Darius listed things he liked and Zechariah stuck pound signs on them. Art was an expensive collecting hobby, he certainly owned some fine art, and his name alone meant even stick figures drawn with his own feces could justify protection.

Good credit at the very least, he would guess.

It did not occur to him that that painting of a woman on a couch sitting right next to said painting might be Darius’ masterpiece.

“Insure those pieces. How much were they?”

Did he have the money to actually pay Zechariah? He supposed worse come to worst, he could take the consultation as a loss if no sweet, sweet pounds came back singing the answer to his invoice.