Chapter 21
Emily Windsor's POV
I pieced together these scattered fragments of information with the records I'd accumulated, like working on an impossibly complex puzzle.
Finally, late one night, I locked onto a breakthrough.
In the Victor family's accounts, enormous sums of money flowed through several offshore accounts disguised as art investments, ultimately ending up at an elite gallery called Muse in the Sotheby's district.
The gallery's transaction volume was staggering, yet the artists and works under its name were virtually unknown in the art market.
Classic money laundering technique.
When I placed the organized files in front of Luke, he merely glanced at them casually. But when his eyes landed on "Muse Gallery," those ice-blue irises darkened abruptly.
"This gallery is compromised," I tapped the address on the document, my tone certain. "I need to visit the site, verify their inventory, and recent transaction records."
"No." Luke refused without hesitation, his voice cold and hard as iron.
I frowned, meeting his icy gaze. "Mr. Reed, I'm your lawyer. Field investigation is part of my job. If you don't trust my professional competence, you're free to hire someone else."
"I'm not questioning your competence," Luke stood, approaching me. His towering shadow cast an oppressive darkness. "Emily, do you have any idea what that place is? Muse Gallery is backed by the Corleone family. That hawk-nosed man you saw at the estate? He was the Corleone boss's nephew."
My heart plummeted. Of course. No wonder his reaction was so extreme.
"They won't know who I am," I forced composure into my voice. "I'll go in as an art investment consultant, conduct routine business inquiries only."
"You think they're idiots?" Luke's expression turned dangerously grim. He gripped my wrist with brutal force, nearly crushing bone. "A Corleone nephew is dead. They're hunting for blood like rabid dogs. You show up on their territory now, and you might as well hand them a knife and bare your throat."
His concern burned real and searing, the heat radiating through our touching skin and trembling straight to my heart.
But I couldn't back down. This was the key to the entire case.
"So what do you suggest? Abandon this lead?" I met his stare, refusing to yield.
Luke held my gaze, the air thickening to suffocation.
After an eternity, his lips parted. "I'll go with you."
I froze.
"You're insane. You're Luke Victor," I could barely believe what I was hearing. "You walk onto Corleone territory, and you want to start a war?"
"I don't have to be Luke Victor." He spoke coolly, turning to retrieve a pair of gold-rimmed glasses from his wardrobe.
The lenses softened the terrifying sharpness in his eyes, lending his devastatingly handsome face a refined, almost scholarly restraint.
He changed into an understated gray cashmere sweater. His entire presence transformed—suddenly he resembled those bookish Wall Street financiers, all intellectual sophistication.
I stared at this dramatically different version of him, momentarily transfixed.
"This acceptable?" He tilted his chin toward me.
I understood. This was the greatest concession he could offer.
I had no other choice. Going alone was suicide. Abandoning this lead was impossible.
"Fine." I drew a deep breath, finally nodding. But immediately I added, my gaze severe with warning, "On one condition."
"Name it."
"Once we're there, you follow my lead. We observe only. We take no action. And you absolutely cannot—" I hesitated, memories flashing of that night's cold gunfire and warm blood, my voice dropping involuntarily, "—use any violence. We're lawyers and consultants conducting an investigation. Not mobsters starting a turf war."
Luke studied me, reading the determination in my eyes and the fear I hadn't fully buried. Something flickered in those glacial blue depths.
He fell silent for a moment. Then the corner of his mouth curved into the faintest, barely visible arc.
"Agreed," he murmured. "Miss Windsor, your way."
The next day, I arrived early at the designated meeting spot—a café near Muse Gallery.
Instead of my usual sharp professional suits, I wore a garishly designed sequined dress beneath a white faux fur coat.
My makeup was equally transformed: dramatic winged eyeliner, vivid scarlet lips, deliberately cultivating the image of a nouveau riche socialite with more money than taste.
I pulled cosmetics from my clutch, examining my handiwork in a compact mirror.
This appearance would fool the Corleone family. Hell, I barely recognized myself.
When Luke pushed through the door, I was reapplying lipstick.
He'd donned that scholarly disguise as promised—gold-rimmed glasses and gray cashmere sweater taming his lethal edge considerably. At first glance, he genuinely resembled an elegant academic or rising financial elite.
His steps faltered when he saw me. Those ice-blue eyes behind the lenses traveled from head to toe with unhurried precision, surprise flickering briefly before morphing into knowing amusement.
"Miss Windsor, you've exceeded my expectations." He sat across from me, his tone unreadable—mockery or admiration, impossible to tell.
"To avoid exposure, disguise is necessary." I snapped the compact shut, retrieving non-prescription black-framed glasses and a baseball cap from my bag. "You need additional adjustments."
He didn't refuse, donning them obediently.
The thick frames completely masked his piercing gaze, while the cap shadowed his striking features.
Now he resembled an ordinary wealthy man accompanying his tasteless companion on some pretentious cultural outing.
"From this moment, I'm Vivian, you're Kevin," I lowered my voice, issuing final instructions. "We're investors fresh from abroad, clueless about art but drowning in cash. Remember—speak minimally, spend generously. Your role is a silent ATM."
"An ATM?" Luke arched an eyebrow, something behind those lenses seeming to say you had got nerve.
I ignored his reaction, grabbing my bag and standing. "Let's go, Mr. Kevin. Time to inspect our investment opportunities."
Muse Gallery occupied Sotheby's most expensive real estate, its façade radiating understated luxury. The moment we crossed the threshold, an oppressive atmosphere unrelated to art descended.
Security was far tighter than typical galleries. Several apparent staff members moved with measured precision, their gazes razor-sharp, telltale bulges at their waists betraying concealed weapons.