CHAPTER 7: The Master Stroke
Kazarian’s eyes narrowed into slits of deadly rage. He grabbed Pierre by his silk necktie, lifting him off his feet. “Is this a joke to you, Pierre?”
“I—I don’t know!” Pierre shrieked, choking for air. “I loaded the warehouse myself yesterday! The vault was locked!”
Julian stepped closer, his demeanor unflappable. “You thought you outsmarted the museum staff, Pierre. But you forgot that the curators, the truck drivers, the night guards—they didn’t work for you. They worked for my daughter’s memory. While you were throwing your little gala, we moved every original masterwork to the State Public Library.”
Julian pulled out the authentic bronze seal.
“The entire Vance Collection has been legally deeded to the public school system and city museums as a permanent, untransferable public trust. Effective midnight tonight.”
Kazarian stared at Julian for a long, heavy moment. He slowly released Pierre, who collapsed onto the dirty floor, coughing and sobbing.
“You burned eighty million dollars of liquidity for a public charity, Vance?” Kazarian asked, his voice low with genuine disbelief.
“Art isn't liquidity,” Julian answered, meeting the mobster’s gaze without a flicker of fear. “It’s the soul of people who came before us. You can’t own it, and you certainly can’t leverage it.”
Kazarian adjusted his cuffs. He was a ruthless criminal, but he was also a pragmatist. He knew when a game was finished.
“Pierre,” Kazarian said quietly, looking down at the ruined man. “You owe me forty million in legal fees and lost logistics. I’ll be taking your penthouse, your cars, and your foreign bank accounts. You’re done.”
May you like
Kazarian signaled his men. They turned on their heels, leaving Pierre curled up in the dirt like a discarded wrapper.
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