Mafia Heir

Chapter 1

Charlotte

Sign it.

Just sign the paper.

"It's perfect, Charlotte. Absolutely stunning. I can already envision it hanging in my dining room." Mr. Emerson said, bypassing the pen I had handed him and pulling his own out of his shirt pocket.

Then just sign it already!

As I sat across the table from him, I tried to will the pen to move with my mind. Everything was settled, and all I needed was his signature to seal the deal. We were so close, if only he would hurry up and sign the damn thing.

Since deciding to branch out on my own and open the gallery, this would be my first sale of my own work. So far, we'd been surviving off of the profit from other artists and photographers we housed, but this one would be mine. It felt like so much more than a sale to me. It was the validation that I had done the right thing. That taking this chance and following my dreams was the right move—despite the protests I had received from nearly everyone in my life. It was proof that I could do it, that people liked my work. That maybe, just maybe, I was good at this.

The particular painting he was purchasing was like a child to me, and as anxious as I was to make the sale, it would be hard to let it go. For months, I had slaved away at it, tweaking and reworking it over and over again. No matter how many hours I put into it, it never looked done to me. Even as it hung in the gallery for the viewing tonight, it still rubbed me the wrong way. It wasn't my best, and that was why it surprised me it was my first piece to go. Mr. Emerson, however, had fallen in love with it and, for the steep price of thirteen thousand dollars, it was now his.

My breath hitched as I watched the pen sweep across the bottom of the paper with his signature.

He'd signed it. He'd actually done it. He'd bought my painting.

"Well, Charlotte, I am certain this won't be the last of our deals. I look forward to seeing what else you come up with. Who knows? I might be in the market for another Charlotte Parker original." He shot me a wink and slid the check across the table.

Thirteen thousand dollars. My hands nearly shook as I picked it up and held it in my hands. I had never possessed that kind of money before. And when I graduated with my degree in art history, neither my mother nor I ever thought I would have a career that would generate this kind of income. This was completely surreal, and I kept waiting for someone to jump out from behind a corner and tell me it was all one big prank.

Not wanting to appear as overwhelmed as I was, I gave Mr. Emerson a confident smiled and stood up, smoothing my dress out.

"I'm so glad it's going home with you, Mr. Emerson. It's been a pleasure working with you." Over the last few months, we had gotten to be good friends. He'd visited the gallery frequently, and would thoughtfully study every piece we had on display. He appreciated art of any kind, but for whatever reason, it was my work that he was drawn to. I spent hours letting him pick my brain, talking about how each piece came to fruition. Whenever he was in, he always insisted on coming back to look at what I was currently working on. A lot of times, clients didn't care about the backstory behind a piece, but that seemed to be what Mr. Emerson loved the most. And as an art collector, his interest in my work was flattering.

"It was a pleasure working with you as well, and I appreciate all the time you spent with me. It means so much more knowing where your vision came from." He said. "Now, please, go enjoy the rest of your evening. It seems I'm not the only fan of your work."

I followed him out into the gallery. Tonight, we were having a special viewing of some of our newer pieces, and it had attracted quite the crowd. Live piano music filled the space and champagne and appetizers were being survived by the tray. A few of our resident artists had shown up to talk with potential clients, and so far, everything was going well. This was exactly the type of event I envisioned when we rented this space, and seeing it in action was indescribable. The night had barely started, and I was already walking on clouds.