Chapter Seventeen
Colton
Steele met me at one of his private galleries in Chelsea, another legal front he’d established after retiring from his more colorful enterprises. The evening rain cast wavering shadows through the skylights, making the collected artwork seem alive.
“These private auction records,” Steele said in his Franco-British accent, studying the documents we’d brought. “Isabella’s work, I assume?” He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d spent years avoiding security systems, though he wore his wealth openly—a Brioni suit and a vintage Rolex.
“She found her father’s cipher,” I confirmed, watching him examine the files. “Found a pattern of collectors who always bid on specific acquisitions. The same names keep appearing, but we can’t trace them beyond shell companies.”
“Of course not.” He traced a line of figures with one finger. “They aren’t just any collectors, these are the ones who only appear at private viewings. Very exclusive. Very...particular in their tastes.” The way he said it made my jaw clench. “When I was working less legitimate ventures, we heard whispers about them. The kind of people who collect things that shouldn’t be collected.”
“We know about the trafficking. What we need is a way in. These auctions—”
“Are extremely well-guarded.” Steele moved to a cabinet, producing an aged Bordeaux. “But not impenetrable. Not if you know the right pressure points.” He poured two glasses, handing me one. “The interesting thing about collectors—they’re creatures of habit. They have patterns, preferences. Weaknesses.”
“Like what?”
“Like always using the same security firms. The same transport companies. The same documentation experts.” His smile was wolfish. “I may have ‘borrowed’ quite a few paintings from them back in the day. Despite their…other assets, they occasionally move legitimate pieces.”
I took a sip of wine, wishing it was something stronger. “We need to know everything. Their setup, their protocols, their weak spots.”
“Planning something dramatic, are we?” But his eyes were serious despite his light tone. “This isn’t like stealing paintings, Colton. These people, they don’t just protect their investments. They eliminate problems.”
“They already eliminated Isabella’s father,” I said quietly. “Now they’re watching her, too.”
Something shifted in Steele’s expression. “How is she? Really?”
“Strong. Brilliant. Fascinating. Determined to finish what her father started.” I couldn’t keep the pride from my voice.
His features clouded with memory. “Antoine used to talk about her all the time—his brilliant daughter at Oxford.” He paused. “And the two of you?”
I met his knowing look steadily. “That obvious?”
“Only to someone who knows what to look for.” He smiled slightly. “Cooper mentioned you’ve been...different lately. More focused. More driven.” He paused, then added quietly, “More like when you were younger, before….”
“Before Catherine? Everything’s different now.” I set down my glass, fighting the urge to pace. “They’re going to come for her eventually. Like they did with Antoine.”
“Yes.” No attempt to soften the truth. “But this time she has you. Has us. I admired Antoine; I’ll do what I can to help you protect his daughter.” He pulled out his phone, typing briefly. “I’m sending you blueprints of three private auction houses. Security layouts, camera positions, patrol patterns. The kind of details that used to make my former career possible.”
“I thought you destroyed all that when you went legit.”
His smile turned wicked. “Let’s say I kept some insurance. Just in case.”
“And the collectors themselves?”
“I have dossiers on the major players. The ones who never miss certain types of auctions.” His focus remained on me. “But Colton, if we do this, if we help you get proof of what they’re really moving...there’s no going back. No legal solutions. No clean endings. You won’t win this battle in court.”
“I know.” I thought of Isabella bent over her father’s notebooks, piecing together the horror with her brilliance. Of how she’d felt in my arms last night, soft and strong and worth any risk. “But they crossed that line when they killed Antoine. When they started watching her.”
Steele was quiet for a moment, studying me over his wine glass. “You really care for her, don’t you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No doubt. I was finally ready to admit it.
“Then let’s make sure these bastards never hurt anyone else’s daughter.” He pulled out more files—hand-drawn maps, security codes, the accumulated knowledge of years spent acquiring things that didn’t belong to him. “The next private auction is in three weeks. Very exclusive guest list. Very special merchandise.”
My hands clenched at his careful phrasing. “Location?”
“Secret basement and wine cellar in the Mayfair Hotel. Old money, old secrets.” He spread out architectural plans in the backroom of the gallery. “The kind of place that’s seen a lot of things change hands over the centuries.”
“Security?”
“Heavy. Professional. Ex-military mostly.” His finger traced entry points with the ease of someone who’d once used this knowledge for less…noble purposes. “But they have patterns. Habits. The same ones I used to exploit when liberating rather expensive paintings.”
I studied the plans, memorizing details. “We’ll need a way in. Documentation that’ll stand up to scrutiny.”
“Already working on it.” He produced another file with invitation lists, buyer profiles, the kind of information that wasn’t supposed to exist. “But Colton...this isn’t just about getting in. You need to fit in. You can’t blow your cover. It’s about making sure you all get out alive.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” His jaw tightened. “Because Antoine thought he could handle this, too. Thought having proof would be enough.”
“That was different.” I met his gaze steadily. “He was alone. We’re not.”
Steele was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “No, you’re not.” He pulled out his phone again. “I’m calling in some favors. People who owe me from the old days. The kind of people who know how to make problems disappear.”
“Like you used to?”
“Better.” His smile was wide. “Much better.”
We spent the next hour going over details—security rotations, camera blind spots, the elaborate dance of a high-end auction where the merchandise wasn’t meant to exist. Every detail and every contingency planned.
Just like he used to do, back when he and Cooper moved art across borders and then later when I handled the financial side for Cooper’s operations. “She’ll want to be there,” I said finally. “At the auction.”
“Of course she will.” Steele’s voice held understanding. “She’s her father’s daughter.”
“I can’t lose her.” The admission felt raw. “Not to them. Not to any of this.”
“Then we make sure you don’t.” He gathered the files. “We keep her safe. We get the proof. We end them.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ll have more information tomorrow—guest lists, security assignments, everything we need.”
I nodded, gathering my coat.
“Colton.” Steele’s voice stopped me at the door. “For what it’s worth...I’ve never seen you like this. Not even back before Catherine.”
“Like what?”
“Willing to burn everything down for someone.” Awareness lightened his eyes. “It suits you.”
I stepped out into the night, letting his words settle. He was right, I’d never felt like this before. Never been willing to risk it all.
But Isabella was worth breaking every rule I’d ever lived by.