CHAPTER 3: The Broken Trust
Across town, inside a penthouse suite overlooking the river, Pierre was tearing through his mahogany desk. Papers flew across the plush carpet like wounded birds.
“He’s alive? How is he alive?!” Pierre screamed into his encrypted satellite phone.
On the other end, Lev Kazarian’s voice was as cold as dry ice. *“I don’t care about ghost stories, Pierre. My cargo plane lands at midnight tomorrow. If the Caravaggio and the two Rodin bronzes aren’t in those crates, my associates won’t just take your assets. They’ll take your kneecaps.”*
“Listen to me!” Pierre pleaded, wiping grease and sweat from his face. “Julian Vance was supposed to have drowned off the coast of Maine ten years ago! He showed up out of nowhere! He’s an eccentric recluse—he’s insane! He has no legal standing without the physical founder’s seal!”
*“Then find the seal,”* Kazarian said flatly. *“Or become the next casualty of high-stakes art trading.”*
The call went dead.
Pierre dropped the phone. His eyes darted to a hidden wall safe behind an abstract modern painting. He sprinted over, punched in the six-digit code, and pulled out an old black velvet box.
Inside sat a forged replica of the Vance Family Signet—the only thing standing between him and total destruction. But deep down, Pierre knew an auction appraiser could spot the flaw in thirty seconds.
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He needed the original. And he knew Julian kept it in the only place he ever truly loved: his late daughter’s memorial foundation in the city’s poorest district.
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