Page 3 of Break Me Beautifully
Chapter 2.
Iknow something isdifferent in the house.
The maids won't look me in the eye. There's a silence flowing through the massive halls, a weight that the gentle sunlight drifting through the windows and warming my bare feet can't erase.
The Devil, as he called himself, hasn't left with his entourage. Their cars are still parked in our driveway. I considered whether to go inside, but gave in to my grumbling stomach.
“Leona.”
I jump; my older sister, Katy, beckons me from an open doorway to the study—one of the many places in our mansion that is meant for looking, not living. Chairs for decoration, books never to be cracked. My parents adore luxurious spaces with no purpose other than to show wealth.
“What is it?” I ask, approaching her warily. Katy is the oldest at twenty-eight. She's also the kindest to me out of my siblings. You'd never guess it with her severely blunt haircut and scrutinizing hooded eyes, but her heart is kind, her arms willing to give hugs when no one is looking.
She shoots a paranoid glance around the hall before pulling me inside. She doesn't close the door all the way. “Dad needs to talk to you,” she whispers.
My forehead crinkles. “What, why? I didn't do anything.”
“Yeah, you did. You caught the attention of Marshall Klintock.” I stare blankly. She curls her upper lip. “The man everyone in New York City hires to curate their galleries? The guy with an uncanny ability to tell fake art from real?ThatMarshall Klintock?”
I stagger backwards in surprise. I'd read a few articles about the man online. He was known for never failing to find whatever painting his client was chasing, even if it meant diving into the black markets. "Are you joking? How does he even know who I am?"
“I don't know. Someone must have shown him your work.”
That coaxes a bitter snort out of me. “Impossible. Dad has never let me have a show.” My father went to great lengths to tell me I wasn't ready for a display, that I wasn't good enough. He never saidyet.Good enoughyetwould have hurt less. That was the reason I'd started posting my art on Instagram under a pen name. Even then, it wasn't like I had a ton of followers. I was a nobody. How had I gotten on anyone's radar?
Katy is staring at me with her lower lip in her teeth. “Listen, I don't know how to tell you this.”
“Just say it, Katy.”
“Klintock isn't just an art curator. He has a reputation.”
“I'm guessing it's a bad one with how many lines are in your forehead right now.”
Her face doesn't smooth, it scrunches more. “Leona. This guy is rumored to be involved in the mafia.”
“The art mafia?” I tease.
“Take this seriously!” she growls, gripping me by my upper arms.
I wince. “Katy, that hurts. ”
“He's dangerous. Do you understand? He's known for being able to get whatever art his clients want, for any price, and for cutting out competition when his clients want that, too. I've heard he doesn't back down from any job he takes, even if it means killing someone if they're in his way.”
“Oh my god.” I cover my mouth with my hands. This is unreal. I didn't know that the art world could be so violent. But then, I knew the real estate business was, and from the outside, everyone thoughtthatwas all perfect smiles and billboards. “How do you know all this?” I ask.
“Willbur told me.”
