Chapter 148
Lance
The weight of the painting in the trunk felt heavier than fifty million dollars should.
Maybe it was the adrenaline crash finally hitting—three hours of watching Serena walk a tightrope between triumph and catastrophe, knowing one wrong word from Raymond could've destroyed everything. Or maybe it was the lingering heat of her body pressed against that gallery wall, the taste of her still on my lips, the way she'd looked at me when I'd pulled away. Like I'd betrayed her by stopping.
I hadn't stopped because I wanted to.
Vincent caught my eye in the rearview mirror, that insufferable smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well," he said, drawing out the word with calculated amusement. "That was faster than I expected. Two hours, in and out. I have to say, I'm not sure what kind of complicated transaction requires that much... privacy."
I glared at him through the mirror. The smirk widened.
"Eyes on the road, Vincent."
"Of course, sir." He didn't even try to hide the laugh in his voice. "Though I do think you owe me for the timely rescue. Honestly, I didn't think Felix would escalate this far. Fabricating evidence, staging a fake psychiatric commitment—that's bold, even for him."
The mention of Felix's name cut through the haze of Serena-induced distraction like a blade. I straightened in my seat, forcing my mind back to the problem that had been gnawing at me since Raymond's dramatic entrance.
"He's getting reckless," I said, watching the city lights blur past the window. "And his methods are starting to remind me of someone."
Vincent's expression shifted in the mirror, amusement fading into something more alert. "Thomas."
"Thomas," I confirmed. My uncle—Felix's father. The ghost who'd supposedly been dying in some European hospital for the past five years, too weak to even attend board meetings. The man who'd built his fortune on connections most people didn't acknowledge in polite company. "Kidnapping, coercion, manufactured evidence. That's Thomas's playbook, not Felix's usual corporate backstabbing."
"You think Thomas is advising him?"
"I think Felix is getting desperate enough to use his father's old contacts." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "Double the security detail. I want eyes on Felix twenty-four seven. And I want to know every call he makes, every meeting he takes, every person he talks to for more than five minutes."
Vincent nodded, his jaw tight. "And Miss Vance?"
The question landed like a punch to the sternum. Serena, walking into that gallery with nothing but her knowledge and her nerve. Serena, standing her ground against Raymond's accusations while the entire room turned against her. Serena, who'd looked at me with such raw vulnerability when she thought I was going to let her fall.
"Triple her security," I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "I don't want her alone. Not in the office, not at home, not anywhere. And if Felix or anyone connected to him gets within fifty feet of her—"
"Understood."
We pulled through the gates of the estate, gravel crunching under the tires. The house loomed ahead, every window blazing with light. Grandfather would be waiting, eager as a child on Christmas morning to see his new acquisition.
Vincent parked, and I climbed out, heading around to help him with the painting. It was wrapped in protective cloth, secured in a custom crate Harrison had provided. Worth more than most people earned in a lifetime, and Grandfather had bought it on a whim because a twenty-two-year-old woman with more courage than sense had convinced him it was worth it.
She'd convinced him. Not me, not Eleanor, not anyone else. Just Serena, with her knowledge and her passion and that devastating ability to make you believe she could do the impossible.
God, I was in so much trouble.
The front door swung open before we reached it. Arthur stood in the entrance, practically vibrating with excitement, Eleanor hovering behind him with an expression that suggested she was already planning where to hang the thing.
"Well?" Arthur demanded. "Let me see it. Vincent, bring it to the east drawing room—the light's best there. Lance, help him. Carefully! This is a piece of history, not some corporate acquisition."
"Yes, Grandfather." I caught Vincent's eye over the crate. He was still smirking. I was definitely docking his pay.
We maneuvered the painting through the hallway, Arthur directing traffic like a general commanding troops. Eleanor had already cleared wall space in the east gallery, dismissing a Renoir to storage without a second thought. The Monet would hang in its place, a blood-red reminder of everything that had happened tonight.
Everything Serena had accomplished.
I was heading back toward the main hall when I passed one of the smaller sitting rooms—the one we rarely used, tucked away near the service entrance. The door was ajar, a sliver of light cutting across the darkened corridor. I wouldn't have thought twice about it, except for the voice drifting out.
Felix's voice. Low, clipped, formal. And speaking Italian.