Page 58 of Ruthless

As gruesome as that session was, Dante obviously was careful to keep the man alive. If given the chance, Jackson should fully recover. I doubt my medical expertise prompted Dante’s request for my help, though.

“Did you…learn anything useful?” I lace my fingers together in my lap, stifling the urge to seek additional contact beyond the pressure of his thigh against mine.

Dante clears his throat and straightens a little. “Maybe. Maybe not. I was hoping you could help me ask him a few more questions. I hear he’s taken a liking to you.”

I huff a laugh, unsure whether a few tentative inquiries beneath a door gap were enough to earn me Jackson’s endearment. Though, I suppose, compared toDante’smethods, I could very well be the prisoner’s favorite person. “Are you sure?” Trepidation creeps in. “What if I can’t get the answers you’re looking for. Will you…punish me?’

His gaze roves over my face as he considers the question. “Do youwantme to punish you?”

Maybe my captivity has prompted delusions, because I swear guilt flashes in his eyes before he schools his expression.

“No.” I exhale through my nose and allow myself a moment to rein in my emotions. This feels like a turning point for us both. “I want to help.”

The silence seems endless as I await his verdict.

Finally, Dante speaks. “Jackson’s an art thief.”

Air rushes into my lungs.He’s letting me in.The relief is so knee-shaking that I’m glad I’m already sitting.

If Dante notices my reaction, he doesn’t comment. He simply runs a hand through his wavy locks and continues.“According to him, he worked for a man whose sister was an expert at replicating art that’s virtually indistinguishable from the real thing. At least to the untrained eye. They called the woman the Blue Butterfly. Jackson stole the original, and the Butterfly’s partner, the Ghost, found buyers on the black market.”

Restless, Dante pushes up from the bed to pace the length of the cell. “Usually, someone was sent to confirm the artwork’s authenticity, and once they determined that, the buyer and the Ghost would settle on a price. The Butterfly created a copy before the art was shipped and sent the forged piece in place of the original.”

Given the criminal scenario he’s describing, all the intricacies probably shouldn’t impress me so much. “Which means they could sell the same piece over and over again, and no one knew the difference because of all the private collections. Anyone who found out about the switch would think the authenticator was in on it, which meant the person most likely to spot the fake was also the most motivated to keep their mouth shut.”

Dante tilts his head to the side as a slow smile, one of his real ones, blooms on his lips. The approving gleam in his eyes does funny things to my stomach. “Exactly. Many buyers frequent the same circles, so some inevitably discovered the deception. But then what? They couldn’t publicly acknowledge the fraud without appearing foolish and weak.”

“But nothing stopped them from going after the seller in secret, right?” Pulling my legs up on the bed, I absent-mindedly pick at the skin on my ankles.

As Dante idly strokes the cover of one of the romance books, I can’t help but shiver at the way those fingers glide across the heroine’s body. “Many of them did, but the guy’s nearly impossible to find?—”

“Which is why they call him the Ghost.” I finish making the connection.

“Right.” Dante sits at my side again and adjusts the leg of my sweats to cover the irritated flesh. “The Butterfly disappeared a while back, so the art operation went under. The Ghost turned his attention to other things, and he and Jackson went their separate ways.”

My face heats. My dermatillomania isn’t something I’m proud of. I can’t remember when it started, but my guess is not long after my relationship with Dante imploded.

Not that what we have now could be considered a true relationship.

I shift my weight on the bed. “So, how do you think I can help? I’m not exactly an art expert, unless you count mydeeplyskilled macaroni sculptures from elementary school.”

Dante hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “When we were together, you used to watch all those documentaries about New York’s history. I thought you might have learned about some of the galleries or notable curators?”

I rub my lips together, considering. Before my dad left us, our little family spent every Saturday night in front of a documentary. Dad preferred stories about different places and cultures, but I favored the ones about New York. I loved learning about my city, especially the unsolved crimes.

In retrospect, I suppose I was destined to fall in love with a man in the Italian mafia rather than the prince in a castle my father once promised.

Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if my father had loved us enough to stay. A part of me has always believed he left because I wasn’t a good enough daughter. Stupid, but when you’re a kid and one of the people who’s supposed to love you the most abandons you, the scars never really heal.

Charlie got my mom pregnant right out of high school, and it always seemed like circumstances and obligation forced the two of them together. In which case, maybe his leaving was always inevitable.

Enough of that. “Jackson can’t justtellyou who the Ghost and the Butterfly are? He worked for them, didn’t he?”

Dante frowns. “Not directly. He always dealt with a middleman. Sometimes more than one. Remember the guy I tracked down at the Bazaar? He was one of them. An informant who sells his services to the highest bidder.”

How could I forget? Sighing, I plait my limp hair to busy my fingers.What I wouldn’t give for a good leave-in treatment right about now.

I mentally scan the useless NYC factoids that inhabit my brain, edging outimportantknowledge like how to properly fold a fitted sheet or calculate a twenty-percent tip without my phone. “The closest thing I can think of thatmightfit the bill is a gallery heist from the early nineties. This curator was about to be arrested for helping the thief when all the stolen artwork was returned.”