The Curator smiled slowly, deliberately. His lips twisted into a chilling grin, reflecting a deep amusement. He seemed to relish the moment, enjoying the attention he had drawn from his audience. It was a silent challenge that stirred frustration.
"Dante, he's making a move," I whispered, my voice barely audible as fear gripped me. "He's heading for the terrace exit."
Dante moved with the swift precision of a poised viper. His hand on my back tightened as he guided me through the stunned crowd. "Leo! Close all exits! Northeast quadrant, now!" he shouted into his cufflink, his gaze fixed on the Curator.
The old man didn't rush. He strolled with a leisurely, almost graceful demeanor, seemingly a ghost in plain sight. Security personnel, disguised as waiters and guests, began to gather, but the ballroom was a tangled mix of mingling bodies, valuable art, and lavish furniture. It was built for luxury, not for a pursuit.
"Nyx, I need a visual on his escape route," Dante ordered.
"On it, boss," she replied, urgency in her voice. "He's heading for the garden terrace. There's a vehicle idling on the service road behind the hedges. It's an armored Audi, custom plate, untraceable. He has an escort. Two vehicles."
Dante cursed quietly in Italian. The old man was not just an ordinary figure; he was an expert planner, anticipating our every move. The phone bid and decoy location had all been a distraction for his grand appearance.
We pushed through the crowd, leaving confused guests in our wake. The Curator reached the terrace, an open space that overlooked the manicured gardens and the shimmering waters of Lake Geneva. Leo and two of his men burst through a service door to block his path. The trap was set.
The Curator paused at the railing, inhaling the cool night air. He turned to face Dante, who finally arrived on the terrace, his expression dark with intent.
"My dear Mr. Moretti," the Curator said, his voice unexpectedly soft and refined. "A most exquisite evening. And a truly magnificent piece, 'The Mourning Prince.' A worthy addition to my collection."
"You are coming with us," Dante growled, his body tense with readiness. Leo and his men spread out, encircling the Curator.
"Oh, I think not," the old man chuckled, a sound reminiscent of dry leaves. He raised a hand, not in surrender, but dismissively.
Suddenly, two figures emerged from the shadows of the garden, moving with alarming speed and precision. They weren't Dante's men. They were assassins, shadows darting through the night. One approached Leo, engaging in brutal, silent combat that ended in seconds. The other, a woman, targeted the nearest security guard. She struck with the grace of a dancer and the speed of a predator, taking him down swiftly and silently.
Panic surged among the guests on the terrace. Screams erupted. Chaos ensued.
"He planned for this," I gasped, the realization dawning on me. "He wanted us to see him. It's part of the game."
"Indeed, Miss Rossi," the Curator replied, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, almost as if he could read my thoughts. "A predator always enjoys a chase. But I confess, I prefer to be the hunter."
He gestured toward the lake. I followed his gaze. A sleek, black speedboat, its engines nearly silent, was cutting through the water, heading directly for the villa's private dock. Another escape route.
"No!" Dante roared, lunging forward.
But it was too late. The female assassin, after neutralizing the second guard, positioned herself between Dante and the Curator. She drew a small, dangerous-looking blade from her sleeve, clearly prepared to delay him.
In the meantime, the Curator stepped onto a small, decorative marble ledge that ran along the terrace. He walked along it with unnerving balance, like a tightrope walker, toward a hidden staircase that spiraled down to the dock below. He was old, yet agile, clearly practiced in this escape route.
Dante struggled fiercely with the assassin. She was fast and adept, a blur of deadly movement. He fought with efficiency, but she was giving the Curator valuable seconds.
"Nyx, any other options?" I yelled into my earpiece, desperate.
"The Audi is on the service road, but it's too far for a clean shot! The boat is too fast, and the dock is a kill zone!"
I glanced at Dante, whose face was twisted with anger and frustration as the Curator continued his calm descent. We were losing him. The creator of a nineteen-year-old lie, the man who held the key to the murder of his parents, was slipping away.
Then I spotted it. A heavy, antique bronze statue of a Roman general, weighing around three hundred pounds, stood precariously close to the edge of the terrace, overlooking the path to the staircase. My legal mind, trained to spot hidden opportunities, sparked an audacious idea.
"Dante! The statue! Get out of the way!" I shouted, ignoring the pain in my side.
He didn't hesitate. He trusted me completely. With a powerful kick, he sent the female assassin sprawling and then ducked just as I put all my strength, fueled by adrenaline and years of frustration, into pushing the heavy statue.
The bronze general toppled with a low rumble. It crashed over the railing, plummeting toward the Curator on the spiral staircase below.
A gasp swept through the crowd.
The Curator, halfway down, looked up, his serene smile vanishing in an instant, replaced by pure, terrified shock. He barely had enough time to register the impending disaster before the statue struck the marble steps with a deafening crack, sending shards of stone and heavy bronze flying.
The entire staircase buckled. The speedboat, waiting below, veered away sharply as debris rained down.
When everything settled, there was no sign of the Curator. Only a destroyed staircase, a shattered statue, and a silence that screamed of finality.
Dante walked to the edge of the terrace, staring down at the wreckage, his chest heaving. He looked at me, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and unnerving admiration.
"You killed him," he whispered, his voice tinged with awe.
I looked at my trembling hands and then back at the wreck below. The man who held the keys to his past, the architect of Elara's suffering, was gone. Justice. Yet it felt cold. Empty.
"We don't know that," I said, my voice strained. "No body."
"In my world, Isabella," Dante replied, his gaze fixed on the churning waters of the lake where the debris had fallen, "no body means they're still out there. And he will be back. With a vengeance."