Chapter 6 - Blood and Linseed Oil
Alistair Ashcroft did not become an international black-market kingpin by relying solely on polite diplomacy.
The moment Vivian finished her sentence, Alistair kicked the heavy dining table forward with violent force, hurling crystal glasses and hot tea into the air. He reached under his blazer, drawing a compact silver automatic weapon.
“Get down!” Raphael roared, grabbing Vivian by the waist and diving behind the heavy marble buffet counter as gunfire erupted.
Bullets chewed through the wood, sending antique mahogany splinters flying like lethal shrapnel. Julian screamed in terror, scrambling under the heavy curtains near the window, clutching his head like a coward.
Raphael drew his own sidearm with fluid, deadly grace. He didn't fire wildly; he leaned out for half a second, his eyes dead and focused, and fired two controlled shots.
Alistair screamed as a bullet tore through his shooting shoulder, sending the silver pistol skittering across the parquet floor. Blood spattered across the floral wallpaper.
Two of Ashcroft’s private security guards charged through the back pantry, but Enzo and Raphael’s men intercepted them with overwhelming firepower, tackling them into the kitchen doors with brutal, bone-snapping efficiency.
The dining room fell into sudden, ringing silence, thick with the sharp stench of cordite, blood, and spilled port.
Raphael stood up, checking Vivian quickly with his hands. “Are you hit?”
“I’m fine,” Vivian breathed, her hands trembling with adrenaline, but her eyes bright and defiant. “I’m entirely in one piece.”
Raphael stepped over the shattered porcelain toward Alistair, who was slumped against the wall, clutching his bleeding shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Raphael pressed the barrel of his warm weapon directly between the Englishman’s eyes.
“Where is the Madonna, Alistair?” Raphael asked in a voice so devoid of emotion it sent a chill down Julian’s spine.
“Go to hell, Duca,” Alistair spat, blood bubbling on his lips. “It’s already en route to the offshore transport dock. You’ll never find the container before the tide changes.”
Vivian walked over, kneeling beside the wounded aristocrat. She reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out a gold pocket watch attached to a heavy platinum chain. She popped the back lid open with her fingernail.
Inside the casing was a folded sheet of micro-thin parchment covered in numeric coordinates and dock numbers.
Vivian smiled, a cool, brilliant curve of her lips. “Dock 44. The old grain terminal south of Navy Pier. My father always said English collectors were sentimental about using the same dead drops.”
Alistair stared at her in utter disbelief, his face draining of all remaining color. “You... you couldn't possibly know that...”
“I read my father’s notes, Alistair,” Vivian said, pocketing the parchment. “Every brushstroke. Every drop of linseed oil. Every sin you forced him to clean.”
Raphael lowered his gun, looking over at Enzo. “Tie them both up. Leave Julian in the pantry so the federal marshals can find him when they arrive to seize the building. We’re going to the docks.”
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Julian began sobbing from behind the curtains. “Vivian, please! Tell him to let me go! I was forced into this! My uncle made me do it!”
Vivian didn't even turn around. She looked at Raphael, her jaw set with unwavering determination. “Let’s go get my father’s masterpiece.”
