“You're right, and you make all good points,” Iago said after a thought. "I'll work on myself."
Othello nodded. “Good man. I'm here for you, Iago. Always. Brothers for life.”
Iago smiled. "Thanks."
They changed the subject and talked about the plans for Maria and Alessandro’s surprise anniversary party they were putting together. They laughed about the past and present. Othello felt good sitting and talking with his best friend after so long.
Des chewedon his bottom lip, staring at the digits in his bank account. He’d gotten home, showered, and brought up the business plan he'd written up a few years ago and showed it to Sebastian, who was quite impressed with what he came up with, which was why he was so confused that Sebastian would side with his parents. The entire way home, he thought about his conversation with Moor. He'd been a coward for far too long. He leaned back in his chair, letting the decision he was about to make wash over him, just as his cellphone rang. Des furrowed his brows, not recognizing the number, but answered it anyway.
"Hello?"
"Hi, is this Desmond Ellington?"
"Yes, who is this?"
"Mister Ellington, my name is Erin Graham. I am an attorney at law for Casey and Nessar. I'm contacting you about your case and would like to know if you had time to meet with me today.”
Des's brows got even tighter at hearing that. He'd reached out to the law firm a couple of months ago, and since he hadn't heard anything from them, he thought they'd turned him down without contacting him. "If you're planning on turning me down face to face, I don't see why we should meet."
"Turn you down?" Graham said. "You misunderstand. I plan on taking your case. After reading through the questions you provided to our paralegal, I find it strange that a big firm like Hamlin and Baxter would lie to a client."
"Wait, what do you mean?" Des sat up in his chair.
"Mister Ellington..."
"Please, call me Des," he said, cutting her off.
"Very well. Des, did you ever see your grandfather's will?"
"No," he sighed. "And every time I tried to get a copy, I’ve been rebuffed."
"I suspected as much," Ms. Graham said. "This is why I think it's important we meet."
"Where are you?"
"I'm at my office." She gave him the address, and Des noted she was in the art district, which was how he'd found the number in the first place.
Des looked at his watch and noted that it was still early in the morning, and around this time, there wouldn't be too much traffic getting there. "I can be there in twenty minutes. Is that okay?"
"That's perfectly fine." They hung up, and as he was about to get up, his phone went off again, and Bianca's name appeared on the screen. Des ignored the call. He didn't have time to hear her apologies about her ditching him the night before. He had other pressing matters to deal with.
Grabbing his motorcycle helmet, Des rushed out of his apartment to the parking garage, got on his bike, and entered the address into his GPS. Minutes later, he was zooming in and out of traffic with an elated smile. He'd bought the bike a few weeks ago and knew it was one of his best decisions. Des enjoyed the ride through the city. It had a mix of everything from towering skyscrapers to modest buildings. Each district had its own unique flavor and culture, the vibrant waterfront areas, scenic beaches, and more that Des hadn't explored, even though he'd lived in Verona Heights all his life.
Twenty minutes later, Des came to a stop in front of a small building with glass front windows that did not look out of place in the more eclectic district. After turning off his bike, he removed his helmet, walked up to the building, and entered the quaint office with neatly stacked bookshelves. However, what drew his eyes was the Vittore Caravaglia art hanging on the wall. Caravaglia was born in 1615 in Venice and liked to experiment by combining oil painting with textiles and textures, giving it a multi-dimensional appearance, not to mention adding dramaticflair to his work, making it unique. Many had tried to copy Caravaglia, including Des, but neither he nor they could quite get it right. Looking at the painting, Des knew it was a fake. Anyone who knew or studied art could tell what was genuine or a copycat.
"It's not real," came a voice behind him.
Turning, Des's eyes locked with a gorgeous statuesque brunette who was taller than him with deep brown eyes and honey-brown skin, dressed in blue jeans paired with a white shirt and black blazer. "I know," he said, looking back at the painting. "No one can recreate Caravaglia's work."
"I've heard that," she said.
Des glanced at her. "I'm looking for Erin Graham."
"That's me, I take it you're Mister Ellington?"
"Yes, and like I said over the phone, call me Des."
"Then call me Erin." They shook hands quickly. "Come into my office, and we'll review your case."
