By we her mother meant her father, too. But Jordyn was getting smarter about these conversations with Lucia. The less she brought Lucian up directly to her daughter, the more likely Lucia was to stay on the phone.

  Damn her for being quick.

  “I’ve only been at the gallery for six months, Ma,” Lucia said. “I don’t think I could get time off right now if I tried. Maybe in the summer, okay?”

  Jordyn sighed.

  If she knew her daughter was lying, she didn’t seem willing to call Lucia out on it. Truth was, the curator she was interning for had already told her that she could take up to a month’s worth of vacation, if she needed. And they were always willing to make arrangements if something came up like an emergency in case she needed to take more time. The gallery was a dream.

  New York was the fucking nightmare.

  “Okay,” Jordyn said softly. “Um, your father might call later.”

  Lucia stared out the window at the passing buildings. A coldness settled in her heart as she replied, “Tell him not to bother, Ma.”

  “Please don’t do that, Lucia.”

  “Ma—”

  “He loves you.”

  And she loved him, too.

  That changed nothing.

  “I gotta go, Ma,” Lucia said.

  She didn’t wait for her mother to say goodbye or even her familiar I love you before she hung up the phone. So was her life, now.

  This was easier.

  • • •

  For such a short, tiny woman, Kelly Campbell had a big personality, and an even bigger presence. Often, people assumed gallery curators—and even the owners—all came from the same stuffy, stuck-up stock. Pant suits for the women, and slicked back hair for the men.

  Kelly was not like that.

  At all.

  Kelly was light-hearted, and free-spirited. She didn’t take anything too seriously, and she wasn’t afraid to tell a client where they could shove their attitude and money when it was needed. It was one of the many reasons why Lucia adored her boss.

  Today, she was wearing a flimsy summer dress that looked like she had needed to tape the plunging neckline to her chest lest she show off more than she was willing to. Her pale pink, cropped hair stuck out around her ears where she had tucked the strands back, so it would stay out of her eyes as she surveyed the print resting on an illuminated table.

  “Lucia, come here and look at this, will you?”

  Dropping the file she had been surveying for another client, Lucia crossed the room and took the magnifying glasses Kelly held out for her. Slipping them over her eyes when the woman waved at her, she was quick to lean over the table, too.

  “What do you see on this print?” Kelly asked, pointing at one section of the abstract face of an unknown man. His chin, actually. A bright blue compared to the black of his mouth.

  Lucia took in the specks and ink spots on the print through the magnifying glasses. Some of the ink was a little smudged where maybe the press hadn’t come down perfectly, and left a bit of paper beneath uncolored. All typical of art prints done with the usual press. Nothing stood out to her that Kelly would want her to see, anyway. Pulling the glasses off her face, she glanced up at her boss.

  “It all looks normal.”

  Kelly pursed her lips, and nodded. “Try the other one—same spot.”

  Lucia did as she was told, and surveyed the second print on the table of the same abstract profile. Except this time, she couldn’t help but notice there were more spots on the ink that were missing color, and less perfection. She was sure if she took the measurements of the first print to the second print, parts of the profile would be slightly off, too.

  Also, not uncommon.

  With hand-pressed ink prints done in productions of a hundred—typical, give or take a couple of dozen—then each print couldn’t exactly replicate the one that came before it. It was part of what made each piece unique in the row.

  Lucia pulled the glasses off again, and carefully rested her elbow along the edge of the table as she peered up at her boss. “It looks standard.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Kelly mused.

  Something was wrong with it, though. Lucia could tell just by the tone her boss used as she folded her arms over her chest, and glanced between the two prints.

  “Can you guess how much this piece is worth?” Kelly asked. “The second, not the first. The first belongs to a friend—I had him bring it in today for me to compare because it was the thirtieth printed in the production.”

  Lucia knew the artist well—not personally, simply by name and his work. She liked his abstracts and his methods of printing using ink-covered, smoothed down wooden blocks pressed against paper. The man was edging closer to his seventies, now, and it hadn’t been more than a few years ago when his art blew up in the art world.

  “A Blackmouth went for two-hundred thousand at an auction you took me to last month,” Lucia said, referring to the print they were currently overlooking. Only fifty had been printed of this particular piece. The artist had the original, and the first print. “So, in that range, I would say.”

  “Even if it were one of the first ten printed?” Kelly asked.

  Lucia blinked.

  Then, she quickly went back to the prints. She didn’t miss how the first print had the usual 30 scribbled on the bottom of the print with the artist’s name directly beside it. But the second print? It had 8 alongside the artist’s name.

  “It’s a fake,” Lucia murmured.

  She found Kelly grinning at her. “And how do you know that?”

  “Eight comes before thirty,” Lucia said, shaking her head. “There’s no way the eighth print would be less perfect than the thirtieth. It has more area where ink hasn’t properly covered, and the jaw area of the profile is slightly off centered from the bottom lip.”

  “And?”

  Lucia laughed. “I mean, usually we don’t see that in hand-pressed prints until around the fiftieth print when they reset the blocks.”

  Kelly nodded. “Well done.”

  “It’s a good fake, though. I mean, if the number was different, maybe higher, then I would have overlooked it. Especially if it was in a print run with more than a hundred copies.”

  “The eighth print in this edition has been missing for years.”

  Ah.

  Makes sense why someone would choose that number, then.

  “Do you think the owner is trying to sell it knowing it’s a fake?” Lucia asked.

  Kelly shook her head, and carefully picked up the first print which belonged to her friend. “Not at all. Christian Savino brought it in after his art dealer in Italy bought it to add to his profile, as he said. He trusted the dealer to know what he was doing. Afterward, he apparently had reason to believe the print was a forgery, and contacts of his put him in contact with us because I have access to one of the first fifty prints in this edition.”

  “He’s not going to be happy when you send that back to him with the truth—”

  “Oh, he’s here,” Kelly said, slyly. “Brought the print along with him for a trip, apparently.” Her boss checked the watch on her wrist, and then gave Lucia a smile. “He’ll be here in a few minutes, if he isn’t already. The man is punctual to a fault, but he isn’t all that bad to look at. Care to join me in delivering the news?”

  Lucia shrugged. “Yeah, why not.”

  Kelly wasn’t wrong, in fact, the owner of the fake print was already waiting in her office by the time the two had crossed to the other side of the gallery where the glass-walled offices were situated. All Lucia could see of the tall man—he was easily over six feet—was the expanse of his broad shoulders that faced them when they entered the office. With his hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his suit, he continued watching the street from the window of the office.

  “Mr. Savino,” Kelly started.

  “Christian,” the man said smoothly. “I have told you ten times now, it is just Christian.”

  The Italian lilt to his words shouldn’t have shocked Lucia, but it did a little bit. Sure, Kelly had said an art dealer in Italy, but … she didn’t know any Italians outside of those who were still waiting for her to come back home to New York.

  Then, Christian turned around. His wide smile welcomed them both, and his dark brown eyes drifted over Kelly before passing to Lucia just as quickly.

  “Ah, this must be the apprentice you were telling me about, sì?” Christian’s charming smile widened a bit as Lucia stepped close enough to take his outstretched hand. She shook his hand, noting his tanned skin, and the gold rings adorning three of his fingers. She thought he had to be in his later twenties, but not older than thirty-five, at the most. As handsome as he was, and God knew Lucia had been put in front of enough handsome men over the last few years, she didn’t feel a flicker of any interest staring at this man’s face. Nothing. It was like she was dead inside. Soon, she dropped his hand, and stepped back to stand beside Kelly. “I hope you’re soaking in everything Kelly is teaching you. I hear she is the best of the very best.”

  Kelly laughed. “Keep your charm to yourself, we have business to discuss. This print of yours, I mean.”

  With that said, she tossed the tube holding Christian’s print of Blackmouth to the desk. He didn’t move to pick it up.

  “Bad news, then?” he asked.

  Kelly gave Lucia a look.

  Lucia shrugged. “Well, it’s not great.”

  Christian scowled. “It never is when I want it to be. Go on then, tell me.”

  “It’s a fake,” Kelly said.

  “Of course, it is.”

  “I know you said the dealer bought it for your profile, but if you’re looking for an actual Blackmouth, I might be able to find you one,” Kelly suggested.

  That did make Christian’s attention perk. “Could you?”

  “It might take a while.”

  The man chuckled. “I have time.”

  • • •

  “John?” Lucia’s older brother gave her a wide smile as she opened the door to her apartment. At the sight of him waiting in the hallway, she almost blinked. “What are you doing here?”

  John laughed. “Business.”

  “You didn’t think to call before showing up?”

  “Do I have to call when I want to see my sister?”

  Well … not really, but still.

  “Since when do you have business in California?” Lucia asked.

  John shrugged one shoulder. “That’s not for you to worry about, Lucy. Are you going to let me in, or what?”

  She bristled at the nickname, but stepped back to let John enter her apartment. Once he had his blazer and shoes put away, she directed her brother into the small kitchen. He stayed silent as she prepped him a cup of tea—she was trying to cut down on coffee, so the best way was to keep it out of her place altogether.

  “You know,” John said after Lucia had passed his cup over the island, “had you let Dad call you back last week when Ma called you, then maybe you would have known I was coming out this way, Lucia.”

  Lucia gave her brother a look. “Please tell me you didn’t come all the way to Cali just to scold me for not talking to Daddy on the phone, John.”

  “No, I did have business.”

  “Good.”

  “But I wasn’t planning on coming to see you for another couple of days. Then, you went and acted like a brat to Ma, so I decided to speed that up.”

  Dammit.

  “John, listen—”

  “No, I think it’s time for you to listen,” her brother interjected calmly, his familiar hazel eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that quieted her instantly. “There’s shit going on that you don’t know, Lucia. Stuff with Dad, all right. And maybe Ma’s been trying to get you to come home because of that, but without telling you all the details. Problem is, you’re so stuck in your feelings that you won’t even let her talk.”

  “I let Ma talk.”

  “Not about Dad.”

  Lucia’s shoulders straightened. “So? I don’t have to talk about him or to him, not if I don’t want to, John.”

  She had forgiven her brother. It took time, and more than one apology. It took her brother making an actual effort to understand the way he hurt her that day in San Francisco, and owning what he did. It took things her father had yet to attempt to do for her. It certainly didn’t help that her heart just wasn’t ready to let go of its bitterness and contempt, either.

  John let out a sigh, and turned to peer out the kitchen window. “Are you going to keep being like this, or can you shut up and listen for five minutes?”

  “Are we going to talk about him, or—”

  “Dad’s sick, Lucia. He’s been sick. Stage two renal cancer. He’s been handling it privately—it’s just Ma, me, Cella, and Liliana that know. He had surgery a while back for it. Lied and told everyone else it was for kidney stones, I guess. The surgery didn’t work because the bloodwork didn’t come back clean. He’s been doing treatments for a month, now. Three times a week.”

  Lucia’s heart stopped.

  She was sure of it.

  It ached.

  “What?” she asked.

  John’s gaze drifted back to her. “The doctors say he’s gonna be okay, we do know that now, but he’s been sick for a while. And I’m fucking sorry that you’re not over your pity party yet, but it’s time to swallow it for a while, Lucia. Time to go home for a bit, and see him. If you want to be selfish on your own time, then you go ahead and do that. I’ll be the first person to tell you to go on and do it, but it’s not your time right now. It’s Dad’s.”

  Lucia had a million and one things she wanted to ask, but mostly, the pain squeezing around her heart like a fist kept her quiet. Up until that moment, every single time someone mentioned her father, the first thing she felt was anger. Ever-present, and stronger than ever. Shockingly so. Violently, even.

  Except right then … she just felt pain.

  She didn’t think about the man who took away the person she loved and wanted the most. No, she saw the man who had tucked her into bed, read her dozens of stories whenever she asked, and let her hold his pinky finger when they crossed the road.

  She thought about her dad.

  Lucia wasn’t sure how long she stayed quiet, stuck in memories that flooded her mind and heart with a nostalgia she had been ignoring for five fucking years. Too long, anyway. Long enough for her brother to just about finish his tea entirely.

  John cleared his throat, and stood from the stool before downing the rest of the tea left in his mug. “Ma needs you, too. They both do, but they’re not going to say it because they know you need your fucking time. But fuck your time, Lucia … I’m here to tell you that. Fuck your time. You’ve had enough of it.”

  Apparently so.

  THREE

  It took two years of constant supervision from The League before Renzo was finally allowed the privilege of having his own place outside of their compound—a large building in the middle of the desolate Nevada land that his companions at The League had not-so-affectionally dubbed the complex.

  The nickname seemed appropriate considering it was as huge as what someone would consider a complex. They all had some sort of feeling about the complex—good or bad. It was the place where each one of them had been brought in, irrevocably changed, and then in most cases, sold to the highest bidder for their skills and talents. There wasn’t much affection in that, was there?

  At first, having his own place was strange to Renzo for a number of reasons. The top one being the fact that he had never … lived on his own before. Ever. He needed privacy, and space. He needed the idea that The League wasn’t controlling literally every moment of his waking days, even if he knew they still would own his ass whether he lived on his own, and off their property, or not.

  At the time, he’d been twenty-two when The League let him find a place they approved and could monitor. They tried to say it was so they could make sure he was safe, but Renzo wasn’t a goddamn idiot. It was so that they could watch him, and make sure he didn’t break one of their many rules, or run. Not that it would make much of a difference. They would still come for him, if he did think to run.

  That was two and a half years ago, and here he was … twenty-fucking-five, and it still felt strange to come home to a quiet apartment where no one was waiting to ask him a million and one questions, or take away what little space he managed to make for himself. He’d thought he would like having the time alone to himself, but more often than not, he didn’t like it at all.

  It left him alone with his thoughts, and that was never a good thing when it came to Renzo. As if his life hadn’t already taught him that, he got to be reminded of it night in and night out. A joy.

  It was like his damn mind wouldn’t let go of the years he’d spent cramped in tiny apartments with his brother and sister. Even his mother, despite the fact he didn’t miss that bitch at all. Nonetheless, it felt strange to be alone.

  Once, Renzo made the mistake of mentioning it to Cree—offhandedly, mostly, when the man asked how he was liking his space and time outside of The League. Cree told him to, “Learn to like being alone, Renzo.”

  Cree always did have a fucking way with words.

  The asshole.

  Tonight was one of those nights, unfortunately. Renzo had been left to play alone in his big apartment with nothing but his goddamn thoughts to keep him company. Nothing good ever came from him being restless, and he wasn’t the only person to notice that fact, either. The League often tried to keep him busy by moving him from one job to the next so that he was never by himself for very long, and his hands always had something to do.

  It’d been almost a month since they had given him a job—either solo, or with one of the teams. He checked in daily, as he was supposed to do. He went to the complex daily for briefs, though none of them were for him. And lately, he came home alone because everyone else at The League were on assignments or had other things to handle; wives … families.

  People who needed them.

  Renzo, on the other hand, was alone.

 

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