Page 31 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)
CHAPTER 28
GAbrIEL
“Is Nero going to be there?” Yvonne chirps happily.
“I don’t ever want to hear that name coming out of your mouth again,” I snap. “I mean it, Yvonne. The man is a grade-A asshole and I should never have gotten involved with him in the first place.”
Yvonne goes quiet. “Oh,” she says at last, as though she’s finally understood something. And I hate that she sounds like that. Then she nudges me in the side. “So is that why you invited me?”
“I’m not trying to save face, if that’s what you’re implying?—”
“Oh my God,” she says. “Can you relax with the drama? I meant that you had invited me as moral support, that’s all. If you don’t want to talk about Jerk-face, let’s talk about something else. Have you seen any of these Beaumont paintings before?”
“No,” I tell her shortly. We’ve just parked the GreenSpace van a block down, and we’re walking back to the hippest gallery in West Hollywood, where Miller Beaumont’s first exhibition—and opening night—is being held. “Look, I’m sorry I’m being such a jerk to you. I’m pissed at myself more than anything. I knew the guy was an asshole and I still got involved. And then I’m surprised when he acts like an asshole! But that’s on me, not you. Not even him, I guess.”
“Let’s hate him,” she says comfortingly, and snuggles into my arm. “Let’s drink lots of free champagne and pretend we have millions of dollars and we need to decorate our brand-new living room and absolutely not think about that asshole at all.”
I grin. One of the reasons I asked Yvonne to come with me tonight was exactly as she suggested—for moral support. I’d already RSVPed yes to the exhibition, and I like Jack and Miller a lot. Jack isn’t so caught up in excess as the rest of the Castellanis, and his Pinto makes me smile every time I see it, so I don’t want to let them down. But I sure didn’t want to rock up alone and face down the stony eyes of Nero Andretti, especially not if there was a chance he’d be flirting with one of the waiters or something.
Asshole .
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell Yvonne sincerely, and she squeezes my arm.
The gallery is painfully trendy and packed with people, so at least Nero isn’t immediately in my eyesight as soon as I step in. In fact, there are plenty of friendly faces. Teddy MacCallum is the first person to greet me with a warm smile and a chilled glass of champagne for both Yvonne and me. “Isn’t it exciting?” he gushes. “Miller is terribly nervous, but I don’t think he needs to be. He’s very talented.”
“I’m looking forward to viewing them,” Yvonne says, and smiles back at him. It’s impossible not to like Teddy. He has such an angelic aura about him, and a face that should probably be up on the walls along with the paintings here. “I’m Yvonne,” she says quickly, as she accepts the glass of champagne. “I’m Gabriel’s friend.”
“Teddy,” he replies. “I’m so glad you came; we want as many people as possible so Miller feels supported.”
Sandro Castellani strolls up, more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, and slings an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders. He smiles at Yvonne, lifting his own glass of champagne in a salute to her and to me, and I rush to introduce her. I’m relieved that Yvonne makes no reaction to his scar. “Oh, it’s so good to meet you,” Yvonne gushes. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
A slightly ironic expression crosses Sandro’s face. “Have you?”
“All good things,” Yvonne hurries to assure him. But I really wish she hadn’t given the impression that I’m loose-lipped about my employers.
“Yvonne runs GreenSpace, the garden center where I volunteer,” I say, before Yvonne can dig me into an even deeper hole.
Sandro is soon called away to greet other people, and we wander around, checking out the paintings. There’s a diverse range of styles, but the contrast just makes it even more interesting. In one section there are bold, energetic splashes of paint in surprising colors. In another, simple pen-on-paper drawings of urban scenes capture personalities and whole stories in just a few perfectly-placed lines.
But the most impressive piece, and the one viewers are gathering around, is a portrait positioned in subtle lighting at the far end of the gallery. It shows a man slumped in an armchair, fedora pulled low over his face so that his features are shadowed, except for a single gleam of pale blue in the darkest part of the shadow. It creates the very unsettling impression that the subject is watching the viewer. The technique is amazing—the identity of the subject is both concealed and revealed in that single point of light.
It’s Johnny Jacopo. Anyone who didn’t know the man wouldn’t pick up on it, but to the Castellanis milling around, and the members of Redwood staff, it’s obvious.
“Miller is really good,” I say, as we finally move away.
“You sound surprised,” Yvonne snorts. “Of course he’s good. This gallery doesn’t just show anyone, you know.”
“I just…” I just let Nero’s snarky little suggestion about Jack buying Miller a reputation get into my head. That man is a menace , and I need to forget him completely. “Let’s go congratulate Miller,” I say firmly.
Miller proves difficult to find, but I finally catch sight of Jack and head over. Jack is trying to talk Miller off of a metaphorical ledge, I think, because Miller has squashed himself into the darkest corner available in the gallery, and Jack is standing protectively over him, hiding him from view.
“Is everything alright?” I ask tactfully. “Could you do with a drink?”
“Yes,” Miller says, at the same time that Jack says firmly, “No.”
Jack adds with a grin, “He really doesn’t need any more.”
“Your work is amazing ,” Yvonne gushes.
Miller looks up from his seat, his pale face brightening. “Thank you so much,” he says, standing quickly. “Are you with one of the local papers?”
“Yvonne’s a friend of mine,” I tell him gently. His face falls again.
“You need to calm down,” Jack murmurs, almost too soft for me to hear.
“I’m so sorry,” Miller says ruefully to Yvonne. “Can we start again? I’m Miller. It’s really great to meet you.”
Yvonne is not the kind of woman to easily take offense. On the contrary, she’s grinning at him, and takes the hand that he extends. “Yvonne. It’s wonderful to meet you. And I might not be some fancy art critic, but I really did mean it. I think your work is fantastic.”
Miller’s smile is genuine. “Thank you so much,” he tells her sincerely. “I’m sorry for being so weird. It means a lot to know that people like it. I’m just on edge tonight?—”
He breaks off as Jack gives him a warning look, and I wonder exactly what is going on, because it seems like more than opening night nerves.
“I’m so nervous I’m seeing things,” he says with an awkward laugh. “JJ, you were right, I definitely don’t need any more alcohol. Could you get me a water?”
“I will,” Jack says, “but then you have to promise to come and mingle. I don’t like these critics any more than you do, but at some point you’re going to have to face the music.”
Miller pulls a face, but he nods.
“Actually,” Yvonne says, “I could do with another drink. What?” she asks at my face. “Like I’m gonna turn down free champagne!” She swans off after Jack with a grin.
“Oh, God,” Miller sighs, as a strikingly attractive young man waves at him enthusiastically from across the room. “This is Nate,” he tells me as the guy bounces over, leaving his partner behind. The partner I recognize—Freddy Lazzaro. I’ve seen him coming and going from Redwood Manor.
“Millie, I can’t believe how amazing this all is!” Nate shrieks, and Miller winces as Nate throws himself at him, hands arms around his neck. “Freddy is going to have a look around, but I already told him we need to buy at least three pieces.”
Miller looks relieved to see Darian and Raffi as they approach him now, and I wonder if it’s because he feels they’ll take the attention off of him.
Because there really is something wrong with Miller, I’m sure of it. And it goes beyond the concerns of this show succeeding. He’s not just nervous. He’s jumpy . But I don’t know him well enough to ask him what’s wrong.
“You’re exceptionally talented, Mr. Beaumont,” Darian says politely.
“Come on, Darian,” Miller says with a smile that seems calmer now. “I keep telling you, it’s Miller—and nice threads, by the way.”
Darian dimples with pleasure as he looks down at his suit, a perfectly tailored navy three-piece with subtle copper pinstripes that catches the light when he moves. He’s paired it with a crisp cream shirt and an amber pocket square that brings out the gold tones in his eyes. “Thank you,” he says. “I wanted to look my best for your big night.
Raffi DeLuca, who has just nodded across the gallery at Max Pedretti and the man with him, offers his hand to Miller with a wide grin. “Congrats,” he says. “You nervous? Lots of people here. Even Bricker Soldano came—and his mom, too, I hear.”
“And I believe we will see more than one of your works adorning Redwood Manor soon,” Darian breaks in. “Mr. Castellani is eager to buy several.”
“ Julian’s here?” Miller, who had been looking happier before the mention of that name, immediately sits down again on his chair in the shadows. “Great.”
“I’ll find Jack,” I say hurriedly, and back away. But as I make my way through the crowd, I see Jack is already heading back toward Miller. I hope Miller will be alright. I don’t know him that well, or Jack, but they do fill me with that indefinable sense of being “my people” among the Castellanis. Since Yvonne looks happily ensconced at the bar, I decide to do what I actually came here for, and look at the paintings.
I only saw a handful when Yvonne and I first walked around, but I was genuinely impressed by the skill on display. Now, though, as I take my time with each painting, I find myself drawn into the world Miller Beaumont has created through these canvasses. There is fear, violence, loss…but also such incredible beauty. And hope . A fierce sense of hope runs through the work.
I’m taking a step backward when I bump into someone and turn quickly to apologize, only to struggle to hide a grimace.
“Ms. Rochford, I’m so sorry.”
“Gavin, isn’t it?” She looks me head to toe. “I didn’t recognize you without the dirt.”
“It’s Gabriel,” I sigh, though I know I might as well not bother, and try to change the subject. “What do you think of the work?”
She gives a little giggle. “What do I think of the work? You almost sound like you know something about art. I think it’s transcendent. Miller is an old friend of mine, you know. I’m thinking of asking him to paint my portrait once I’m…” She breaks off with a sly smile. “Well. Once I’m married.”
“I’m sure he’d do a wonderful job,” I tell her, at a loss for what else to say. “Is your fiancé here?”
She throws back her hair and laughs. “Oh, Gino doesn’t know art. He’s told me to buy anything I want, though. I’ve been picking out a few pieces.”
“They’re not for sale,” says a cold voice to my right. Miller Beaumont himself has arrived. “Not to you, anyway, Roxy.”
I bite my lip to keep from grinning. But Roxanne Rochford is completely undeterred, greeting Miller with air kisses and squeals of admiration. I move away, skirting one of her two bodyguards, and retreat to where Yvonne seems to be slowing down on the drinks. “I should stop,” she grumbles. “Since we need to get back to work later.”
“Great idea. What say we head out?”
“I’ll just finish this one first,” she says, waving a half-full glass at me. “Give me two minutes.”
“Good to know you’re pacing yourself. I need the bathroom.”
“I don’t blame you,” she says, looking around the room. “All this money makes me want to vomit, too.”
“Two minutes,” I warn her as I head off. The truth is, I just want a second alone. There are a lot of people crowding into this room, and bodyguards suddenly seem to outnumber the guests. I see the reason why on my way to the bathroom—Anna-Vittoria Esposito has arrived. But unlike Roxy, she really does seem to appreciate the art, taking her time to read the plaque with each piece, and talking with the gallery owner, then Miller too, as Jack steers him firmly into the conversation.
There’s a lot of power in the room tonight, it occurs to me as I splash water on my face in the bathroom sink. A sense of familiarity settles over me. When I was a kid, I used to get dragged to all kinds of cultural events in Boston, and they felt exactly like this—excuses for shady people to do some quiet deals.
I hope Miller doesn’t end up feeling like his art show is just an excuse. He really is very good. I’m determined to reiterate that to him, but on my way back to find him, I freeze behind a partition as I hear a familiar voice.
“…should remember, Bellissima , that money can buy art, but it can’t buy taste.”
“How dare you?—”
“How dare I? Here’s some further free advice. When people are responsible for your personal care, it is not wise to treat them with disdain. That goes for chefs, hairstylists, bodyguards—and the people responsible for making sure your wedding goes off without a hitch. It might amuse you to humiliate staff at Redwood Manor, but you put your life in their hands every time you attend the estate. So listen very carefully,” the voice says in a hiss so low I have to strain to hear it. “If I hear you calling him ‘Gavin’ again, you and I will have a problem—the kind that your weak husband and faltering Family will not be able to save you from.”
I’m still standing there, shocked, when the asshole owner of that voice comes around the corner of the partition and stops dead at the side of me.
“Listening to private conversations is a bad idea, given the company,” Neo says at last, but his voice is mild.
I have no idea what to say. “I wasn’t listening on purpose,” I manage to get out at last.
“Are you enjoying the exhibition?”
I want to laugh. He’s acting as though he didn’t brush me off this morning. I’m so tired of his games. I lean in, forcing him to lean forward as well to hear my murmuring. “You told me yourself, we’re not friends and we’re not lovers. So I’ll be damned if I stand here and make small talk with you as though being polite is something you know anything about.”
He studies me, and I swear a look of regret crosses his face. He takes a breath to speak, but before he can, more whispers make their way through the partition to our ears.
“…can’t be sure,” Jack is saying. Miller mutters something that I can’t hear, and Jack goes on, “Sweetheart, there’s no way you saw Annie. She’s gone.”
My heart squeezes painfully as I realize who they must be talking about: Miller’s sister, Ana?s Beaumont, who was a famous actor—and Roxy’s friend, I remember now.
But Ana?s Beaumont is dead.
“Is she really gone, though?” Miller asks darkly, and I catch my breath. He can’t really think he’s seen his sister’s ghost , can he? Is that what’s been bugging him all night?
Nero is still regarding me, a faint crease between his brows as he puzzles through our eavesdropping as much as I am. At least he’s stopped trying to bullshit me. I take my opportunity, push past him, and head as quickly as I can back to Yvonne.
It’s time to get out of here.