weekend? Why didn’t you call me? I could have helped.”
He looks up, his face void of emotion. “With what, exactly? There was nothing for you to do. I have it under control.”
“Just go home. I got the rest.”
He shakes his head as he goes through a few documents. “No can do. I’m almost done here anyway. By the way, they stole the main piece.”
My blood runs cold at his words. We’ve carefully chosen every single item in the collection. We've been working on it diligently since I started. That painting is extremely important; it sets the theme for the rest of the gallery. This is the worst case scenario possible. All the work we’ve poured, going down the drain.
“We have the auction next month,” I point out.
He rubs his eyes, letting out a frustrating sigh. “That doesn’t work. Statement pieces are hard to come by. The auction doesn’t guarantee we’ll find any. We need connections, anything. I have a couple of people who owe me favors. I’ll see who I can call—”
I interrupt, “No. I got it. I’ll make some calls and see what I can do.”
He hesitates for a moment before nodding.
I try not to take it personally. After all, I know who I’m working with. He’s a control freak. It’s surprising we’ve gotten along this long. It stings a little, though, because I’ve done nothing but prove myself these past months. Day in and day out. Working weekends. All of it. So, yeah. Him looking this uncertain fucks with my head just a little and makes me slightly question the work I’ve done.
I do my best to muster a smile as I walk out of his office. Before leaving, I look back and say, “Please go home and get some rest.”
I don’t know why, but concern floods over my body, almost like instinct. Yeah, I’m pissed off they broke into the gallery and stole from us. I’m also a little pissed about him not calling me, asking for my help. But mostly? I’m concerned about him. I know how deeply he cares for this gallery. He has poured his heart and soul into this project of his.
Settling into my office, I fire off emails and make calls to a few connections I have made over the years, desperately seeking anyone willing to do business with us. I debate whether to call Alex. I know he has a couple of connections, but there’s just one little problem—I haven’t exactly told him I started working for Damian. Not like I owe him anything anyway, but he’s a close friend, and he made extremely clear his feelings toward the situation.
Biting my lip, I muster the courage and call him. Keeping my reasons for wanting to meet vague, we agree to meet at our usual spot—Lorenzo’s. I arrive about thirty minutes before him, trying to go over my notes and hoping for the best that he’ll be willing to help me. Alex arrives, walking toward our table, so I get up and receive him with a warm hug as always, then sit back down.
“You sounded worried over the phone, everything okay?” he asks, settling into his chair.
“Listen, I'll get straight to the point. Someone broke into the gallery Friday night and stole our main-themed piece. I’m in desperate need of a replacement, and we’re also missing another statement piece. We can’t wait until the auction. I need to speak to someone like… yesterday,” I stress.
“Someone stole from The Institute?” He tilts his head in confusion.
I sigh, contemplating my next step.
Might as well get this over with.
“No. They stole from The Romano Gallery.”
