Page 57 of Sexting My Bratva Boss
“You’ll never be alone now, Audrey,” he murmurs. “You’ll always have me, and our child. Always.”
Chapter 18
Konstantin
“This one.”
The curator nods stiffly, jotting something down in his notepad before glancing at Holly, my acquisitions specialist. Her eyes run over the oil painting before us—an abstract, massive, in blues and blacks and greens.
It has stirred something in me that I both long for and hate. It looks like… home. Like the pine forests I used to stare at from the living room window, where Mikhail and I slept on pads on the floor.
The curator thumbs a small red sticker next to the piece and a few guests murmur, surprised or envious. Holly and the man walk away into the depths of the gallery to discuss payment.
Taking a sip of champagne, my eyes scan the room for the artist. I’m curious about her, and how she managed to capture such an evocative memory that has been buried in my mind for decades.
Instead, my gaze locks on someoneelse.Someone very, very familiar.
Giuseppe Sartorre.
His gray hair is slicked back, heavy black glasses resting on an aquiline nose. He’s tall and slim aside from the pouch thatall Italian men seem to develop later in life, accentuated by the cashmere sweater tucked perfectly into his trousers.
A small group is being entertained by one of Giuseppe’s stories. He’s a charming man; we’ve met several times in life, almost always politely. Anythingimpolitebetween our factions takes place in back alleys, at night, in secret.
Giuseppe glances up and smiles when he sees me watching. His wave is so grandfatherly that I scowl, taking another sip of champagne.
With a word, the crowd around Giuseppe disperses. He strolls casually in my direction, hands in his pockets.
“Konstantin. I would say I’m surprised to see you here, but you’ve always been a man of good taste.”
“Giuseppe. Likewise. Though I didn’t strike you as a fan of abstract work.”
He shrugs, the cashmere sweater hiding his drooping shoulders. Giuseppe Sartorre, crime boss of the Italian mob, is aging. It’s beginning to get noticeable.
My eyes narrow.
“I’m not, really. You know, I prefer more realism. Those old paintings of a table laid with a feast—pheasants, grapes, a cat trying to steal from a saucer of milk.” He laughs, and it’s a pleasant sound. Maybe in another life a man like Giuseppe and I could’ve been friends. I’d pay a pretty penny to be able to sit down with him and talk about our experiences; the men we’ve killed with our bare hands, the insurgents we’ve had to stifle in our ranks, maybe even the days before we became killers.
“This is more of my son’s interest.”
He lifts his chin in the direction of the crowded gallery and it’s suddenly easier to pick out Davide Sartorre, a gorgeous woman on his arm who must be his wife, Giacomo Sartorre, and Rocco Sartorre.
Rocco, though, is noticeably drunk. And harassing one of the curator’s young assistants.
Annoyance flashes across Giuseppe’s features. He’s an old man now, but if I were Rocco I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of his father’s anger.
I also wouldn’t want to be in the running to become the next Don.
“Fia,” I comment drily, noticing the absence of his daughter, “she doesn’t enjoy art?”
He shrugs. “Fia is finishing up some…workfor me. In upstate New York.” Giuseppe catches the way my face goes flat, and laughs. “Don’t worry, Konstantin. We already know all about your warehouse up there; you have no competition from us. My family is from Sicily, we prefer warmer climates. North Carolina, Atlanta, Boca. No, Fia is just hunting down a runner. Getting what we’re owed.”
I relax, taking in the art once more as our conversation lapses into silence. My thoughts are with Audrey, who I didn’t dare bring to this event.
Yes, I made sure that she was very publicly declaredmine.
But now that she’s carrying my child, I don’t want to put her in unnecessary danger.
As if reading my mind, Giuseppe casually comments, “I heard you’re starting a family. Congratulations.”