Chapter 10

373words2026-01-19 04:15

The Blackwood Foundation occupied the entire top floor of a restored Victorian building in Boston's Back Bay. As Felix's private elevator ascended, I studied his reflection in the polished brass panel. The sharp line of his jaw tensed and relaxed in a rhythm that matched the floor indicators blinking above us.

"The paintings are kept in a climate-controlled room," he said, breaking the silence. "Only family members have access."

"And now me," I added.

His eyes met mine in the reflection. "And now you."

The elevator doors slid open to reveal a space that took my breath away despite myself. Sunlight poured through skylights, casting honeyed warmth across museum-quality paintings. The air smelled of beeswax and old money.

Felix moved with the casual confidence of someone who belonged among masterpieces. I followed, my heels clicking against marble floors, each step bringing me closer to my revenge.

"This way," he said, leading me past a Monet that belonged in the Louvre, not a private collection.

We approached a glass wall separating a smaller room from the main gallery. Felix pressed his palm against a biometric scanner. The door whispered open.

"The disputed Botticellis," he said, gesturing to five paintings mounted on the far wall.

I stepped inside, momentarily forgetting my mission as professional instincts took over. The paintings were exquisite—a series depicting classical myths rendered with delicate brushstrokes and luminous colors. Too perfect, perhaps.

But it wasn't the technique that made my blood freeze. It was the face of Venus in the central painting—Vivienne's face, unmistakable despite the Renaissance styling.

"Your cousin has... interesting taste," I managed, keeping my voice neutral.

Felix's mouth tightened. "Alexander has always been drawn to certain types of beauty. Regardless of the cost."

I moved closer to the first painting, examining the brushwork. "May I?"

At his nod, I removed a small spectroscopic scanner from my bag and began analyzing the pigments. The familiar routine steadied my trembling hands.

"These blues are wrong," I said after examining all five works. "They contain synthetic ultramarine—a pigment not available until the 19th century. Whoever created these was good, but not good enough."

Felix's shoulders relaxed slightly. "I suspected as much."

"How much did your cousin pay for them?"

"Eight million. Each."