Chapter 219: "A Very Interesting Game"

Lucilla took the stage like a queen entering her court.

Every step toward the podium was measured, every movement calculated to draw the eye without ever appearing to demand attention.

Beneath the warm gallery lights, her gaze swept lazily across the wealthy, familiar faces filling the auction hall.

’Let’s see... what do we have tonight?’

’Singers. Directors. Chairmen. Several capos and Dons.’

The faintest curl touched her lips.

’All the sweet little trusting lambs walking willingly into my slaughterhouse.’

By the time Lucilla reached the center of the stage, the auction hall had already quieted for her.

"Well, now. Look at all the beautiful people gathered beneath my roof tonight."

She rested both hands lightly against the polished podium.

"Tell me, darlings. Are you all ready to admire some exquisite pieces of history, make several financially irresponsible decisions, and pretend it was all in the name of culture?"

Laughter rippled through the audience. Several guests applauded, thoroughly charmed by the Bellini heiress’s effortless elegance.

Lucilla laughed softly, her gaze sweeping languidly across the front rows.

"Wonderful! For those of you who somehow still don’t know what you’ve walked into, this is a Bellini auction. That means we don’t merely sell history. We preserve it. We protect it. And, on special evenings such as this one, we graciously allow you to take a small portion of it home in very expensive, very pretty cases."

Another wave of laughter followed.

Lucilla’s smile sharpened with unmistakable pride. From there, she launched effortlessly into an elegant sermon on the pillars of House Bellini’s art business.

Rigorous authentication.

Extensive provenance research.

Everything, in other words, that presented House Bellini as a family that regarded authenticity as nearly sacred.

From a secluded row toward the back, Aren sat quietly beside Jordan and allowed most of Lucilla’s speech to enter one ear and leave through the other.

Her attention had drifted toward the audience instead. Many of the people gathered here were dangerous, obscenely wealthy, or both. It seemed prudent to recognize as many of them as possible.

At the opposite end of the hall, one particular group immediately caught her attention.

Massio Moretti sat among them.

The Don of House Moretti occupied his seat with his twin heirs, Damiano and Emiliano, positioned on either side of him.

Nearby sat Bernardo Leone, accompanied by his son, Arturo.

The human-trafficking lord of Borgata had apparently come without either of his daughters tonight — a fact Aren considered fortunate, particularly after what had happened at the luncheon.

Beside her, Jordan quickly noticed where she was looking.

The heaviness in his chest from earlier hadn’t entirely disappeared, but when he leaned closer, his voice sounded normal enough.

"What is it?" he whispered. "Want to go over and greet them?"

"No. Not at all, actually." Aren turned toward him. "I just don’t remember seeing them anywhere in the exhibition earlier."

"They’re probably only here for the auction." Jordan discreetly glanced across the room. "I’ve heard my father mention that Don Massio is really into these. He’s bought hundreds of millions’ worth of art from Bellini over the years."

His gaze shifted toward Bernardo, and uncertainty entered his expression.

"Don Bernardo... I haven’t heard much about. He might be a regular too."

"I see."

Aren studied the group again.

"They both look scary."

Jordan laughed under his breath.

"Do they?"

He leaned a little closer, amusement warming his voice.

"You do remember we’re basically the same as them, right?"

"Well, yes." Aren considered that. "But their Houses handle... stranger things."

Jordan’s smile lingered.

She wasn’t entirely wrong.

Although, after what he’d witnessed earlier tonight, he wasn’t sure Massio Moretti or Bernardo Leone was currently the strangest person in the room.

Before his thoughts could wander any further, a wave of applause drew their attention back toward the stage.

"Enough speeches," Lucilla purred, finally bringing her lengthy opening remarks to an end. "You’ve all been extraordinarily patient, and I would hate to delay you any longer from competing viciously against your friends."

She lifted one elegant hand.

"Let us begin."

At her signal, attendants moved onto the stage. The first centerpiece lot arrived beneath a velvet covering, mounted upright on a wheeled display easel.

Once it had been positioned beneath the lights, an attendant drew the covering away. The painting revealed beneath it looked old enough that even Aren could immediately tell it belonged to another age.

"Madonna in Winter," the auctioneer announced.

The composition depicted a woman in deep blue robes seated beside a narrow arched window, an infant resting against her chest. The paint had softened with age, lending the woman’s face a muted tenderness beneath the winter light.

At the auctioneer’s signal, the high-resolution displays flanking the stage came alive.

Restoration reports.

Old collection inventories.

Enough documentation, essentially, to assure buyers that House Bellini was selling a genuine Renaissance painting — not something an exceptionally talented criminal had painted last Tuesday.

"Our first lot of the evening," the auctioneer announced. "Venetian school, circa 1530. Provenance as listed in your catalog. Estimate: four to six million dollars."

The audience responded exactly as Lucilla would have wanted.

Several guests leaned toward one another in quiet discussion. Others studied the displays with naked interest, their numbered paddles resting expectantly against their knees.

The auctioneer wasted no time.

"Shall we begin at five million?"

A paddle rose.

"Five million, thank you. Five-five?"

Another bidder answered.

"Five million five hundred thousand."

A third paddle went up.

"Six million to paddle fourteen."

Another.

"Six-five in the center. Seven million to Mister Acosta." The auctioneer swept his gaze across the room. "At seven million. Do I have seven-five?"

This time, a voice answered instead of a paddle.

"Ten."

Heads turned across the room.

Jeremiah Castellano sat near the aisle with one leg crossed casually over the other, his paddle raised loosely in one hand.

Apparently, among everyone in the room, only he had decided that half-million-dollar bidding increments were an intolerable waste of everyone’s time.

Mister Acosta, who had just bid seven million, turned toward Jeremiah with obvious irritation. His mouth tightened the instant he recognized who dared challenge him.

"Of course it’s you," he said with a humorless laugh. "Does your father know you’re wasting his money again, Castellano?"

Jeremiah’s eyes immediately brightened. Far from offended, he looked delighted to have found someone willing to play with him.

"Oh, don’t worry, Mister Acosta." He offered the older man a radiant smile. "If I ever need my father’s permission to spend ten million dollars, I’ll know I’ve become as poor as you."

A few poorly suppressed laughs escaped from the surrounding seats.

Acosta’s face hardened instantly.

Whatever interest he’d originally possessed in the painting suddenly acquired a second motive.

Pride.

His paddle rose.

"Twelve."

Jeremiah wasted not a second accepting the challenge. He raised his own paddle again, this time with considerably more flourish than necessary.

"Eighteen."

A murmur swept through the room.

The auction had barely begun, and a painting estimated at four to six million dollars had already been dragged to three times its upper estimate.

Acosta’s face reddened.

"Twenty."

"Twenty-five," Jeremiah replied dreamily.

"Thirty."

"Thirty-five."

By then, the audience was no longer watching the painting. They were watching the two men.

Heads turned from one side of the room to the other as the price climbed beyond any reasonable relationship with the original estimate.

The auctioneer, meanwhile, seemed to be having an excellent evening.

"Thirty-five million dollars. At thirty-five. Do I have forty?"

Acosta stared directly at Jeremiah.

His paddle rose.

"Forty."

The room stirred.

The auctioneer immediately turned toward Jeremiah.

"Forty million dollars. Mister Castellano?"

Strangely enough, this time, Jeremiah’s enthusiasm disappeared. For several seconds, he did nothing but meet Acosta’s fierce stare from across the room until, slowly, a brilliant smile spread across his face.

He lowered his paddle.

Acosta stared back at him.

’That was it?’

His expression changed almost imperceptibly, as though his mind had failed to understand what his eyes were telling him.

Onstage, the auctioneer recognized the opportunity immediately. Forty million was already an extraordinary result. He paused only long enough to ensure no other bidder intended to enter.

"Forty million dollars. Fair warning."

Jeremiah continued smiling.

He even lowered his paddle completely onto his lap, brought both hands elegantly together, and began to applaud.

"Congratulations, Mister Acosta," he said with exquisite courtesy. "Our beautiful Madonna is now officially yours."

Across the room, the victorious satisfaction on Acosta’s face began to falter, but it was too late.

The auctioneer raised his gavel.

BANG!

"Sold! Forty million dollars to Mister Acosta."

Bewildered murmurs immediately spread through the hall. Several guests looked toward Jeremiah, as though curious to see what sort of face he’d make, now that he’d finally discovered the limits of even his own financial recklessness.

Yet, there was no irritation on his face, no disappointment, not even the faintest sign of regret. If anything, Jeremiah looked like a man who had just gotten exactly what he wanted.

Across the room, Mister Acosta looked considerably less elegant.

He sat stiffly in his chair, staring at the Renaissance painting he’d just purchased, as though he were only now realizing that something about winning didn’t feel quite right.

Beside Aren, Jordan’s brow furrowed as he watched the scene unfold.

"What the hell is he doing?" he muttered, more to himself than to her. "He spent all that time provoking the guy, then backed out when he had him?"

Aren didn’t answer.

Unease settled inside her as she watched Jeremiah lean comfortably back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

’He’s definitely doing it on purpose.’

If Jeremiah had told her the truth — if House Bellini truly was auctioning forged works while passing them off as authentic — then Jeremiah had essentially manipulated poor Mister Acosta into proudly paying forty million dollars for a fake.

She could already imagine how furious Mister Acosta would become if he discovered what he’d actually purchased.

As the evening continued, Aren’s suspicion gradually hardened into certainty.

Jeremiah did it again.

And again.

Whenever a new lot caught enough attention, his paddle would rise.

Sometimes he remained in the bidding long enough to add a few million dollars to the price — only to gracefully withdraw seconds later.

Other times, he drew another buyer through multiple rounds of increasingly irrational bids — then stopped abruptly.

From the stage, Lucilla Bellini noticed Jeremiah’s peculiar behavior more than anyone else. Her eyes followed the blond man as he cheerfully drove yet another bidder far beyond the expected valuation of a lot.

’This sexy little fox.’

’What sort of game is he entertaining himself with tonight?’

’And at my auction, no less?’

Knowing Jeremiah, Lucilla was fairly certain he rarely did anything without a reason — no matter how ridiculous that reason might eventually prove to be.

Still, she wasn’t about to interfere.

Jeremiah Castellano aggressively driving up the prices of Bellini merchandise was essentially free advertising. Whatever strange little indulgence he’d chosen for himself tonight, she certainly wasn’t going to interrupt him while it was making her richer.

By the time the final major lot sold, the auction had become an extraordinary success — mostly thanks to Jeremiah’s enthusiastic participation.

When Lucilla returned to center stage, she was practically glowing.

"Well, now!"

She spread her hands toward the audience with naked satisfaction.

"What a magnificent evening! How many of you have already prepared an adequate excuse for your wives when you get home?"

As expected, laughter rolled through the hall, followed by applause.

Lucilla rested one hand over her chest, accepting the response as though she’d just spent the evening enriching civilization.

"On behalf of House Bellini, thank you for once again entrusting us with your collections and your confidence! We look forward to doing it all again at our next Bellini auction!"

The applause grew even louder this time. For several moments, Lucilla simply basked in it, smiling and waving proudly at the audience.

Then, just as the applause began to subside, one pair of hands continued clapping.

Loudly.

Deliberately.

CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

"Bravo!"

Heads turned in waves across the room.

At his usual aisle seat, Jeremiah Castellano was already on his feet.

"Truly extraordinary, Lucilla!" he called toward the stage. "Another magnificent Bellini auction! I am beyond touched!"

Several guests frowned at him.

Of everyone in the room, this young man had been involved in the most bidding wars — and somehow finished the evening owning absolutely nothing, yet he looked happier than anyone else in the hall. Possibly even happier than Lucilla herself.

Onstage, Lucilla’s smile remained perfectly in place, though suspicions had crept into her eyes.

"Jeremiah, my dear," she said pleasantly, "is there something you’d like to share?"

"As a matter of fact, Lucilla darling, there is."

He began walking toward the stage at a leisurely pace.

"The very thing I’m about to share is exceptionally important to everyone present tonight. Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your stage for a moment, my dear?"

Lucilla watched him approach, considering it carefully.

Unfortunately, there was little reason for her to refuse, especially when Jeremiah addressed her with that infuriatingly sweet charm of his.

"Of course I don’t mind at all."

She stepped gracefully aside and gestured toward the podium.

"Please, come up here and bless the stage with your presence."

Jeremiah required no further invitation. He ascended the steps, then turned toward the audience with effortless elegance — as though everyone in the room had unknowingly purchased tickets to his show.

"Ladies and gentlemen, forgive my little intrusion, but I promise this won’t take very long. Before everyone rushes home to admire their magnificent acquisitions..."

His smile widened.

"...I thought we might play a very interesting game."