Chapter 5 - The Englishman’s Gambit
By midday, the storm over Chicago cleared into an eerie, crisp autumn chill. Inside an underground private club overlooking the Chicago River, Alistair Ashcroft raised a glass of vintage port toward his nephew.
Alistair was in his late sixties, impeccably groomed, with thinning silver hair, bespoke Savile Row tailoring, and the arrogant, aristocratic air of old English nobility. Across from him, Julian was sweating through his collar, checking his phone every thirty seconds.
“Stop fidgeting, Julian,” Alistair said in a cultured, clipped British accent. “You look like a guilty schoolboy.”
“Uncle, Duca is going to tear the city apart looking for that canvas,” Julian whispered frantically, his voice shaking. “You don't understand him. He doesn't go to the police. He has twenty captains and a hundred soldiers who would burn down every gallery in Chicago if he gave the word.”
“Duca’s hands are tied,” Alistair scoffed dismissively. “The FBI Art Crime Team has Castellane House surrounded with warrants. The press is camped outside his gates. The public believes that pathetic girl Vivian stole the painting to avenge her father. By midnight, our private cargo jet will clear O’Hare airspace with the Madonna safely packed in diplomatic baggage.”
“And what about Vivian?” Julian asked, swallowing hard. “The girl we hired... the actress... she’s still in the safehouse near Navy Pier.”
“The actress will be dealt with permanently once the plane takes off,” Alistair said with cold, sociopathic ease. “Loose ends are expensive luxuries, Julian. Just like your former engagement.”
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany doors of the private dining room swung open without a knock.
Julian leaped to his feet, knocking his chair backward. Two towering men in dark overcoats stepped into the room, their hands resting inside their jackets.
Behind them walked Raphael Duca.
Raphael was flanked by Vivian, who looked stunning in a tailored black suit, her head held high, her eyes fixed on Alistair like emerald daggers.
Alistair didn't flinch, though his hand tightened slightly around his crystal glass. “Mr. Duca. I believe this room is reserved for private members.”
“I bought the building twenty minutes ago, Lord Ashcroft,” Raphael said, pulling out a chair and gesturing for Vivian to sit. She sat down smoothly, never taking her eyes off Julian, whose face had turned the color of curdled milk.
Raphael remained standing, leaning both palms against the edge of the polished mahogany table. The casual dominance of his posture suffocated the entire room.
“You’ve caused a significant amount of damage to my gallery, Alistair,” Raphael murmured. “Broken glass. Ruined wallpaper. A very public scandal. I don't appreciate being inconvenienced.”
Alistair forced a thin, superior smile. “If you’ve come to accuse me of something, Raphael, you’re barking up the wrong tree. The whole world saw Miss Blake flee into the night with your precious Sicilian treasure. You’re harboring a federal fugitive in broad daylight.”
“The federal agents are currently raiding your safehouse on Grand Avenue, Alistair,” Vivian spoke up, her voice ringing clear and authoritative. “Your ‘actress’—Elena Vance—is singing like a bird to the U.S. Attorney. She gave them the prosthetic molds, the duplicate emerald dress, and the three hundred thousand dollars in cash Julian transferred from your Swiss shell company this morning.”
Julian choked on his breath, collapsing back against the sideboard. “Uncle... she... she knows...”
Alistair’s smile vanished completely. His aristocratic composure cracked, revealing the ugly, desperate predator underneath. “You think you can bluff me? You don't have the painting. The Madonna is already secured in a private vault. Without the physical canvas, you have circumstantial nonsense!”
Raphael leaned in closer, his dark eyes narrowing into twin points of lethal flame. “I don't need the canvas to destroy you, Alistair. I have Thomas Blake’s complete ledger. Three hundred pages of your illegal acquisitions, encrypted wire transfers, and stolen antiquities.”
May you like
Alistair’s eyes widened in sudden horror. “That notebook was burned six years ago!”
“Thomas gave it to me before he died,” Vivian whispered, leaning forward, savoring every drop of the man’s terror. “He told me to follow the blossoms. And every single blossom leads straight to your execution.”
