“It’s not mine.” His gaze flicks to the cancer stick in my hand. “It’s just a remodel.”
“I might have an idea. Your interior designer is Molly, yeah?” Exhaling, I blow out a perfect circle of smoke.
“Yeah,” he agrees hesitantly. Maybe because I happen to know he’s screwing her on the side.
“I want you to give her this,” I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out Lavender’s business card. It must’ve fallen out of her purse in the bedroom this morning. I stare at the heavy stock card and run my thumb over the embossed W&W. Whit & With.
I offer it to Luis, who sticks it between Pete’s fingertips and looks down and reads it without sound.
“You have an art gallery, then?” he asks, looking up.
I don’t answer. “Molly is going to go visit this address and pick up a few pieces on your client’s account. I’m sure you’ll do your usual markup, which will come to me. Because I’m in a good mood, I’ll also deduct the retail price from your balance.”
“What?” His expression scrunches. “Why? You sure you don’t own the place?”
“How is this any of your business?” My tone is fucking frigid.
Whether by my tone or the look in my eye, Pete begins to stutter.
“S-sorry.” There go his eyes to my cigarette again. Not sure where he’s gotten the idea I’d burn him from and make a mental note to get Leo to investigate who else he owes. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Good, because you know what curiosity did to the cat.” I glance in Antonio’s direction.
“Put him in a sack, boss,” he offers, his hands tightening across his chest. “Dropped him in the river.”
It wouldn’t do for my clientele to think I’d gone soft.
“All right. Let’s not get hasty.” Pete folds the card between his fingers, holding on to it for dear life.
“So how’s this gonna work? What do I have to spend?”
“You owe me fifty thousand, so spend, say, twenty-five.”
Twenty-five in my pocket and the same in Lavender’s. Yeah, that feels nice.
“That’s a lot to spend on art—a lot of money to persuade the client to spend on art, I mean.”
“You don’t expect me to solve that problem for you as well, do you, Pete?” My phone buzzes in my pocket. “Excuse me.” I’ve been waiting for this call.
“Brin.”
“Yeah. I’m just returning your call.”Not because I want to, his tone seems to suggest.
“Thanks.” I keep my tone even. No need to bring up the other night. Not right now. “I have a question for you.”
“Yeah, all right.”
“Who hurt your sister?”
“What do you mean?” he demands, his tone much harsher than my own. “Is she okay?”
“When I left her earlier, she was perfectly fine.” I was less so. My brain felt like it was trying to escape through my temple, and my heart beat so hard, it wondered if it might be about to burst.
“It was in the past. I don’t know when, but someone hurt her, and she’s not saying who.”
“Well, it wasn’t me.”
“It wasn’t an insinuation. It was a civil question.”
