The Moretti family villa on the shores of Lake Geneva was stunning, a symbol of old-world charm. Tonight, it felt like a spider's web. The auction was a fancy, black-tie event. The world's richest collectors, museum curators, and some discreet billionaires mingled, sipping champagne and quietly making million-dollar deals.
To outsiders, Dante and I looked like the perfect power couple. He was striking in a classic tuxedo, the ideal host. I was on his arm, wearing a beautiful emerald gown he had chosen, silently showcasing our partnership. But beneath the surface, we operated like a finely tuned machine. An earpiece, concealed by my hair, connected me to Nyx and Elias, who were in a mobile command center nearby.
"The bidding for 'The Mourning Prince' is about to begin," I whispered, smiling at Dante as if sharing a secret.
The tension was intense. We watched the bids rise quickly, far exceeding expectations. Most had dropped out. The battle was now between a Russian oligarch at the front and a single, anonymous bidder on the phone, represented by the auctioneer.
"It's him," Dante said, his hand tightening on my back.
"Nyx, are you tracing the call?" I asked quietly.
"He's good," Nyx's voice crackled in my ear. "Bouncing the signal through several satellites. But I can handle it. Give me thirty more seconds… Got it! He's routing through a proxy server linked to a private estate twenty kilometers up the coast."
"Leo, you have the location," Dante told the microphone in his cufflink. "Move in. Quietly."
A rush of excitement surged through me. We had him.
But as the auctioneer's hammer came down—"Sold, to our anonymous bidder on the phone!"—a detail caught my eye. I scanned the crowd, darting my gaze from face to face. I settled on an unassuming, elderly man with wispy white hair and round, owlish glasses. He was near the back, watching with a calm, intellectual look. He had been there all night, a quiet presence that no one seemed to notice.
He held a phone to his ear. He lowered it just as the auctioneer declared, "Sold."
My blood ran cold.
"Dante," I whispered urgently. "The call from the estate is a decoy. It's a misdirection."
"What do you mean?"
"He's here," I said, eyes focused on the old man. "The Curator. He's been in the room with us all along."
As if sensing my gaze, the old man turned his head. His kind, grandfatherly eyes met mine across the busy ballroom. He smiled—a small, polite, chilling smile of acknowledgment. The serpent was in the garden, admiring his new prize. Dante followed my gaze, and I felt him go tense. The hunter had just realized he was sharing a cage with the dragon.