Simple pleasures.
six
TRIS
John fucking Smith. Nelson and Hank were right, it totally sounded like a fake name. I’d spent way too long—while I was meant to be working—looking him up online. Apparently, he wasn’t making it up. Professor John Smith, on loan from Aalto University in Finland, held a PhD in Medieval Russian to Early Modern Art with a focus on the Romanov Dynastic Period. Among other things. But that just so happened to be the exact area of focus for my own doctorate.
It should have been a good thing. Right? He should be the best advisor imaginable. And he would be…if I didn’t want to punch him right in the crooked nose every fucking time I saw him. Smug fuck. Maybe if he quit constantly flirting I could approach him from a professional, academic level.
Somehow, I suspected I’d have an easier time asking the sun to turn blue.
I didn’t have a one-on-one session with him until mid-week, thank fuck for that, but I would have to see him during Art History on Tuesday. It was an afternoon class, so I usually worked the morning at RBD’s, where I was employed to clean and restore some priceless artwork.
Priceless…and very stolen.
I justified it to myself by reasoning that my employer, Luther Grimaldi, hadn’t stolen the paintings himself. He’d paid good money for each and every piece at auction, and who knew how many times those pieces had changed hands prior to his acquisition of them. I’d looked up the Picasso I was currently working on and discovered it had been missing since 1986 and was now worth somewhere in the ballpark of $5 million. Mr. Grimaldi had only owned it for a year, so the original thieves were long gone.
Besides, no artist in their right mind would pass up the opportunity to work with paintings like this, no matter where they came from.
Because of that, I was extremely cautious not to fuck it up. And I didn’t just mean the work itself—I was easily talented and experienced enough to do what was required—but there was more involved than that. Mr. Grimaldi was a particular man. Moody.
I never wanted to be on the receiving end of his bad favor, so I made sure I was never late for my scheduled work times. I kept my damn head down, never spoke out of turn, and did everything possible to avoid running into any of the other employees. Most days, I came and went without seeing a single person, and that was how I liked it.
Tuesday wasn’t one of those days. Even before I opened the service entrance door I could hear the rumble of voices further inside the house. I paused a moment with my key in the first lock, then heaved a small sigh and turned it. I couldn’t just hide outside all day, so I might as well hurry the hell up and get to my studio where I would be left alone.
Security at RBD’s was intense but to be expected. It took me a few minutes to get inside the manor and lock the doors behind myself, and then I held my breath as I attempted to tip-toe my way down the hallways to get to the gallery and my workshop within.
My path took me right past the marble-floored ballroom, though. In my eighteen months working at RBD’s, the only thing I’d ever seen the ballroom used for was…well…it definitely wasn’t dancing.
“Good morning, Tristian!” Mr. Grimaldi called out in a cheery, heavily accented voice as I tried to scurry past unnoticed.
Groaning inwardly, I paused and turned on a smile. “Good morning, sir.”
My employer was right in the middle of beating the stuffing out of a blood-covered man who hung by his wrists from the ceiling, and he went straight back to it after greeting me. Which was fine—Mr. Grimaldi was a scary motherfucker but always extremely kind to me—except for the fact that he’d now drawn attention to my arrival.
Which was why I had all of three seconds to get into the gallery before—
“Tris, hey, wait up.”
That voice made my shoulders instantly tighten, and I fought the urge to ignore him entirely and keep walking. But, considering the violent scene I’d just passed, I valued my own safety too much to piss the Grimaldis off.
So I steeled my spine and pasted my smile on as I turned around once more.
“Hi, Dex,” I greeted the handsome guy who’d stopped me. “Busy morning?” I nodded back toward the ballroom where pained moans and sobs could be heard.
He gave me a roguish smile and shrugged one shoulder. “Business, you know?”
I absolutely did not. I went out of my way to keep my nose out of the Grimaldi business. “Sure,” I murmured weakly. “Uh, I’m kind of late. I should…” I indicated the direction of the gallery in a broad fucking hint that I’d like to leave.
Dex never took the hint, though. Either he didn’t get it, or he deliberately ignored it, but the result was the same. “Late? You work for me, Tris, you’re fine.” His laugh was easy and arrogant. He gave me the creeps.
I wet my lips, unable to hold my tongue. “No, I work for your father, Dex. And he’s paying me to work certain hours. So.” I took a step backwards, softening my rejection with a smile. “I’ll see you around.” Unfortunately.
“Yeah, definitely. The old man wants me here for a few weeks to take care of some shit, so I thought maybe we could get a drink sometime?” He took a step forward, reaching out like he was going to place a hand on my hip.
I smoothly shifted just out of casual reach as I shook my head. “Business and pleasure shouldn’t mix, Dex. It was nice to see you, though.” Lies. The idea of his being here for a few weeks made me want to scream.
He didn’t like to be told no. He never had. “Come on, Tris, don’t play hard—”
“Dexter!” Mr. Grimaldi bellowed. “Leave Tristian alone. She has important work to do!”
I tried not to look relieved. “We should probably both get back to work, huh?”
The flash of anger that crossed Dexter Grimaldi’s face sent a shiver of pure terror through me, but he gave me a tight smile and sighed. “I’ll come find you later, Tris.”
It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. So I gave a vague nod and practically ran the rest of the way to Mr. Grimaldi’s gallery and my workspace within. It took another series of security protocols to get into the gallery in the basement of RBD’s, and I breathed a long sigh of relief when the doors auto-locked behind me.
Silence pressed around me like a warm hug, and I left the ick of Dexter Grimaldi outside. This was an art-lover’s haven, and working with such greatness was well worth being occasionally hit on by a mafia heir.
I slipped out of my shoes right there at the door—hating the hollow sound of my heels on the floor—and took my time to go around to each and every painting on display. Mr. Grimaldi was the only other person to ever come down here, and I suspected he hadn’t granted access to anyone else. He saw me doing this routine one morning when I’d arrived for work, and I’d told him I was just paying my respects to the masters.
It wasn’t totally a lie. But I also liked to check them for any signs of tampering. If someone else in RBD’s employ decided to attempt a swap for a fake—to make a quick buck or million on the black market—then I would catch the blame first. So, to save my own skin, I made it a habit to check all the pieces for authenticity at the start of every single work day.