Today must be the day of bastards because this is the second one I am seeing in thirty minutes. At least Jei is a likeable bastard with something to offer, can’t say the same for that asshole over there. Vincent smirks, his hand goes up in mock salute and Jei returns the greeting by tipping his head. I scoff, the idiot is teasing me. Tugging on my tie to the point of suffocating myself, my gaze wanders in his direction, to the back of his head. Though his eyes are glued to his phone, I am certain he is also watching me.
Of all the people I had to see today, God chose him. Thank you, Jesus. Doing great work since the day of the separation. I shove that painful reminder somewhere dark, squeeze my knee until images from last night flood my mind. The memories have the desired results, the tension dissolves, I cast Jei a glance. Would it be a good decision to get the card on his behalf? As a sign of goodwill. My focus returns to Vincent, the lights dim but I can still recognise the outline of his head. I can identify him anywhere.
The man who tried to ruin me. Good thing Danielle was out of the office before Project El came into fruition, the bastard might have stolen the idea and claimed it as his. If he had done that, it wouldn’t be his first time. He was always taking and taking anything related to the Stark, seeking projects I showed interest in. To him, it was a game, as long as Brandon couldn’t have it, then it was fine. At this point, I can’t tell if his actions are personal attacks against me or the family as a whole and I don’t care.
Bright lights flood the podium, the spotlight follows a chubby man donned in black suit smiling behind the stand. People begin trickling in, mostly men dressed in nice-looking, expensive suits like me. Jei taps hurriedly on his phone, keeping it away when the MC clears his throat. The MC introduces himself, I lose interest in him as soon as he speaks. A cart is wheeled out. On it is an oil painting that must be at least a decade old. It is laid down on the table, the spotlight centres on it and a few people pick their paddles.
Jei doesn’t bat an eye, neither does he look at his paddle, he’s here for the card alone. I don’t spare mine a glance either until I see Vincent’s paddle in the air. They haven’t started bidding and the thief is already waving his paddle. My palm closes around the wooden part of the paddle, I squint at the numbers on it. The numbers glow in the dark so the MC and anyone within a mile radius can see it. It’s not a price tag, just random digits, all I have to do is raise the paddle to signify a higher amount than the current bidder.
“Salvator Mundi,” the MC starts. I believe he called himself Jackson, yes, Jackson Decco. Jackson points to the painting and smiles. “The painting of Jesus Christ by Leonardo Da Vinci. It is believed to be 500...”
I tune him out, I have more important tasks at hand. A revenge to serve cold. Vincent’s paddle sits on his laps, I watch it like my life depends on it, drumming my fingers on my leg to keep bad thoughts away.
“Going for £50,000,” Jackson says to the small crowd of men.
A murmur rips through the dark hall, I fold my arms and lean back to observe the bobbing heads when nobody makes a move. Vincent waves his paddle, a corner of my lips twitches. Pointing a finger in Vincent’s direction, Jackson screams into his microphone, “We have a buyer for £100,000 gentlemen.”
Jackson wields the small wooden gavel like an inpatient judge, waiting for another person to speak up. No one counters Vincent’s price, a disappointed sigh leaves me and I push my hand up before I am tempted to change my mind. Jackson’s head bobs so much the fat rolls of his cheeks vibrate.
Excitement penetrates his voice, he says, “150. It’s going for 150. £150,000 gentlemen.”
Vincent’s head rotates slowly until his eyes find mine, I wink in the dim room. Defeat doesn’t become him, I would have been shocked if he took it easy. I chuckle when he waves his paddle, Jackson takes the cue and yells the new amount. The competitive side of me is activated, the part of me that has always wanted to take something of his, to hit him where it hurts. He is not getting this one today, at least, not so easy. My paddle goes up again, Jackson screams a new price. We go at it repeatedly, he raises, I raise. Jei nudges me with his knee, I shoot him an angry look and he throws his hands up in mock surrender.
“950,000 everybody,” Jackson murmurs, his eyes roaming the crowd like a hawk hunting its next meal—me. Vincent made the last bid, I should have countered him already. My hand twitches, eager to counter that bid. “950,000 gentlemen. Da Vinci’s painting of Jesus Christ at the last supper. 500 years old.”
Anxiety cuddles me the longer I hesitate, Jei subtly pushes his phone in my direction so I can see the last Da Vinci painting that was auctioned. It was sold at £450,000 four years ago. One look at Vincent with his paddle perched on his knee and the itch increases. This is a bad idea. My hand shoots up, Jei sighs. The murmurs increase, I hear the sharp intake of breaths of people probably wondering who these two fools are to keep going back and forth over an old painting. But it’s more than a painting. It’s personal.
Electricity charges the air, so palpable I can almost touch it. Jackson screams like a horny highschooler who just got his first kiss. “1,000,000 gentlemen. Salvator Mundi. Leonardo Da Vinci’s last painting.” Vincent throws me a dark look, his paddle goes up and I scoff. “We have another bid. 2,000,000!”
Everyone’s heads instinctively turn in my direction, if I listen closely I might hear their heart thudding in anticipation. They expect a recurrence of the last five minutes, I am almost tempted to give them a show but my paddle stays down. I will not spend a dime on that shitty painting. My work here is done, I smile at Vincent to let him know that. Jei scoffs, clasping his hands on his knee with a foot bouncing in the air.
This is not the best way to make a good impression on a potential investor but with Vincent, I can’t think straight. The few times I managed to calm down, my mind chose to remind me of the projects he stole. I want to hurt him. Spending £2,000,000 on a painting that should be worth less will have to do for now.
“2,000,000,” Jackson finally says, his tone flat and disappointed. I square my shoulders. He raises the gavel, a moment of silent passes and it comes down on the block with a soft thud. “2,000,000. Sold.”
The cart is wheeled out, I catch Vincent’s eyes and a hateful emotion passes between us. He looks away, my focus returns to the stage but I am barely present. Jei gets his Pokémon card faster than I thought possible, whistling when he beats the former record. He leans towards me to mention something about collecting rare cards being a pastime of his. Some of his childish excitement rubs off on me, I chuckle when he rocks gently to an inaudible music. Maybe in the future, I might find a hobby I am passionate about.
Hunger gnaws at my insides without mercy, I excuse myself after eliciting a promise from Jei to see me tomorrow. The guards hardly look my way as I stroll down the corridor, scouting for the nearest eatery, I send Enzo a message. I can go into the restaurant attached to the hotel but I need a breath of fresh air untainted by the colognes of other rich men. Safe in the elevator, I lean on the wall, eyes fluttering open when it stops moving. The door slides open and Vincent walks in. I can’t say for sure if he saw me since he’s on a phone call but I keep my head down. Two more floors and I will arrive at my destination.
His conversation is in another language, he bellows out a sneaky laughter when the person on the other end says something. My body tenses when he mentions the auction, I strain my ears to pick out bits and pieces of his heavy Russian. His accent is as thick as a native speaker and I frown, eyeing his tall frame.
Being observant has gotten me to a lot of high places and I am stunned at this new discovery, almost ashamed that I didn’t know this fact about him. I have a file on the crook. Filthy rich parents. Only son, only child. He speaks English fluently, nothing that gives away his other roots. I push away from the wall, interested in the new conversation that now seems to revolve around me. We are one floor away from my destination, I can ignore him but something he mutters piques my interest. Sweat forms on my palms, I wipe them on my sleeve but he repeats the name, following the statement with a wicked laugh.
The metallic door opens, he steps out with the phone pressed to his ear. I am right behind him, ready to get the hell out of this place when he drops another bombshell. His reply knocks the wind out of me, my mind blanks. I stop, he stops, beckoning for one of the hotel guards positioned in front of a huge door.
I tap him on the shoulder, he spins to face me. Recognition flashes across his face and his lips turn down in a frown. My heart slows, my mind races with a million thoughts and I clench my fist at my side.
“What did you say?” I ask in a surprisingly calm voice that speaks nothing of the turmoil going on inside.
He glares at me, speaking into his phone, he says, “Mundo, I’ll call you back. The durak is here.”