Page 14 of Silence and Surrender

The line went dead. I sat in my darkened apartment, staring at my father’s notebooks. At shipping manifests that moved phantom art. The documentation so perfect it could only be hiding something terrible.

With careful, steady movements, I closed my laptop. Locked my father’s notebooks in my safe. Poured another glass of wine I had no intention of drinking.

But as I got ready for bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d stumbled onto something far darker than missing art. That the false paperwork and fake paintings were hiding something worse than money laundering.

Tomorrow, then. Maybe then we’d start understanding what we were really uncovering.

I checked my locks one more time, then lay in bed listening to the fall of rain. Somewhere in the city, money was moving through accounts, documenting art that didn’t exist. Somewhere, cargo that wasn’t paintings was being shipped with false but impeccable paperwork.

Somewhere, someone was watching.

And I had a feeling they weren’t going to let us keep pulling these threads much longer.

Sleep was a long time coming.

The next morning, the bank’s pristine lobby felt…different. As if every secret I uncovered peeled away the elegant interior and seemed to poison the very structure of the building. I nodded to security as I crossed to the elevators, my eyes taking in the imported stone that probably cost more than most people’s homes. Everything about Devereux Private Bank whispered perfection, but I was starting to see the rot and mold beneath its immaculately polished surface.

“Isabella.” Rodger Ross’s voice made me pause at the elevators. He approached with a fluid grace I’d never quite registered before…too powerful for a simple board member. “A word about the Vermeer authentication?”

Something in his tone made my skin crawl, though his expression remained cordial. “Of course.”

“Excellent work on the documentation.” He gestured me into the elevator, which was empty, thankfully. Or maybe not…

His cologne was expensive but held a metallic undertone that reminded me of gunpowder. “Every detail precisely recorded. Rather like your father’s work.”

The casual mention of my father made my pulse jump, but I kept my voice steady. “High praise. His standards were legendary.”

“Quite.” Rodger studied me like a predator sizing up their next meal. “He had quite the eye for...irregularities.”

The elevator felt smaller with each floor we climbed. His presence had shifted somehow, became less bureaucratic, more predator-like.

“Some of the board members have questions about our recent acquisitions,” he continued smoothly. “Perhaps we should discuss them. Privately.”

The threat beneath his corporate courtesy was clear. My father had asked questions, too.

“I’m rather busy today,” I managed, silently willing the elevator to move faster. “But I’m happy to review any specific concerns—”

“Oh, I insist.” His smile was frozen in place. “We wouldn’t want any...misunderstandings about our operations.”

The elevator dinged as it stopped on my floor, thank god.

“This afternoon,” he said as I stepped out. “Don’t keep me waiting, Isabella. Meetings like these are rather time-sensitive.”

I managed a slight nod before escaping to my office. Only then did I let my hands shake with unbridled fear.

Rodger wasn’t questioning the acquisitions. He was warning me.

Just like he’d probably warned my father.

I sat down at my desk, fighting the urge to tremble.

My father’s voice echoed in my memory: “Follow the money,ma petite. Art moves, money moves, but truth leaves traces.”

I opened another file, documentation for a Degas we’d supposedly acquired last month. The paperwork was flawless, showing its transport from a private collector in Geneva. Humidity readings, insurance forms, everything normal.

But the weight. Nearly twice what it should be.

A knock made me look up; Sari was peering behind my door with her knowing eyes. “Miss Delacroix? These just came for you.”

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