Chapter 9
After a week of frantic planning and calling in every favor Cari and Simone were owed, the night of the showing finally arrived. Yet again, they’d reinvented the gallery, trading Gold Coast nouveau-riche panache for old-world, legacy-wealth sophistication.
Track lighting illuminated the framed and canvas pieces with museum-level precision.
The crowd mingled, sipping Cari’s expensive champagne and nibbling on Emily’s canapés.
Potential buyers and self-proclaimed art critics paused before each piece, studied it a moment, heads tilting then murmured their judgments.
They wore custom suits and one-off designer gowns, exuding the effortless confidence of people accustomed to extravagance.
Security was unobtrusive but absolute. Dev’s signature. Cari and Simone matched his thoroughness step by meticulous step.
Rhys adjusted his cuff links as he crossed the room, every movement calibrated and unhurried.
He wore the role of Lucien Blackwood with an old-money air, international polish, and the faintest hint of boredom with the whole affair.
The kind of man who belonged anywhere because his wealth and importance allowed him to.
The gallery buzzed with interest in Sabitini’s protégé, but everyone knew the real draw tonight was the single item up for auction. He didn’t head straight for it. That would be rude and much too obvious.
Instead, he worked the room with a nod here, a murmured comment there. He allowed himself to be noticed without demanding attention, a trick he’d perfected long ago.
After sufficient time had passed, he moved toward the far wall to where the fourth panel hung alone under a spotlight behind a velvet rope. Rhys slowed, seeing it for the first time.
As a child, vacationing with his parents in Europe, he’d been dragged to museums aplenty.
He’d seen the works of the old masters and eventually developed a genuine appreciation for them.
The piece was exquisite in its brushwork and palette, and its boldness for the time.
Bellandi didn’t hint at or censor the sensuality; he declared it.
Stopping a respectful distance away, he murmured in Italian, “Tentazione.”
The man beside him glanced over, sizing him up in a heartbeat before his gaze returned to the panel.
Medium height, salt-and-pepper hair, impeccably dressed, his wealth worn like a second skin, Sebastián álvarez regarded the painting with a look of hunger that bordered on possession, like a lover he’d waited far too long to claim.
“It’s as beautiful as I imagined,” Rhys said. “Although I was beginning to think it didn’t exist.”
álvarez turned again, mouth set in a hard line, perhaps perturbed at having his moment with the elusive piece interrupted. “Do you intend to bid, Mr…?”
Rhys extended his hand. “Lucien Blackwood.”
álvarez took it, his skin soft from a life of luxury. “You’re British,” he observed.
“I don’t claim a country,” Rhys replied easily. “I’ve lived in too many places for that. I heard from the gallery owner that another serious bidder had emerged. Are you, by chance, my competition?”
álvarez’s attention snapped back to the panel. “I must have it. It is a sin for the fourth not to reside with the others.”
There it was. Not desire—entitlement.
“It would indeed be a shame for you not to possess all of them, Mr. álvarez.”
The other man looked at him sharply. In that single sentence, with knowledge offered like a courtesy, Rhys had revealed he’d done his research and knew exactly who álvarez was and what he already owned.
Simone approached, elegant in a black gown that traced the lines of her lithe frame. The slit revealed a glimpse of toned thigh as she walked. álvarez’s gaze slid to her, interest sparking briefly before extinguishing.
A curl of distaste tightened in Rhys’s gut. Past thirty, Simone was almost certainly outside álvarez’s appetites.
“Gentlemen,” she said warmly. “Please enjoy the refreshments and explore the rest of the gallery while we prepare our featured piece for auction. Bidding starts in fifteen minutes.
They both stepped away, álvarez reluctantly, as if tempted to snatch the panel and run with it.
As the gallery filled, Rhys accepted a glass of champagne and surveyed the room.
Richard Sabatini hovered near his protégé’s work, preening with pride.
The style wasn’t Rhys’s taste, but they were undeniably strong.
Cari and Simone would come out of this with their reputations not just intact but enhanced.
Devlin security blended seamlessly into the crowd.
Lorenzo and Michael, with Greta on his arm, looked every inch the affluent patrons they pretended to be.
Beneath the relaxed surface, they were prepared to act at the first sign of trouble.
Outside the room, the unseen half of the team monitored every entrance and blind spot.
The gallery lights dimmed briefly, signaling the main event. Conversation tapered off as the auctioneer stepped onto a small, raised podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, voice rich and practiced, “thank you for joining us tonight. We are honored to present a singular piece of extraordinary rarity, Niccolo Bellandi’s Tentazione, the fourth panel of his renowned Le Virtù e la Caduta.”
A ripple of anticipation moved through the room, heightened by the awareness that they were witnessing an event both mythic and historic.
“Bellandi’s triptych was presumed complete,” the auctioneer continued. “The existence of a fourth, more provocative panel, created solely for private display, has remained conjecture for centuries, until now.”
He gestured toward the painting, which glowed dark and sensual, its allure magnetic, under the focused light.
“This piece has been authenticated through extensive provenance research, including pigment analysis and archival corroboration. It is, in short, the rediscovery of a forgotten masterpiece.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
“We will begin the bidding at eight hundred thousand dollars.”
A quiet gasp rippled from several corners of the room. Some attendees were impressed, others startled. It was an aggressive opening number, even for this crowd.
Rhys didn’t react. Of course, álvarez didn’t. But a few of the other collectors stiffened, recalculating their limits.
“Eight hundred,” Lorenzo called, starting things off. Playing his role beautifully.
“Eight hundred thousand,” the auctioneer confirmed. “Do I have eight-fifty?”
A paddle lifted.
“Eight-fifty. Do I hear nine?”
Another bidder across the room raised a hand.
“Nine hundred thousand,” the auctioneer announced. “Nine-fifty?”
Michael lifted his card without hesitation.
“Nine-fifty. One million?”
The air practically crackled with exhilaration over a potential bidding war.
“One million,” Rhys bid smoothly, not with a raised paddle but with the slightest lift of his hand. Controlled. Understated. Certain.
álvarez countered immediately.
“One point one million. Thank you, sir. One point two?”
The auctioneer looked at Michael, who shook his head.
Rhys paused long enough to let álvarez feel the pressure. Then he lifted a single finger. “One point two.”
Lorenzo folded next. Other collectors bowed out, some gracefully, one with visible frustration. Two European bidders held on briefly but faltered as the price soared past their comfort.
When only two men remained, the room held its breath.
“Mr. Blackwood has the current bid of one point four million dollars,” the auctioneer confirmed then looked at álvarez. “Going once…”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. Then he lifted his card with a crisp snap. “One point five million.”
“One point five from Mr. álvarez,” the auctioneer declared. “Mr. Blackwood, would you like to counter?”
Rhys didn’t answer right away, letting the tension build, letting álvarez wonder if he’d reached his limit. He met the other man’s gaze. His hand twitched fractionally. A heartbeat, maybe two, later, he inclined his head.
The implication was deliberate, his message clear: You want it more. I’ll allow you to have it.
The gavel came down decisively.
“Sold,” the auctioneer announced. “To Mr. álvarez, for one million, five hundred thousand dollars.”
A polite wave of applause rippled through the gallery.
álvarez allowed himself a small, victorious exhale. He turned to Rhys, tempered respect gleaming coolly in his eyes.
“Well played, Mr. Blackwood. Rarely do I meet someone who appreciates art at its proper value.”
“I would have loved to add Tentazione to my collection,” Rhys replied smoothly. “But you are correct. Such a piece belongs with the one who wants it most.”
álvarez’s smile deepened, tinged with grudging admiration.
Heat crawled up the back of Rhys’s neck, anger surging through him at the compliment. Getting approval from a man who trafficked young women, who might be holding Gaby’s sister, made him want to wipe the smug smile off his face with his fist, in one bone-shattering punch.
Instead, he inclined his head, cool and controlled. “Congratulations on your new acquisition. Enjoy your evening.”
“I shall,” álvarez purred. “Now that Temptation is mine. You were a worthy adversary. Perhaps next time you’ll best me.”
Rhys paused and asked pointedly, “Next time?”
“We’ll cross paths again,” he said with easy confidence. “Men with our shared interests often do.”
Revulsion swept through him, swift and cold. In no universe ever were they kindred spirits. But he forced a smile, satisfied their trap had sprung cleanly. “I look forward to that day.”
Across the room, the gallery staff moved with precision—white gloves, archival paper, a custom crate already waiting. No one mishandled a rediscovered masterwork worth more than most people earned in their lifetime.
“Mr. álvarez,” Simone said smoothly as she slipped in beside him, clipboard in hand. “Just a bit of paperwork, and then Tentazione is yours to take with you this evening.”
Rhys watched from a distance as the transaction unfolded. Electronic transfer. Authentication. Signatures. álvarez barely glanced at the total. To him, money was a tool, not an obstacle.
Within minutes, he left with his entourage, the crate bearing his purchase carried reverently behind him like holy cargo.
When the doors closed behind álvarez, Rhys exhaled.
Not with relief or in triumph, but with purpose settling deep in his bones.
He didn’t doubt an invitation would come.
Men like Sebastián álvarez always wanted to test their reflection.
And tonight, the bastard believed he’d found a mirror image in him.
Rhys wanted no confusion. He was nothing like that monster. But Natalie’s life depended on him playing his part flawlessly.
So, he would wait. And when their paths crossed again, it wouldn’t involve art or wealth or the smug arrogance of powerful men. It would be álvarez, handcuffed, humiliated, and perp-walked out of his crumbling empire into the waiting FBI helicopter.
He’d end his reign of depravity exactly where he belonged. Behind bars.
***
From the surveillance van tucked in the alley behind the gallery, Gaby watched álvarez step out into the heat and humidity, victory written into every line of his smug, entitled face. He slid into the back seat of a slick black limo and, just like that, was gone.
After doing flip-flops for the last hour, her stomach twisted into a hard knot. It felt like Natalie had disappeared all over again.
“That’s it?” she whispered, her voice frayed at the edges. “He wins the piece and just leaves?”
Leland leaned against the console, arms folded. “This was the plan, Gaby.”
“Since we’re empty-handed, maybe we need a new one,” she shot back, frustration pulling the knot tighter.
“You’re underestimating Rhys,” he said, tone even but firm. “I get this is personal, but operations like this take time—and patience.”
She was running dangerously low on that commodity and took a breath to tell him so when the door slid open. Dev climbed in, Rhys right behind him. In his dark suit, he gave off a composed, utterly unshakable James Bond vibe. Everything she was not.
“What now?” she asked, unable to mask the strain twisting her words.
“We wait,” Dev answered.
As next steps went, she didn’t like it much. Waiting was never her strong suit.
“I’m sorry. I just—” Her voice broke before she forced it steady. “We gave him exactly what he’s been chasing for ten years and got nothing in return. No invitation. No contact information. Not a single opening.”
“That’s not true,” Rhys said, calm as stone. “I gave him Blackwood’s card.”
She thought she’d watched his every move, but she must have missed that. Still… “That doesn’t guarantee—”
“He’ll reach out, Gaby,” he interrupted. Not dismissive but with rock-solid certainty.
“When?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. He couldn’t possibly know, which was the problem.
“Soon,” Rhys replied anyway. “He won’t be able to resist proving himself to a man who let him win.”
She inhaled, striving for the calm the men around her wore so easily. It didn’t take.
Already hunched, too tall to stand upright in the van without bending, he crouched in front of her.
The hard-edged operative gave way to a gentler side he didn’t often let her see.
“I know this isn’t easy, Gaby. But you can’t rush a man like álvarez.
He doesn’t invite just anyone into his inner sanctum.
He evaluates, challenges, and tests. If he thinks I’m too eager, we’ll never see the inside of his world. ”
She glanced toward Dev, trust in Rhys written plainly across his face. Then at Leland, who wore an I-told-you-so expression.
When her gaze returned to Rhys, his confidence that everything was unfolding as planned didn’t ease her tension completely, but it gave her some space to breathe.
“You’re sure about this.” It wasn’t a question.
“I am.”
“How?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile, discerning seemed to fit. “Because I showed him I understand his obsession. He thinks we’re kindred spirits or some such bullshit.”
She huffed, more of an exhale than a laugh, her frustration still coiled tight. “This is beyond infuriating.”
He leaned closer, his hand coming to her knee for a reassuring squeeze. “Trust me on this.”
“I do,” she admitted, meaning it. “But it’s been sixty-seven days since my sister disappeared, and I’m teetering on the edge.”
“Hold on a little longer,” he urged softly, fingers flexing again. “We made progress tonight.”
Gaby wished she could crawl into his lap and feel the reassurance of his arms. But that wasn’t them, no matter how badly she wanted it to be. So she nodded, sounding a bit desperate when she whispered, “I’m holding on as best I can.”
What hung between them, she kept to herself, that trusting him and the team was all she and Natalie had left.