Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(20)
“My father will come for me,” I repeat. “He loves me. He will find a way to pay his debt and collect me.”
Neither of us are convinced, but Nikolai’s silence allows the subject to stay dead for now. Resolving to move on from our sparring and focus on the future, I meet his eyes.
“I would like to make a phone call to the director of my company.”
“The doctor believes it in your best interest to see a therapist,” he replies. “She also recommended a nutritionist.”
And we are back to this again.
“I don’t need those things. The company has a nutritionist I can speak to if I want. And therapy is a waste of time.”
Nikolai shrugs, stubbing out his cigarette before he rises to his full height of well over six feet. “Dr. Shtein tells me that you would like to be free of this bed. Of this tube. Perhaps, she was mistaken?”
It isn’t fair, this game he’s playing. But when has life ever been fair? “Of course, I do.”
“Then prove to me you are trying,” Nikolai says. “And I will consider it.”
“Kolyan.”
Mischa’s voice diverts my attention from the monitor on my desk. He’s propped against the doorframe wearing a wolfish grin. I’m not certain how long he’s been there observing my distractions, but it’s obvious he has.
In the Vory brotherhood, Mischa is a bratok. A soldier. But he is also a close friend, and after ten years by my side, I have little chance of being rid of him.
“What is it?” I grunt.
He gestures to the screen in front of me. “What are you looking at?”
I press the button on the monitor and watch it fade to black. “Nothing.”
Mischa laughs. He knows it was not nothing. It is the girl. For two weeks, I have scrutinized her therapy sessions, watching the way she peels back a layer at a time, revealing herself like a lotus flower. The temptation to know her secrets was too much to resist, but lately, I have decided her thoughts are better left to the professionals, and my screen is better left on mute.
Mischa makes himself comfortable in the empty seat across my desk, volunteering his own theory. “Porn. It must be, considering the girls at Kosmos tell me they haven’t seen you in nearly a month. Surely, your hand must be getting tired.”
“The selection at Kosmos has gone downhill,” I lie.
In truth, the girls are all very pretty. How much better can it get than a Russian owned space themed strip club? But lately, I have found my time better spent at home. A statement I don’t want to analyze too closely.
“A pussy is a pussy.” Mischa shrugs. “What difference does it make? Take your pick and enjoy. Though if you want a bit of advice, stay away from the redheads. They bite.”
A drawn-out sigh sags from my chest. “What do you want, Misch?”
“You mean besides the pleasantness of your company?” He chuckles. “I came to give you a heads-up.”
“About?”
“Mr. Buchanan’s expert will be here shortly to inspect the painting.”
I lean back in the chair and snort. Nine times out of ten, these so-called experts the clients send are scarcely more knowledgeable of art than a museum guide on his best day.
“No need to warn me. The piece is ready, and I have little doubt it will live up to his scrutiny.”
“I never doubted his satisfaction,” Mischa replies. “But my warning is only that Sergei will be escorting him today.”
“I see.”
My throat itches for a drink. The least appealing of all the items on my agenda is dealing with my father. It will be the first genuine conversation we’ve had since I cut his ear off and surpassed him in rank. Tensions will undoubtedly be high.
I have a hankering to suggest we crack into a fifty-year-old scotch when Nonna enters and alerts us to the visitors. Hardly a heads-up, I glare at Mischa, and he shrugs.
“I came as soon as I knew.”
“Offer them a drink, Nonna. In ten minutes, see them up to the vault. I’ll be ready then.”
She nods and leaves the room.
“Find a way to entertain yourself until I’m done,” I instruct Mischa. “But stay out of my shit.”
He smirks, and I leave him to his own amusements as I trudge up the stairs to the vault. It’s the most secure area of my home, and it takes no less than five minutes to navigate the security measures. Logic dictates that these operations are not to be carried out in the presence of even my most trusted men. In my world, you never know who may turn on you.
For all the trouble, the vault is considerably cozy inside. The steel reinforced concrete walls utilize the majority of the space, while the remains are left to the madness that infects my mind.
On any given day, the room may house a genuine artifact worth more than the average lifetime salary. Some of the items are authentic—either stolen or recovered artwork—but in instances like today, there is a forgery waiting inside.
For this occasion, the solicited work is Five Dancing Women by Edgar Degas. If I were a man who believed in serendipity, I might have given a second thought to the timing of the request. It was just after my most difficult acquisition to date.
One dancing Tanaka Valentini.
Even in the criminal underworld, there is a place for beautiful art. In most syndicates, it’s negotiated for value, not beauty. It isn’t uncommon to see priceless paintings used as collateral for drugs or weapons. As such, the works are often damaged as they are passed around and left to suffer at the hands of those with no true appreciation. Art collectors would be horrified if they knew what really became of some long-lost treasures.