Page 29 of The Bonventi War
As I reach him, I fall to my knees, my hands hovering over his battered form, afraid to touch him and cause more pain. "Oh God. What happened to you?"
"Ravenna." His voice comes out as a croak. When he tries to smile, fresh blood wells from his split lip. "Thank God you're alive."
I reach for him, but he winces away from my touch. "Alive? Why wouldn't I be?" The question comes out sharp, panic rising. "What's going on?"
He doesn't respond, just reaches out a trembling hand to touch my face as his good eye darts to Gio, then back to me. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I never wanted you involved in any of—" He breaks into a coughing fit, his whole body shaking.
"Involved in what?" I demand, my voice cracking. "What the hell is going on? Why did Johnny try to kill that senator? Where have you been?" The questions pour out of me, each one more desperate than the last. "And why are you beaten half to death in this damn warehouse?"
"Tell her, Frank," Gio says as I stand. "Now's the time."
"Dad, what are you not telling me?"
There's a slight pause, and then my dad takes a deep breath.
"It started with a breakthrough," my father says, his voice trembling. He wipes blood from his chin. "A chemical compound I developed for art restoration. It was, God, it was remarkable."
"A compound?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "It stripped away everything," he continues, wincing as he shifts in the chair. "Down to the original brushstrokes, every single time. No damage, no residue. Perfect restoration."
He coughs again and spits blood onto the floor.
"Oh, Ravenna, you would have thought it was amazing. You'd apply it and watch as centuries of grime just melted away from old masterpieces, revealing colors so vibrant they looked wet. It was—" He stops. "I thought it would change everything."
"Okay, this sounds great, Dad," I say. "So…"
"We tested it. We tested it, Ravenna. Fifty paintings. Every time it was perfect. Then a few weeks later, this Russian collector came to the gallery." Dad stops and looks around at the other men before turning back to me. "Wealthy. Connected. When he saw what the compound could do, he brought in collections worth multi-millions. Some works I didn't even know existed."
"Once we finished his collection, the Russian, he brought more," my father continues. "And his friends. We should have stopped, maybe questioned how good this compound was, but..." He looks away, shame etched into every line of his battered face. "The money was too much to turn down."
He coughs again, a wet, rattling sound that makes me wince. "It was good, Ravenna. It seemed perfect, but we didn't realize..." He trails off, his good eye filled with sorrow and regret.
"Dad, what are you saying?"
"The compound. It had a delayed reaction. Two to six months, depending on conditions. And then," he swallows hard, "it ate through the canvas. Destroyed the paintings. Completely."
"What?" My voice comes out louder than I intended.
"We found out because they came to us," my father continues.
The warehouse seems to close in around me, the air growing thick and heavy. My hands start to shake, and I rub the raven tattoo on my wrist.
"At first, we thought they were joking or wrong," my father continues, his voice full of hesitation. "But they showed us many of the paintings we did, all ruined. Millions and millions of dollars," my father says and winces in pain as he shifts again. "And they wanted their money."
"They?" I ask, though something in my gut already knows the answer.
"The Russian Mafia," Gio answers, his voice cutting through the space between us like a blade.
My father nods. "They gave us an ultimatum since we couldn't pay. Do a job. Kill some political guy, Marco Bonventi, or we would die, but first they would find you in Florence, bring you back, and kill you in front of us."
The world tilts on its axis, and I have to grab Gio's arm to keep myself from falling. My stomach churns, and bile rises in my throat. My brother's attempt on Marco's life, my father's disappearance—it all starts to make a horrifying kind of sense.
"So your brother was forced," my father continues, tears in his eyes, "and when news broke that Marco survived"—he gestures to his beaten face—"they came for me."
I feel tears start to stream down my face, and I wipe them away with trembling hands.
"Tell her the last part, Frank," Gio commands.
