Page 77 of The Art of Obsession
“Fortunately, I found another girl he’d done it to. She agreed to go to the dean with me and share, but she refused to press charges because she didn’t want to be public about it. He had tenure.” She rolls her eyes, then clenches them as I feel my release coming. A few rapid thrusts, and I lock my hips to her ass, slamming into her and spewing my cum inside her. “He transferred to another university. It was the last I ever saw of him.”
Jerking from her perfect pussy, I catch her before she can buckle and carry her back to the water. “You’re going to tell me his name, Little Quill. Now.”
32
“There’s a bounty on your head.”
Chapter Playlist:
“Heathens” - Twenty One Pilots
ACHERON
ONE WEEK LATER
The thrumof bass-heavy music rattles the walls, but here in the VIP lounge of the nightclub, it’s muffled, like the heartbeat of a dying beast. Expensive cologne and cigar smoke drift through the air, mingling with the tension of unspoken illicit dealings.
Adjusting my mask, I sit in one of the private alcoves reserved for high-end patrons. The leather couch creaks beneath me as I lean forward, steepling my fingers.
The dealer across from me shifts uneasily. He reeks of desperation, his sweat dampening the collar of his expensive but ill-fitted suit. His eyes flicker to the briefcase at his side, then back to me.
“Show me,” I say.
He hesitates, his hand trembling slightly as he slides a battered folder across the table. I open it, scanning theinventory list. A Klimt, a Chagall, several sketches attributed to Modigliani. My fingers pause over the photographs, the vibrant colors dulled by time and the weight of their history.
“These were taken from Jewish families during the Holocaust,” I say, my voice low, measured.
The dealer shrugs, an attempt at nonchalance that doesn’t mask the shame behind his eyes. “My father smuggled them out of Germany. They’ve been in my family ever since.”
“Your father was a thief,” I say bluntly, closing the folder. “And now his sins have become your burden.”
His face flushes, but he doesn’t argue. He needs this deal. His debts are mounting, and I can see the fear of his creditors in his eyes.
“Six figures,” he says, his voice faltering. “And they’re yours.”
I shake my head. “Five. And you will deliver them to my estate personally. No middlemen.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but one glaring gaze silences him. He nods, swallowing hard.
The deal is sealed with a handshake. As I rise, buttoning my jacket, I glance at the folder one last time. These pieces don’t belong to me. They belong to the descendants of the families torn apart by men like his father. They are like ghosts, waiting to be brought back to life and their heritage restored.
Once Everleigh finishes researching their provenance, cataloging them, and restoring any necessary ones, I will return them to their rightful owners or their descendants. I won’t bring her. The idea of her escaping or harm coming to her gnaws at me. As long as she remains in my exhibit and on my estate, I can protect her.
It’s too late for her to go back to her old life. Not with the bloody spotlight I’ve cast upon her.
As I step out of the lounge, the pulsing music grows louder, vibrating through my chest. The crowd is a blur of glitteringbodies and flashing lights. My instincts prickle—a sixth sense honed from decades of surviving darker dealings than this.
I spot them as soon as I exit the club. Shadows moving against the glow of the streetlights, too synchronized to be drunks or revelers. Three men, each taking a different angle of approach.
The first man strikes as I pass the car’s rear bumper. A knife glints under the neon haze, slashing toward my ribs. Fire fills my veins. He is sorely wrong to believe he can take me in a knife fight. I pivot, catching his wrist and twisting until I hear the snap. He screams, but it’s cut short as I drive his own blade into his throat.
His body crumples, and I shove him aside, already turning to face the second. This one doesn’t lunge blindly; he circles, his movements calculated. A flash of metal reveals a garrote wire, glinting like a serpent’s fang. He lunges, aiming to loop it around my neck. My free hand shoots up, gripping the wire, my skin burning as I wrench it away, then drive my knee into his gut. He stumbles, and I retrieve the handgun from my belt and fire a single shot into his chest.
A sharp crack echoes behind me—the third man. He’s not playing games.
But a sudden squealing of tires signals my town car’s arrival as my driver careens it to one side, offering a barrier between the third man and me. A bullet ricochets off the car door, and I dive behind the vehicle, gritting my teeth as pain blooms in my shoulder. Fucking bullet got me.
“Stay down!” my driver hisses, pulling a compact submachine gun from beneath the seat.
