Chapter 5 The Journal Auction
Julian Thorne dropped the heavy weight he had been lifting for minutes now. He had spent an hour in his private gym, working his body out like he was preparing for a macho contest.
This was his place of solace. He stared back at his physique in the mirror. Large, muscular, tall and toned in all the right places. He was dripping with sweat and the large single wing tattoo on one side of his chest now looked more vivid as it gleamed under his sweaty tanned skin.
Looking at himself in the large mirror, he still struggled to admire himself. Did he doubt the fact that he was extraordinarily good-looking? Not at all. All his life, he had never had to pursue a woman. They’ve always swooned after him like bees. In high school, he was that star hot hockey guy every girl asked for his hand to prom.
College was no different. All the hot girls wanted him. He never wanted them. But it all but took one night…She had called him Zeus. A small smile crept onto his perfectly-shaped lips.
That night never left his head.
He had searched for her weeks after, but never found her. It was like she had disappeared off the surface of the earth.
He ran a hand through his dark brown hair as his mind traveled back to past events. He hadn’t met to slide off the bed in the morning after having the best sex of his life and never looked back. But the call he had received that morning had changed everything.
He would have found her if he had tried harder. He knew he would, but he had a lot to deal with, and finding her meant he got to be distracted. That was the last thing he needed considering the kind of wild underground life he lived. So he had faltered. But she never left his mind, not for once.
The sound of footsteps walking into his gym broke him from his thoughts.
He turned around to see Vincent, one of his many staff. But this very one was his right hand man. He was more like a close friend than his employee.
“Boss, the auction at the Moreau hall is starting in an hour, I thought you will be almost prepared by now”
Julian shrugged lazily as he started to walk past him to get ready. “I’m aware, Vincs.”
~
One hour later, his driver pulled up in front of the large Moreau hall- one and only. Julian stepped out in all six-foot-four, dressed in two pieces of charcoal suit, his hair sleeked back, a few strands jutting forward to frame his face.
He took one satisfying last drag from his cigar then let it drop on the floor, staring up the hall as he puffed out the smoke and let it dance into the air.
He had only one thought in mind tonight-to get the journal for himself. There were a lot of reasons why he had to. Among them was one that stood out: To spite his father, who he was sure would be among the bidders tonight.
His father who he hadn’t seen in five years, after he sent him into exile for a crime he didn’t commit. A crime his twin brother had framed him for. And just like that, he had lost his place as the golden heir of the Thorne dynasty.
Of course Victor Thorne would want the journal. He couldn’t forget how his father had gone into depression because the late Ambrose Moreau was able to bid a large amount of sum for the journal amidst hundreds of bidders that were pining over the precious book ten years ago.
The journal was that important.
It was written centuries ago by an European war strategist and financier known for building alliances between royal families and crime lords through trade, blackmail, and treasure codes.
Only one copy existed, and passed down secretly through generations.
It was said that the journal held coded account numbers, hidden vault coordinates, and names of families tied by blood oaths and debts- people still in power today.
As a collector of rare books and ancient treasures, Ambrose Moreau had outbid a Russian tycoon in a private estate auction in Florence.
Ambrose spent years decoding parts of the journal- and used it to solidify his own fortune, gaining leverage on enemies without ever using gun. For this reason, Ambrose had lots of enemies, and it was no news that his death wasn’t natural. It was even said that it was his second wife- The late Leah Moreau who killed him.
Julian had also heard that after his death, the journal couldn’t be found, but somehow, his first wife Sheryl, had recently found it and was ready to auction it out.
“Lame woman,” Julian muttered under his breath. Of course, she didn’t know its value. Nor did her daughter, Talia. His mind casually went back to when Talia tried seducing him to bed…
Not only would Julian spite his father tonight, but as a black market collector, collecting a rare artifact like the journal would solidify his brand in ways that he needed. And maybe his position in the mafia world…
Inside the Moreau Hall, the atmosphere reeked of wealth and veiled intentions.
But beneath the perfect surface, it was nothing more than a battlefield- where power wore tuxedos and money did the killing.
Julian walked past the murmuring guests, nodding at a few faces he recognized from the black market. Some bowed their heads in respect. Others whispered behind champagne glasses.
He was used to that. They would talk more now that he showed his face at an auction. He hadn’t in years, and many of them hadn’t seen him in years.
Let them talk.
He looked around, knowing his father was here. Victor Thorne. It didn’t take long before he saw him. Something tugged at his chest, but he ignored it and looked away.
He settled into the third row, not too close to the stage, but close enough to intimidate.
The journal was displayed under tempered glass at the center of the platform. Beside it, the auctioneer- a middle-aged man with a too-white smile, adjusted his mic and welcomed the crowd.
Julian didn’t look at him.
His eyes were fixed on the object that brought them all here.
A relic wrapped in a worn leather cover, cracked along the edges with age. The very pages that had crowned Ambrose Moreau a silent god in a world where bullets and lawyers failed.
And now it sat there… waiting to be bought. Weaponized.
His jaw tightened.
If his father dared to bid, he would outbid him. It would be fun.
“Item 21,” the auctioneer started. “The prized possession of the late Ambrose Moreau. A one-of-a-kind journal dating back to the 14th century- known for its encoded vault locations, blackmail ledgers, and inheritance ties of royal bloodlines and syndicate families. Starting bid, two million.”
A gloved hand shot up to his left.
“Two million,” the auctioneer acknowledged.
Another bidder upped it to three.
Julian waited. Calculating.
Then next was his father. “Five million,” Victor said in his usual undefeatable aura. Perfect.
Then, with an effortless raise of two fingers, Julian Thorne murmured to the staff beside him, “Six”
“Six million from Mr. Thorne,” the auctioneer declared, excitement sparking in the room.
Victor’s head jerked around, knowing that Damien wasn’t here and wouldn’t even dare bid against him. Which other Thorne could be bidding?
His eyes finally landed on Julian and he stilled.
The auction continued.
Victor and another bidder offered six-point-five at the same time. But his menacing eyes were fixed on his prodigal son who wasn’t even looking at him.
“Six-point-five from Mr.V. Thorne and Mr Dante, but it can’t go to two people at the same time.”
Julian didn’t blink. “Seven,” he said smoothly.
Seven-point-five. “His father said.” People who knew them as father and son were now amazed. Shouldn’t only either of them be bidding for it since it will belong to the Thorne family in general?
Julian almost looked bored as he leaned back and said, “Eight.”
A hushed silence began to fall as people backed down. They knew who the Thornes were. No one outbid them unless they had death wishes- or generational oil money.
“Going once…”
“Going twice…”
And then-
“Ten million.” A new voice offered, silencing the room.
It didn’t belong to any of the suited men up front. It came from the almost-dark space near the back of the room.
It wasn’t just the number that caused the stir. They were sure that there was no woman in the auction room so where did the sultry feminine voice come from?
Julian stiffened in his seat. Sharp Instinct bit hard at him.
His head didn’t turn slowly, it jerked back.
And there she was.
His heart stalled in his chest, then slammed against his ribs as if it recognized her before his brain did.
No. It couldn’t be.
Standing at the rear of the hall, clad in black, her chin tilted with that quiet defiance he hadn’t seen in five years was the woman he had that soul-lifting one night stand with.
Her eyes weren’t on him. They were on the journal.