Page 59 of The Bonventi War
The pain in his eyes is almost unbearable, but he nods. "Whatever you want, Ravenna. I just want you safe."
"Fine," I say, my voice cold. "I'll help. What do we need to do?"
He straightens up and almost smiles. "I'll come back this evening with everything we need. Canvases, paints, the works. You focus on researching which pieces will fetch the highest prices without raising too many eyebrows."
I nod, already mentally cataloging which artists would be easiest to replicate. "How long do we have?"
"Two weeks," he says grimly. "After that, all bets are off. But if we can give them a chunk of cash, I think they'll give us more time."
"Jesus," I mutter, scratching my head. "Okay. Get what we need. I'll start planning."
He pulls me into an awkward hug that I don't return, then hurries up the stairs, leaving me alone with the ghost of my mother and the crushing knowledge that I've just agreed to potentially destroy everything she built if we get caught.
My hands shake as I reach for the raven tattoo on my wrist. "I'm sorry, Mom," I whisper to the empty room. "I don't know what else to do."
27
RAVEN
My phone buzzes; it's Morgan responding to my text.
Don't worry about it. Focus on what you've got going on. We'll hit the gym next week. Here if you need anything. Hugs.
I blew her off. Not because I wanted to—no, I had to—because I've got two weeks to come up with a large chunk of money to buy us more time. I didn't dive too much into my dad's sudden return and kept mostly to myself for the rest of the day. She didn't pry. She's cool like that.
I set my phone down and go over my list. I've come up with about 25 small landscape paintings as possible contenders to get this terrible damn idea going. It won't get us to our end goal, but it should line our pockets with 1-2 million if what my dad says is true about the Russians supplying buyers.
And while I've only seen one or two mafia movies in my life, I feel like whoever they sell these paintings to doesn't really have a choice in buying them or not.
I hear a familiar grunt when the basement door flies open. My dad comes down carrying a large duffel.
The bag hits the floor with a heavy thud.
"I got some things to get us going," he says, pulling out tubes of paint, brushes, and canvases. "The good stuff."
He looks up at me. "Is that the list? Here, let me see it."
I hand him what I've got thus far. "It's just a start."
His eyes scan the page, and I can't help but notice how his hands tremble as he looks it over.
"These," he says, tapping the paper. "They're too ambitious. The brushwork is too distinctive, and the materials would be hard to age convincingly." He mock-crosses them off the list with his finger. "We should stick to lesser-known artists. Late nineteenth century. The authentication process isn't as rigorous."
I nod as he hands the paper back to me. "Whatever you think is best."
I pick up one of the canvases he's brought. The texture is wrong. "This won't work," I say, running my fingers over the surface. "The weave is too uniform. We need period-appropriate materials."
"Yes, you're right. Okay, I can get different ones."
"Maybe leave it to me. I've analyzed a lot in school, so I know the brands. We'll need to age them properly—UV exposure, careful application of tea stains, controlled craquelure, everything if this is to work. You can get those things."
He nods. "Okay, just tell me, and I'll take care of it."
I pick up a brush, testing its spring against my palm. "The timing is impossible. Two weeks isn't enough, so you better be sure they'll accept something to allow us to continue."
My dad rubs his face. "Yes, they will. If they see money, they'll be happy."
The basement door slams open, and I jump.
