Page 94 of Damián

“I hit him with a book.”

“Was he attacking you?”

“No… I was reminding him of his place.” I finish unbuttoning my shirt and walk toward the door. “Ready?”

“Yes.” Damián picks up the gym bag he arrived with and walks toward me. “But after, we need to talk.”

“We don’t.”

“Ollie…”

“I don’t care, Damián… the past is the past, and I’ll make sure we don’t ‘fuck-up’ again,” I say, and get out of the room before he can speak anything else.

We walk in silence down the grand staircase together, pass through a game room, an open living room, and go all the way to the back to the white outdoor table where my family, if you want to call them that, likes to have their breakfast.

Elijah sits at the head of the long table. To his right sits Serena, wearing a long yellow summer dress, and to his left is Rafael.

Great… Lucifer is here…

Rafael glares at us the second we walk out to the garden. He still has his black stitches on his eyebrow, and there’s purple around his eye.

“Morning, Father,” I say, pulling out a chair. “This is Damián Soto. Damián, my father Elijah.”

Damián shakes hands before taking a seat next to me. “A pleasure, Mr. West.”

“We will see about that,” Elijah says.

Damián takes a cup and fills it with coffee, completely unfazed by my father, and if I weren’t this hurt, I would actually feel pride.

“My wife tells me you are an art dealer, Mr. Soto.”

“I am.”

Elijah takes a large hunting knife and uses it to point toward a painting that hangs inside the house, right next to the garden’s French doors. “Tell me about that piece, then.”

I turn around and look at the painting my father is pointing at, an oil painting of red and black slashes… that also happens to be fake.

Oh shit… of course this is a trap.

Damián glances at the painting for exactly three seconds before looking back to Elijah. “I like it. It’s a late-stage Rothko,” he says.

My father’s eyebrows furrow in displeasure, his hand fists tighter around the knife’s handle.

“But that one is a knockoff,” Damián continues. “The brushstrokes lack the emotional weight he had, and the pigment layering is far too synthetic for the sixties. You bought it at Mercotz, I assume? Since they specialize in high-end forgeries for buyers who want to display the copy while keeping the real one safe.”

“Ha!…Very good.” Elijah nods, pleased. “I respect a man who knows his trade.”

“And I respect one who admits to it,” Damián says back, and everyone at the table goes silent…

Literally, everyone.

Elijah stares at Damián, and for a second, I think my father might pull a gun and shoot him in the face, but instead, my father laughs.

“You have some balls, Damián.”

“I have to,” he says, holding my hand… and fuck, it hurts. “How else would I’ve gained your son’s interest?”

Rafael slams his fork down onto his porcelain plate, making Serena jump.