Chapter 22
Emily Windsor's POV
An impeccably dressed manager approached us with practiced hospitality. Upon hearing we were here to invest in art, a flicker of disdain crossed his eyes—barely concealed—though professional courtesy kept his smile firmly in place.
I deliberately played up the nouveau riche act, pointing at incomprehensible modern pieces on the walls, spouting shallow, amateurish commentary.
To access the gallery's core financial records, I needed to meet the real person in charge.
And to meet that person, the most direct approach was to become a high-value client.
My gaze swept the exhibition hall, finally settling on a modestly sized abstract piece with relatively muted colors tucked in a corner. The price tag: two hundred thousand dollars.
An obscure artist. An utterly mediocre work. Yet audaciously priced at such a figure.
This place was definitely compromised.
"That one," I pointed at the painting, tilting my chin toward the manager with exaggerated flair. "I like it. The colors would match my new sofa perfectly. Wrap it up."
The manager's smile froze momentarily, clearly unprepared for such decisive action.
Two hundred thousand dollars rolled off my tongue like I was buying produce.
I opened my clutch, reaching for my bank card. Though my heart bled at the thought—this represented nearly half my savings from the past few years—the case demanded this expense.
Luke moved faster. He withdrew a black card from his suit's inner pocket and handed it to the manager, his voice cool. "Use mine."
Then he turned toward me, adjusting his glasses and leaning close to my ear, murmuring in a voice only we could hear, "Vivian, when a wife's out with her husband, it's hardly proper to let the lady pay."
His breath warmed my skin, carrying that distinctive alpine scent unique to him, forcefully invading my senses. My heartbeat stuttered, heat flooding my face.
Instinctively, I wanted to protest, but his gaze stopped me—carrying an unmistakable authority mixed with reassurance.
I bit my lip, swallowing the words. Yet inwardly I stubbornly resolved, 'I'd repay this money. We had a transaction, nothing more. I couldn't be in his debt.'
While the manager processed the card, Luke casually indicated several more paintings as though strolling through his private garden. "That one, and that one, and the piece in the corner—pack those up too."
The works he'd selected totaled over a million dollars.
The manager's eyes lit up instantly. His entire demeanor transformed—we'd become walking ATMs, lavishly spending clients with appalling taste.
"Kevin, why are you buying so much?" I tugged his sleeve with feigned annoyance, playing my part.
"Since your sofa has art, my study, garage, even the bathroom should have pieces too." His tone remained flat while delivering the most outrageous statement, embodying the image of a tasteless nouveau riche perfectly.
Such extravagant spending successfully drew out the gallery's true authority.
Within ten minutes, a middle-aged man resembling an antiques dealer descended from the second floor, beaming.
"Distinguished guests honor us with your presence." He extended a hand in greeting, his gaze sweeping over us before settling on Luke, shrewd calculation flickering in his depths. "I'm the proprietor here—Carter. May I have your names?"
I looped my arm through Luke's, nails nearly digging into his forearm while plastering an exaggerated smile across my face. "Mr. Carter is too kind. Kevin just adores these things—he has such excellent taste."
Luke patted my hand cooperatively, his gaze behind the gold frames landing on Paul Carter with seeming casualness. "As long as my wife's pleased. Truth be told, I primarily handle mineral operations in Africa—significant cash flow, difficult to manage. Friends mentioned art investment is currently the most stable option."
His voice remained moderate, yet the words dropped like stones into Paul's mental depths.
"Mineral operations," "significant cash flow," "difficult to manage"—these phrases combined formed an unspoken code.
Paul's smile instantly transformed. The merchant's shrewdness receded, replaced by the warmth and caution of recognizing kindred spirits.
His entire demeanor toward us shifted.
"Ah, colleagues in business—my apologies for not recognizing sooner." He lowered his voice, gesturing invitingly. "The exhibition hall's crowded and indiscreet. Why don't we adjourn to my private lounge? We can discuss more... 'sophisticated' investment opportunities over refreshments."
My pulse quickened. The fish had taken the bait.
Paul's private lounge occupied the gallery's third floor—an extremely secluded attic space.
Thick Persian carpets absorbed all sound, while the air carried the decadent blend of incense and cigar smoke.
No artwork adorned this room. A massive mahogany conference table and leather sofa set dominated the space, radiating the cold pragmatism of transactions.
After we'd settled, Paul personally poured tea, abandoning pretense.
"You strike me as a straightforward man, Kevin, so I'll speak plainly." He slid a cup toward Luke, smiling like a shrewd fox. "In today's world, whether money's clean matters less than making it 'convenient.' Art's advantage lies in its subjective valuation."
He extracted a thick ledger from a drawer, pushing it before us. "Take this painting—our gallery's transaction record shows three million dollars. Its actual cost? Perhaps not even thirty thousand. That extra two-point-seven million, minus our gallery's fifteen percent 'service fee,' becomes a completely legitimate 'profit' from art investment in your account."
I feigned boredom, toying with a pearl brooch on my coat while my fingertip discreetly pressed the mounting's base.
The hidden recording and camera device was activated.
I listened as Paul elaborated enthusiastically on their methods—fabricating transactions, forging authentication certificates, utilizing offshore shell companies—transforming dirty money into spotless funds. Inwardly, turbulent waves crashed through me.
This operation exceeded my imagination. They'd constructed an entire underground financial system.
"Sounds promising." Luke lifted his teacup, gently blowing across the surface, his gaze behind the lenses unfathomable. "What volume could you facilitate monthly, Mr. Carter?"
Paul's eyes brightened. He leaned forward, excitement poorly concealed. "Provided the capital's available—no upper limit. We're backed by the Corleone family. There's no account in New York we can't handle."
He'd finally spoken that name.
I felt Luke's hand resting on my knee, his fingertips tapping lightly.
Our prearranged signal. We had sufficient evidence.