Dark Art

note:i'm sooo sorry this update took so long.

Episode 11: When in Rome

Outside the car, Ivan adjusted the tuck of his shirt and checked his watch while the driver rolled their suitcases over. He was feeling good about this trip, the money he'd shelled out for the hotel and flights already fading from mind as they neared the moment of unloading the thirteen million dollar painting.

"Where did you say you were going again, Mister Masters?" asked the driver casually while they waited on Serafine.

"To Rome," said Ivan. "Bit of family business to take care of, you know?"

"Ah. Of course, sir," said the driver with a professional smile.

A moment later, Serafine emerged from the backseat, rubbing the corners of her eyes on the back of her hand. She was a little red in the face, and shot Ivan a bratty look when she noticed him watching her, but she didn't say anything to the driver, so he thought she was doing a good job adjusting to her role so far.

"Safe travels," said Giovanni as Ivan took both suitcases and shot back a quick, "Appreciate it, bud," before canting his head at Serafine and setting off toward the terminal.

O'Hare was a massive airport. Ivan had been dozens of times and still never looked forward to the experience -- he much preferred Chicago's other, smaller airport, Midway -- but they were able to navigate the crowds and security without much incident, leaving less than a thirty minute wait at the gate before an announcement on the PA system began calling first class to board.

"Let's go," he said, walking quickly to the gate attendant to scan their tickets before heading for the narrow jet aisle that lead to the airplane.

Even though the flight was direct, it would take nine hours to travel to Rome from Chicago. Ten if traffic was factored in, plus there was the change in timezones to consider, putting their arrival in the capital city sometime around 8PM. As he lifted their luggage up into the overhead bins, he was suddenly glad he'd gotten head earlier in the garage. It would make it easier for him to sleep later, and it was helping his mood already.

When he looked over at Serafine, he found her observing the vacuum-sealed pack of slippers that always came with transatlantic first class seats, turning the plastic packaging over in her hand like it was something that'd washed up on the lakeshore.

"They're for sleeping," he informed her. "Or walking around. The seat turns into a bed if you press that button."

"Really?" she said, pressing the button as a handful of other passengers boarded behind them, searching for their seats among the rows of private, cubicle-like suites in first class.

"Have you ever been on a plane before?" said Ivan, a little surprised by her naïveté. How many flights had he taken in his lifetime, hundreds? What was this, her first or second experience, ever?

"Well, not like this one, no," she admitted, holding the button down and watching in amazement as the footrest raised up under her legs and began to slide horizontally into a narrow bed.

"Ma'am."

A voice from behind them made Ivan turn to find a flight attendant in a crisp blue uniform looking past him, at Serafine.

"We're going to need your seat to be in the normal position for takeoff."

"Oh, sorry, sorry," said Serafine, seeming mortified to have been noticed, before quickly toggling the switch so that the seat returned to its normal position.

"Already getting into trouble and we haven't even left Chicago yet," Ivan remarked as he settled into the seat beside her.

"Champagne, sir?" said another flight attendant, this one holding a tray of glass champagne flutes.

"Thanks, bud," said Ivan as the flight attendant looked inquiringly over at Serafine.

"Miss?"

Serafine opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say something about being too young to drink, Ivan spoke for her, automatically reaching for another glass.

"She'll take one, too."

Handing her the champagne, he held up his own drink and said, "Cheers."

"Cheers," she responded uncertainly, taking a small sip before setting the glass aside and looking around the plane like she was going to get arrested.

Ivan resisted rolling his eyes at her behavior, asking, "So, what's your plan in Rome?" while he exchanged his shoes for slippers, the passengers from other classes now beginning to file past them, looking tired.

Poor, broke, sons of bitches.

"My plan?" said Serafine, arcing an eyebrow at him. "Didn't you say you were going to handle everything from now on? Something about 'I close, I exist,' -- if I remember?"

Ivan downed the rest of his champagne while staring at her over the rim of the glass. She had a real talent for making comments that irritated him, but the sugary alcohol allowed him a small smile in spite of how he felt, reminding himself that he was more interested in the information she had to offer than the way she delivered it.

"So let's figure out the talking points then, hmn? It's a long flight and we've got nothing but time. You said the last offer was thirteen million. When was that?"

"Uh, about a year ago," she said. "It's all in the documents I gave y-"

"So there's been some time to appreciate?" Ivan interrupted.

"Well, no. I don't know about that," said Serafine. "It really doesn't work that way in the art world. Value is--"

"-- 'Difficult to determine,'" finished Ivan with his fingers in air quotes, before poking the touch screen display in front of him. "That's all I hear from you people."

"Well, it's not like we're talking about ahouse," Serafine shot back, her voice rising a fraction to reveal she was as frustrated trying to explain this concept to him as he was trying to understand it. "You don't just count all the doorknobs and add up how many windows it has to figure out what it's worth."

"That's not how that works," corrected Ivan flatly, but Serafine went on.

"Well, whatever. All I'm trying to say is that everyone values art differently, so the rules you think are going to work here... just... won't, okay? For example, how much isGreek Slaveworth to you?"

"Fuck all," said Ivan.

"Okay. And to Paul Haggin it's worth thirteen million dollars. So why do you think you two are so far apart?"

Ivan looked away, scanning the still-incoming line of passengers for an attractive distraction. Serafine was hot, but the more time he spent with her, the less he wanted to hear her talk, each of her questions like a jab in the ribs, making him further realize how shallow his depth of knowledge on this subject really was.

"He's an old man," Ivan shrugged dismissively. "Who knows what kind of sentimental legacy-building bullshit he's got going on."

To his surprise, Serafine said, "Correct," and when he looked back at her, he saw that her expression had softened, and she was smiling a little.

"There are technical ways to value art, and trends and marketing, but really, everything still comes down to how much the buyer...just...likes it. You have that going for you withGreek Slavebecause the original artist is a member of the Haggin family -- his great-great grandfather, or something --andbecause Paul Haggin is a very well-known collector himself. He's been buying back his family's old pieces for his collection in Ekely for decades. So to him, the value makes sense. But it's super rare everything lines up like that."

I bet he'd pay more, Ivan's thoughts interrupted, his mind turning back to his own father and the emotional, erratic decisions the man used to make when it came to purchasing fine art. He couldn't remember the words after all these years, but the mood of the house, echoing with shouting late into the night was easy for him to recall, even now.

"Also," Serafine continued. "I'm not sure if you know this, but The Art Institute does notdeaccessionworks from its collection... like... ever. There are miles of tunnels under the museum filled with stuff not on display. Everyone in the art world knows that once a piece has been earmarked for the Institute, it's off-market. Like forever. So if I was you, I would just let him lead the conversation, you know? We already know he wants it, or we wouldn't be going to Borghese."

"We'll see," was all Ivan said before the plane's intercom clicked on and flight attendants positioned themselves in the aisle to mime the safety briefing.

It wasn't a bad suggestion, and the information Serafine had provided contained valuable insights for how he should approach his impending meeting with Paul. He felt a renewed sense of confidence knowing he'd had the upper hand this entire time. Privately, he'd been concerned that his lack of knowledge in this domain would somehow jeopardize the deal, but now he felt differently. If the man was anything like his late father, Ivan knew that all it would take was some skilled bullshitting to get this done: a few flattering phrases, tugging on precisely the right emotional pursestrings.

His specialty.

It was easy to mentally check-out after that, leaning back in his chair as the plane taxied down the runway and lifted off into the sky. For the next several hours, he passed the time by sleeping, doomscrolling IG, and ordering Old Fashioned's, while Serafine drew pictures in a sketchbook he hadn't realized she'd brought with her. It was a little endearing, he thought, to have such a juvenile pastime. As if there weren't more important concerns in the world than drawing flowers and horsies.

When the flight touched down at FCO, the sun was setting and the outside air was pleasantly humid and warm, much like the weather they'd just left in Chicago, but with a different feel to it.

It'd been years since he'd been home and his Italian was rusty, so it was lucky they'd ended up in Rome -- the tourist mecca of Italy -- where it would be easy to find English-speaking cabs and all the businesses welcomed credit cards.

By the time he found the queue of white taxi's and loaded their things into the trunk, the streets had become overwhelmed with people heading out for dinner and the going was slow. The closer they got to the city center, the thicker the crowds, so dense on some streets that the car barely moved at all. Over an hour passed sitting in traffic, until the very last rays of sunlight began to disappear behind the buildings, to Ivan's increasing annoyance.

Serafine didn't seem to mind, however. She was glued to the backseat window the entire drive, holding her phone to take pictures as they wound their way from one narrow alley to another.

Ivan smirked as he watched her, relaxing a little as his gaze panned from her profile to the deep brown skin of her thigh, where the fabric of her dress was now riding up her leg. The outfit she'd chosen for their trip gave him the impression of a newlywed bride on her honeymoon, the lace trim and skin-tight bodice of her dress obviously designed for the arousal of her male partner.

It was certainly having the right effect on him, and he was impatient to get to the hotel for more reasons than one, when, finally, after an excruciating hour and a half of traffic, they arrived.

"Nice place," remarked the driver when they pulled up in front of the building. "Expensive."

"A chi lo dici,"Ivan muttered as he fished a 50 euro from his wallet, paying the driver and exiting the car with a last command to Serafine.

"Come on. We're here."

The hotel was in an ancient-looking building made of carved stone, with rows of beautiful plant-filled terraces overhead and an interior even more lavish, huge Roman columns lining the lobby where a cheerful-looking man smiled up at them from the front desk the moment they walked in.

"Welcome to the eternal city!" he enthused.

"Mmn, sure," said Ivan, automatically searching for his credit card, which he slid across the counter along with his passport. "Ivan Masters. Checking in."

"Mister Masters..." the man repeated as he typed his name into the computer, his expression changing to one of mild surprise. "Ah. Okay, sir. I see. I see you have booked ourBottega Venetasuite. A beautiful choice for your- ah-" his gaze ticked to Serafine, "-honeymoon, sir."

Ivan smiled a little, glancing back over his shoulder at where Serafine was now taking selfies in the main lobby.

Honeymoon. Yeah. Something like that,he thought.

Pausing his typing, the mans finger strayed to a small brass bell sitting on the counter, which he rang several times until a teenage boy in a gold vest appeared from behind a wall of curtains that Ivan hadn't realized concealed a door.

"Alessandro!" the man at the front desk shouted, twisting around in his chair, suddenly enraged."Hai la fascia come il culo!"

The boy vanished, returning a few seconds later with a luggage trolley which he rushed from behind the front desk to collect their suitcases.

"That boy," the man behind the desk muttered as he turned back to face Ivan, continuing as if nothing had happened. "As I was saying, sir, theBottega Venetais our most luxurious suite, a truly unique experience. And you'll be paying with the American Express today? No problem, no problem at all. Shall I add the tourist tax now or at checkout, sir?"

"Now's fine," said Ivan, Serafine appearing at his side a moment later, looking concerned.

"Why was he shouting?" she whispered near his bicep.

"That's just how men talk out here, honey," he responded, looking down to find her face etched with uncertainty. "You get used to it."

As the front desk guy handed over the room keys, Ivan felt his energy returning and wrapped a possessive arm around Serafine's shoulders.

"The bar is open until midnight, and your keys will open your room as well as all exterior doors of the hotel. If you would like to book a taxi or a guide for your trip to the Colosseum or Borghese Gardens, my staff would be deligh-"

Ivan cut him off, squeezing Serafine by the shoulder. "No need. I've got a guide already. What's the wifi?"

"Oh, the wifi password is written just there, sir," he pointed to the envelope containing their room keys. "You see?"

"Great," Ivan responded. "Thanks.Grazi."

"Prego. Bueno notte," smiled the front desk attendant, returning to his work at the computer as Ivan steered Serafine away, his hands unoccupied with luggage for what felt like the first time since they'd left Chicago.

The sound of her high heels clicking across the marble was enough to arouse him, and as he walked her toward the elevators, a familiar rush of blood began to flood his veins, returning warmth to his limbs and primal acuity to his senses.

In the elevator, the scent of her shampoo or perfume, or whatever it was, was so sweet that it made him physically salivate. He wanted to bury his mouth into that scent, a sensation which made him pull her in front of him as the elevator doors closed, his hands rubbing her arms from shoulder to elbow.

She let him, which was what he expected at this point, but still, this increasing degree of compliance aroused him, too. As the elevator rose, his hands slid to her hips, gently gripping the curve of bone under her dress, his cock pressed against her from behind.

"Go," he commanded when the doors slid open on their floor, squeezing one of her asscheeks until she started moving. "Walk. Down the hall. To the end."

She complied, responding to his commands like she'd been doing it her entire life, which incidentally, aroused him too.

Like his penthouse in Chicago, the elevator opened to a top-level floor with just a couple of other doors. Unlike his building, however, every inch of the walls in the hotel were covered in dramatic gold wallpaper, and a row of small iron chandeliers with realistic-looking LED candles lit the way, like they'd been transported straight back to the Italian renaissance.

The door to their room was similarly extravagant. Heavy, carved wood, with the only indication of modern technology being a smooth, silver door lock that Ivan slid his keycard into, opening the door with a satisfied exhale and a single word on his mind.

Finally.

The door opened to reveal an expansive room, set with gilded furniture and huge windows. Serafine seemed stunned by the opulence, every detail making her gasp, until a set of French doors on the opposite side of the room got her attention. "Is that-," she froze dramatically, inhaling as she caught sight of the view outside. "Is that the Colosseum?"

"Better fucking be," Ivan said as he closed the hotel room door behind them, simultaneously flipping theDo not disturbsign hanging from the handle.

He saw Serafine open the doors and step outside at the same moment he noticed their luggage and a gold bottle of champagne on ice had been brought up to the room. For seven thousand dollars a night, this sort of thing was, in his eyes, the bare minimum.

He uncorked the bottle, pouring two tall glasses while trying not to let his mind wander. He'd easily spent an entire commission check on this trip, with new expenses still to be accrued by the day, but it was important that he fulfilled the image people had of him. Affluent, in control, unconcerned, no matter the price. With his level of determination, he was sure he could make everything work out the way he wanted to anyway. He'd already made it so far on his own, and now he was just one night away from the meeting that would earn him thirteen million dollars.

...Well. Minus six percent, he thought, but that was such a small amount of money in the scheme of things that it barely mattered. As long as everything worked out with the sale, of course.

No pressure.

He banished these thoughts from his mind as he downed his glass, refilled it, and headed outside to join Little Miss Six Percent herself.

Serafine was standing on the edge of the balcony, recording the view with her phone. With the Colosseum only steps away from the hotel, it was a truly spectacular location, and as Ivan walked up behind her he could see the building captured in miniature on her phone screen, the yellow glow from the building turning to a haze of grainy pixels at the edges where the tiny camera struggled to capture the true darkness of the night sky.

"You're enjoying yourself," he said, making her jump and tighten her grip on the phone before turning around to face him.

"Careful," he remarked, adding with a small laugh. "You're so jumpy."

"Well, you're so mean," she said teasingly back to him.

Mean?Ivan thought, glancing past her at the grandeur of the Colosseum.I paid for flights, hotel, transportation -- carried your fucking suitcase -- created this entire opportunity for you, and now I'm mean?

Female logic.

He handed her a glass of champagne and brushed off the comment with the barest smile, saying, "You're just upset because I haven't fucked you yet."

She giggled, but he could see the flicker of apprehension in her eyes when she took the glass, taking a sip so she had an excuse not to talk.

"What?" Ivan pressed, stepping closer until he had her backed up against the balcony railing.

"Nothing," she said lightly, looking up at him, then away, struggling to get words out. "You're just so...direct, I guess. It makes me a little... I don't know. Nervous."

I like that you're nervous,Ivan thought, but said aloud. "I get that a lot. It's completely natural."

"I bet you make a lot of people nervous yourself," he added, watching carefully as she laughed and continued to look anywhere but at him.

"Yeah, okay. You're very funny," she said.

"What?" Ivan responded, stepping closer. "You're so pretty. I bet men are too afraid to even speak to you."

She looked at him for a moment, a small, flattered smile making her lips purse before she took another sip of her drink.