Page 94 of Chaotic Curse
I head back inside, through a mudroom and into the kitchen.The kind of kitchen you see in magazines—marble counters, gleaming stainless appliances, not a single crumb or glass out of place.He probably has a housekeeper cleaning after his lazy ass.I pause, listening.
The shuffle again, overhead.
Upstairs, then.
I move through the living room, past a grand staircase.Every step on the carpeted stairs is deliberate, my weight balanced so the wood underneath doesn’t even think about creaking.
Halfway up, I hear it.
A faint exhale, the creak of leather.
At the top, the hall is dim.One door halfway down is open, light spilling into the corridor.I inch closer.
Until I peer in.
And my neck goes cold.
Hernando Reyes.
He’s wearing a silk bathrobe, navy with gold trim.He holds a big cigar in one hand, smoke curling toward the ceiling.He’s sitting in a wingback armchair, legs sprawled.
It’s not the master bedroom.This is a guest room, but he’s turned it into a smoking lounge.A humidor sits in the corner, a crystal decanter on a side table.
And on the wall?—
I freeze.
The painting is small, but I’d know it anywhere.Juno’s work.
The brushstrokes, the way she plays with shadow and mimics movement, the muted palette that still somehow vibrates with color.
My jaw tightens.
How much of Juno’s art has been financed by whatever filth Reyes deals in?How much blood money has touched her canvas without her knowing?I glance back to the chair.He’s puffing away, oblivious to me standing in his doorway.
The Sound of Saturnhangs in my home.
Maybe it shouldn’t.
As much as I love it, I can’t look at it the same way now.Maybe I’ll donate it to a local museum.
I slip into the room, soundless.
He doesn’t see me until I’m behind him.
I snake my arm around his throat and shove his head forward with my other hand, dragging him out of the chair.The cigar falls, scattering ash onto a Turkish rug.
“What the—” He’s choking, flailing.
I slam him to the floor, plant a knee into his ribs, and catch his wrist before he can throw an elbow.
“Reyes,” I say, voice low but sharp enough to cut.“We’re going to talk.”
He grunts under my weight, thrashing.“Who the fuck are you?”
“The guy asking the questions.”
He tries to twist free.I shift, pinning him harder.“You’ve been sending Daniela gifts.Notes.Why?”
