Chapter 28 MELBOURNE
Lena drove desperately to her father's gallery, refusing to believe the worst. A part of her clung stubbornly to hope that those paintings were still there. These weren't just artworks. They were her father's soul, his favorite things, the quiet corners of his mind captured in brushstrokes. Pieces she planned to keep forever, the ones she wanted to pass on to her children someday. She had sold off all his commercial work just to keep the gallery afloat but never these. These were sacred.
There had even been a painting of her as a child and another of her mother, a woman Lena had never met, only known through that portrait. The thought of losing that single fragile connection, the only visual thread to the woman who gave her life, made something cave inside her. She pressed harder on the gas.
She turned into the gallery street, heart pounding as if her panic alone could reverse time. She parked haphazardly, the car still rattling as she jumped out. Her fingers fumbled with the keys, her breath catching in her throat. Maybe it wasn't true. Maybe someone was wrong.
She swung the door open and ran past the front, to the narrow corridor that led to the reserve room. Then she stopped.
The door was open.
From where she stood, she could already see the truth in the small room, once overflowing with her father's most personal work, was now hollow. Empty. Stripped bare.
She didn't move forward. She didn't have to. Her knees buckled as a cry escaped her lips, and she collapsed to the ground, shaking, broken. Everything that mattered had been taken. And this time, there was no painting left to remember it by.
She allowed herself to pour out most of the pain-raw, silent sobs shaking through her as she sat there on the cold gallery floor. But when there were no more tears left to shed, she rose.
If this Vincent thought he could just waltz into her life and take what wasn't his, he was wrong.
She locked up the gallery and got into her car, gripped the wheel with both hands and drove, not to the police, not to anyone with a suit and tie but straight into the lion's den.
The ghetto. The most dangerous part of Melbourne. The place no one decent dared to wander, especially not alone. Especially not a woman like her, in a sleek car and clean clothes and eyes still wet with grief. But that's where she knew she'd find him or at least someone who knew him.
As she turned into the area, heads turned, first at the car, then at the woman driving it. This wasn't a place for visitors.
She pulled up beside a crooked shed and killed the engine. The heat inside the car made it feel like a coffin. Without hesitation, she got out, slammed the door, and walked like someone who had nothing left to lose.
She knew how places like this worked. If she asked the right way, someone would know him.
Vincent. That name echoed in her head like a challenge.
She wasn't leaving until she found him
"Where did Lena run off to?" Hugo asked, his tone laced with concern as he slide a large envelope across Ethan's home office table
Ethan didn't look up right away. "She's having some issues with her father's gallery," he said as he took the envelope.
Ethan took it and opened it. Inside was a thick stack of documents, photos, reports, records. His brow furrowed as he flipped through it. "Vincent Helparn?" he muttered.
"Vincent Helparn is not someone you cross lightly. Hugo said. "You know who he is, right? Brother of Mathew Helparn the minister. That's how he keeps getting away with everything. Drugs. Laundering. Extortion. Half the cops in the city pretend he doesn't exist."
"His men are the same thugs that attacked our security team last year at the docks," Hugo snapped. "We lost two good men that night, Ethan. They were trying to intercept a shipment tied to one of our contracts. Vincent's crew stormed the port like it was a damn war zone. Hugo added
Ethan kept his eyes on the file.
Hugo paced, then stopped. "Okay. But why are you digging into him now?"
"He took some private works from Lena's father's reserve collection. Apparently the old man owed him money."
"And Lena went after him?" Hugo's voice jumped, alarmed.
Ethan nodded once.
Hugo stared at him. "You let her go? Alone?"
"I felt that was her private matter," Ethan said, his voice calm but distant.
"What do you mean by private matter?" Hugo snapped, eyes narrowing with disbelief. "She's your wife, Ethan."
"You keep forgetting," Ethan replied coldly, "it's a contractual marriage."
"Contract or not," Hugo shot back, stepping closer, "if anything happens to her, you will be held responsible."
Ethan's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
"She's a Sinclair now," Hugo continued, his voice lowering but sharper. "That name means something. And whether you married her out of convenience, strategy, or obligation doesn't change the fact that she is under your protection. You're supposed to be responsible for her safety."
Ethan looked away, the weight of those words hitting somewhere deeper than he cared to admit.
Hugo wasn't done. "You think this is just about stolen paintings? That man she's going after Vincent is a predator. And you just let her walk into his world like it's nothing?
Ethan tried to act unbothered, his expression unreadable as he straightened the documents and slid them back into the envelope.
"I have a conference call in ten minutes," he said flatly, standing up.
"Ethan" Hugo called after him, but Ethan was already halfway to the door.
He didn't even look back. He just tightened his grip on the envelope and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him with a quiet but deliberate finality.
"Mr. Helparn, it's been a while," a man in his mid-forties called out, stepping through the warehouse doors with a wide grin.
"Ben!" Vincent said, lighting up as he crossed the room with open arms. "You old bastard," he added warmly, pulling him into a brief, hard hug. "How was your flight?"
"It was lovely," Ben replied, glancing around. "Wow, Melbourne has changed."
Vincent laughed. "You've only been gone a year, mate."
The two men chuckled loudly, the kind of laughter that came from years of dirty business and shared secrets. Their bond was built on trust the dangerous kind that meant you'd bled for each other at some point.
As they talked, the warehouse door creaked again, and one of Vincent's men rushed in, breathing heavily.
"Boss uh there's a problem," he said, glancing nervously at Ben. "One of the boys... one of the paintings. He dropped it."
Vincent's smile faded instantly. He stepped past Ben without a word and walked straight to the trembling man standing by the crates.
Without warning, Vincent landed a sharp punch straight to the boy's face. The impact echoed through the warehouse. The boy staggered back, blood at the corner of his mouth, but he didn't make a sound.