Twisted Hate (Twisted, 3)

“What’s the surprise?” I bounced on the balls of my feet, unable to contain my curiosity as we stepped into the elevator of a luxury Upper East Side apartment building. “Tell me, please. I’m dying here.”

Josh had surprised me with a trip to New York to catch the last showing of the Legally Blonde musical revival earlier that night, and he said he had another surprise for me before we left tomorrow. I’d tried to pry the secret from him during our entire cab ride here, but he’d refused to budge.

“Red, we will literally be there in a few minutes.” He pressed the button for the penthouse, and my curiosity ramped up another notch. “Haven’t you ever heard the term patience?”

“Patience?” I pretended to think. “Nope, never heard of it.”

I laughed when he swatted my ass in playful punishment.

I’d been floating on a high since Josh and I got back together. I caught myself humming at the oddest times, like when I was loading the dishwasher or waiting for the metro, and my cheeks ached from smiling so much. Even stress over my looming bar results couldn’t dampen the weightlessness in my chest.

Nothing turned a person into a bigger cheeseball than being in love, and I wasn’t even mad about it. There were worse things than being cheesy. Besides, cheese was a top tier food group.

When we arrived at the penthouse, a woman in a stunning white dress checked our names off a list and waved us in with a smile. “Welcome to the exhibition, Mr. Chen, Ms. Ambrose. The gallery is to your right.”

“Exhibition?” I took in the sleek, modern furniture and glass walls overlooking Central Park. The place looked like a private residence, not a museum.

“Private collector. He’s hosting a party displaying his newly acquired works.” Josh guided me to a long marble hall lit by a domed glass skylight. Dozens of paintings hung on the wall in gilded frames, and well-dressed guests circulated with champagne in hand.

I squeezed Josh’s hand again when his eyes lingered on a glass of the bubbly golden liquid.

“And how did you score an invite to this exhibition?” I asked suspiciously. Who could Josh possibly know in New York?

His smug grin rang a dozen alarms. “You’re looking at it.” He pulled me further down the hall until we reached one painting in particular.

My jaw unhinged. “You’re joking. How is this possible?”

It was the atrocious painting from Josh’s room, the one that brought me so much grief last month. Except now, instead of a Hazelburg bedroom, it hung in a multimillion-dollar apartment between a Monet and a de Kooning.

“I sold it. I didn’t want whoever is after the painting to come after me again, so I made the sale as high profile as possible. If they want to fuck with the new owner…” Josh shrugged. “It’s on them.”

“Jesus.” I admit, it was a genius move, though I still couldn’t fathom the idea anyone this rich would pay to have such an ugly painting in their house.

Max was gone, but I was curious about who was intimidating enough that it would deter whatever criminals he’d been running around with.

“Who’s the new owner?” I asked.

“I am.”

I turned at the rich, somewhat familiar voice, and my eyebrows flew up when I saw who it belonged to. I’d only met him once, but I’d recognize that glossy dark hair and beautiful olive skin anywhere.

Dante Russo smiled. “It’s nice to see you both again. I hope you’re enjoying the party.”

So I wasn’t the only one who remembered our encounter in Christian’s library.

“We are, thanks. Your gallery is beautiful,” I said graciously.

I made a mental note to Google Dante later. I’d heard his name somewhere before, but I couldn’t pinpoint it.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Appreciation for beauty is part of my family business. Luxury goods,” he said when my brow knit in confusion. “Fashion, jewelry, wines and spirits, beauty and cosmetics. All part of the Russo empire.” A self-deprecating note crept into his tone.

Of course.

It suddenly clicked. I read a recent magazine profile of The Russo Group, the world’s largest luxury goods conglomerate.

Dante was the CEO. According to the profile, he was also rumored to have one of the most ruthless security teams in the corporate world. There was an urban legend that his head of security once caught someone trying to sneak into his house while he was away for business. The unlucky thief ended up in a month-long coma with two broken kneecaps, a mangled face, and every rib shattered.

The thief had refused to name names, and there was no hard evidence tracing it back to Dante, but his reputation stuck.

No wonder Josh was so confident Max’s associates wouldn’t fuck with him.

We made more chitchat for a few minutes before I hesitated and said, “I’m sorry to hear about your grandfather.”

Enzo Russo founded the Russo Group sixty-five years ago. He was a bona fide business legend, and his funeral had dominated the headlines a few weeks ago.

Dante didn’t seem distraught over his grandfather’s death, but it felt like the polite thing to say considering how recent the funeral was. Plus, I’d been there when he received the news in Christian’s library.

An iron blanket fell over his sculpted features. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” He glanced over my shoulder. “Apologies for cutting our conversation short, but my fiancée has finally arrived.” He sounded less than thrilled. Was there anyone in this man’s life he did like? “Please, enjoy the rest of the party.” He nodded at us and strode off, his tall, muscled frame cutting a striking figure in the crowd. At the end of the hall, a beautiful Asian woman watched him approach with a half nervous, half defiant expression. His fiancée, I assumed.

“I would pay to see someone try to steal from him,” I said. “Good job.”

Josh smirked. “I try. How do you know him?” He sounded more curious than concerned.

“We met at Christian’s house when I asked for his help with Max.” I spotted a server bearing down on us with a tray of champagne and quickly shook my head.

“Right. Is it just me, or do all rich people know each other?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. They live in a small world.” I eyed the painting again. Unlike the others, it lacked a plaque engraved with its name, artist, and origins. “So, does this oh-so-precious piece have a name?”

“Apparently. Dante was already familiar with it when he bought it.” Josh took my hand again as we walked to the next painting. “It’s called Magda.”