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I didn’t ask anything about the last two weeks. I figured if he wanted to talk about it, he’d bring it up. Mainly, he wanted to hear what I’d been up to.
When I told him Tara and I had gone to California two days after he left for London and he asked why, I thought about telling him it was for no particular reason, but decided not to lie.
“We celebrated Quinn’s and my birthdays.”
He closed his eyes and groaned. “Good God, I forgot it.”
“You had a lot on your mind.”
He shifted me off of where I rested my head on his chest and turned so he was facing me. “We’ll celebrate now. Shall we go to dinner? Or is there something else you’d prefer?”
I giggled. “Staying right here, in this bed, with you is all I want or need. We could order takeaway too. Speaking of which, are you hungry?”
“Famished. As far as what I’d fancy, anything other than pasta would be great.”
We ordered burgers and, while we waited for delivery, took a bath together.
“Brand, I want you to know that if you want to or even can talk about the last two weeks, I’d be happy to listen. I also understand you may not want to.”
“There isn’t much to tell, to be honest. They keep me relatively sequestered while I build inventory. In the time I’ve been in Tropea, I’ve turned out almost twenty pieces.”
My eyes opened wide. “Do they let you sleep?”
“Only if I must. Fortunately, I ran out of originals and am now believed to be on a buying trip. Instead, I’m here while Typhon handles procurement.”
“Have you made any, um, progress?”
He chuckled. “No one suspects the painter. Which I suppose is why K19 and the coalition chose me.”
It wasn’t like Brand to be self-deprecating. I wasn’t sure how to address it, though. “What do you mean when you say no one suspects you?”
“Things are said in front of me the Sicilians think I’m too stupid to understand. Or they assume I don’t speak Italian. Don’t get me wrong, this is a good thing. I’ve confirmed my theory about their distribution channel. That they use one auction house but multiple brokers proves their own lack of intelligence.”
I shifted so I was facing him rather than resting against him. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“Don’t be, and I apologize for making you feel like you need to. It’s just that the amount of money these criminal enterprises bring in through illegal activity baffles me, especially given their complete lack of business acumen. Before, I’d do things my way to maximize profits. Now, I turn a blind eye.” He reached for me, turned my body, and pulled me into his arms so my back was to his front again. “We could arrange for the Calabrians to shut down the auction house. That alone would bring the Sicilians to their knees. However, we need more to make sure they’re out of the art-forgery business long enough for their rival to take over enough market share to keep them out for good.”
“Is the art side of it truly worth that much?”
“As you well know, prices for masterpieces, even by lesser-known painters, have skyrocketed. A Pollock sold for upwards of one hundred and fifty million. Take a Lee Krasner piece. The highest price fetched is a little over ten million. Forging it makes that money pure profit. Multiply that by the twenty paintings I’ve completed in two weeks and you get over two hundred million.”
“I never thought about it in those terms. Even if you produce five paintings a week, that equates to two and a half billion a year.”
Brand ran his fingertips down my arm, and I shuddered. “Granted, not all forgeries fetch ten mil. Some are less, and some are considerably more. Multiply the number of forgers you’re using, and those profits increase exponentially.”
“Do you know who produced the forgeries our gallery purchased?” I asked.
“I do not, and finding out is one of my objectives.”
“Do you think they’ll tell you?”
“What I think is that the artist will seek me out. I’m definitely cutting into his payday.”
I closed my eyes, glad Brand couldn’t see my face. Telling him I wished he didn’t have to return to Italy wouldn’t help. I’m sure he wanted this to be over more than I did. It was his life on the line—maybe from the artist whose payday was lessened—not mine.
“I love you, Brand,” I said instead.
He tightened his embrace. “I love you, Butterfly.”