Chapter 5 - The Twelfth Painting
The flash drive contained a video dated eighteen years earlier.
Gabriel Muski appeared on-screen.
Older than in the studio photographs.
Alive.
Elias sat motionless as his brother spoke.
“If you’re watching this, Damian finally made the mistake I’ve been waiting for.”
Elias covered his mouth.
Gabriel explained the fire.
He had survived through a rear window.
But the body identified as Gabriel belonged to an undocumented studio assistant who had been working secretly that night.
Damian found Gabriel first.
And offered him a choice.
Disappear, or face accusations that he had started the fire for insurance money.
Gabriel was frightened.
Ashamed.
And furious with Elias.
So he disappeared.
For years, Damian financed him.
In return Gabriel produced studies.
Eventually he understood what Damian was building.
A future market.
A manufactured archive.
A supply of “lost Muskis” that could be introduced slowly.
Gabriel tried to leave.
Damian threatened him.
The video ended with coordinates.
Helen whispered, “Where is he?”
Pike answered.
“He died six years ago.”
Elias closed his eyes.
This time Anna didn’t interrupt his grief.
Twenty years of mourning had been built on a lie.
And now Elias had to mourn again.
Eventually he asked, “Painting twelve?”
“Gabriel’s final work,” Pike said. “He painted it under your name.”
“Why?”
“As evidence.”
Pike explained that Gabriel embedded records beneath the backing board because he knew Damian would preserve anything worth millions.
The painting itself was a vault.
Damian had carried proof of his own crimes from gallery to gallery.
Anna almost laughed at the irony.
Then she remembered the auction.
“When?”
“Tomorrow night,” Helen said.
They had less than twenty-four hours.
---
Damian called Anna that afternoon.
“Miss Morgan.”
She recorded immediately.
“Mr. Blackwood.”
“I understand you attended my preview.”
“Beautiful collection.”
“Careful.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And you keep surviving because I mean it.”
Anna’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“What do you want?”
“The recording.”
“No.”
“I can restore your employment history. Pay your debts. Arrange a museum position.”
“You can buy museum positions?”
“I can buy museums.”
Anna looked at Elias.
He shook his head slowly.
Damian continued.
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
“No.”
“Five.”
“No.”
“One million.”
Anna laughed softly.
Damian became silent.
“Why is that funny?”
“Because yesterday I was a waitress you could destroy.”
“You still are.”
“No. Yesterday I thought you believed that.”
She disconnected.
Elias looked impressed.
“That was reckless.”
“I learned from you.”
“Then I apologize.”
---
The auction took place at the Blackwood Grand Hotel.
Four hundred guests attended.
Collectors flew in from London, Dubai, Paris and Tokyo.
Painting twelve alone carried an estimated value of thirty-eight million dollars.
Anna stood across the street.
Helen had contacted federal investigators specializing in art crime, but they needed more than allegations to intervene publicly.
The ledger photographs helped.
The recording helped.
Pike’s testimony helped.
But Damian’s lawyers would challenge everything.
They needed the original ledger.
Still hidden behind painting twelve.
“How do we get it?” Anna asked.
Elias adjusted his old jacket.
“We ask.”
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
He crossed the street.
Anna grabbed his arm.
“Elias.”
He looked at her.
Twenty years of guilt seemed lighter somehow.
“I spent half my life hiding because I thought silence was punishment I deserved.”
He nodded toward the hotel.
“I’m finished hiding.”
They entered together.
At first nobody recognized him.
Then a critic stopped.
His wineglass lowered.
Another collector turned.
Whispers spread.
Muski.
Impossible.
Elias Muski.
Phones appeared.
By the time Damian saw him, the entire room was watching.
Damian’s face drained of color.
Elias approached painting twelve.
Preston moved forward.
“You’re not invited.”
Elias smiled.
“I painted the name on your walls. I think I can spare myself an invitation.”
The crowd murmured.
Damian regained control.
“Mr. Muski. What an extraordinary surprise.”
“Is it?”
Damian extended his hand.
Elias ignored it.
“I would like to inspect painting twelve.”
“After the auction.”
“Before.”
Damian smiled.
“No.”
Anna stepped forward.
Preston recognized her.
“You.”
Several cameras turned.
Anna’s bruised lip was still visible.
Preston lowered his voice.
“Get out.”
Anna said loudly, “Why won’t you let the artist inspect a painting you claim he created?”
The room went silent.
Damian looked around.
He was trapped by his own audience.
“Of course.”
Painting twelve was removed from the wall.
Anna approached.
Damian blocked her.
“Not you.”
Elias said, “She works for me.”
Anna looked at him.
That was news to her.
Elias added quietly, “Starting now.”
The backing board was placed on a conservation table.
Anna reached for the newer screw.
Preston’s hand suddenly grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t.”
Every camera captured it.
Anna looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“Take your hand off me.”
He did.
She removed the screw.
Then another.
The backing board loosened.
Anna reached behind it.
Nothing.
Her heart stopped.
She checked again.
Empty.
The ledger was gone.
Preston smiled.
Damian’s confidence returned.
“You were expecting something?”
Anna looked at Pike.
He was pale.
“It was there.”
Damian laughed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, apparently my former waitress has developed an interest in treasure hunting.”
Several people chuckled nervously.
Anna stared at the empty backing.
They had lost.
Then she noticed something.
Four tiny holes.
Not mounting holes.
Stitching holes.
Anna leaned closer.
The canvas had two layers.
She looked at Elias.
“Gabriel knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That someone might find the ledger.”
Anna reached for a conservation light.
Damian moved.
“Stop her.”
But it was too late.
Light passed through the rear canvas.
Writing appeared between the layers.
Not a ledger.
Names.
Account numbers.
Dates.
And at the bottom, a sentence in Gabriel’s handwriting.
If Damian removes the book, the painting tells the truth.
Gasps spread across the room.
Anna looked at Damian.
For the first time, the billionaire had no answer.
Then Preston suddenly lunged toward the canvas.
Elias stepped between them.
“Don’t.”
Preston froze.
Hundreds of phones were recording.
Sirens sounded outside.
Damian turned toward his son.
“What did you do?”
Preston stared toward the doors.
“I handled it.”
“No,” Damian whispered.
The ballroom doors opened.
Federal agents entered.
And Anna realized Damian Blackwood was no longer looking at Elias.
He was looking at Preston.
With fear.
May you like
Because whatever Preston had done to “handle it” was apparently worse than anything they had uncovered so far.
---
