Justice of the Supreme War God

Chapter 6: The Second Exposure

Marcus crouched beside the shattered jade sculpture, his movements precise and unhurried despite the tension crackling through the ballroom.

He picked up a fragment, turning it in the light, his fingers tracing the broken interior surface with the careful attention of someone who'd spent years examining details others missed.

"Look at these tool marks on the interior surface," he said, his voice carrying clearly in the stunned silence. He held the chip up so the light caught the grooves. "See these perfectly parallel grooves?"

The crowd leaned closer, curiosity overriding their earlier hostility.

Marcus's tone remained matter-of-fact, almost educational. "Those are from modern diamond-tipped carving equipment. The precision is too perfect, the depth too consistent. Ancient Chinese artisans used bronze and iron tools, which leave completely different markings—irregular depths, slight variations in width, oxidation patterns that develop over centuries. These grooves are barely six months old. The jade dust residue in the crevices hasn't even begun to discolor."

He set the fragment down carefully, standing with the same fluid grace he'd displayed when throwing Liam across the room. The contrast was striking—violence and scholarly analysis delivered with equal composure.

Lucas Steel pushed through the crowd, his face a thundercloud of barely controlled fury. His expensive suit couldn't hide the dangerous edge in his posture as he loomed over his son, still sprawled among broken crystal.

"Liam." The single word could have frozen fire. "How much did you pay for this piece?"

Liam's face had gone from purple to ashen. His lips trembled as he clutched his dislocated wrist, unable to meet his father's eyes. "Three... three point two million."

The silence that followed was deafening, absolute. Even the servants stopped moving.

Marcus had to admire the forger's audacity, though he kept his expression neutral.

Three million was certainly respectable—he'd spent more on lunch meetings with foreign dignitaries without thinking twice, had signed contracts worth billions with less deliberation than most people used buying groceries. But for the average wealthy family, three million represented serious money.

"The dealer is probably on a yacht in the Caribbean by now," Marcus observed, brushing jade dust from his fingers. "This is professional work—the kind of operation that targets specific buyers, creates elaborate backstories, provides convincing documentation. They don't stick around for returns or awkward questions. The authentication papers were probably forgeries too, printed on appropriately aged paper with fake expert signatures."

Lucas's jaw worked silently. The veins in his neck stood out like cables. Around them, the festive atmosphere evaporated like morning mist, replaced by uncomfortable tension that pressed down on the assembled guests like a physical weight.

Family members who had praised Liam's generosity minutes earlier now found reasons to examine their champagne glasses, study the ceiling moldings, or engage in sudden urgent conversations with whoever stood nearest.

No one wanted to be associated with this spectacular failure, this public humiliation that had transformed a gift presentation into a crime scene.

Catherine Morrison looked torn between vindictive satisfaction at Liam's downfall and renewed horror that her daughter's nobody husband had been the one to expose it. Her face cycled through emotions like a malfunctioning traffic light.

Diana stood perfectly still, her ice-blue eyes fixed on Marcus with an expression he couldn't quite read. Not gratitude, certainly. Not affection. Something closer to bewildered calculation, as if she were solving an equation that kept producing impossible results.

The ballroom doors burst open with dramatic timing, drawing every eye away from Liam's humiliation. Ryan Steel made his entrance with the confidence of someone who'd never doubted his welcome anywhere.

He was tall, easily six-two, with the kind of perfectly styled dark hair that cost five hundred dollars to maintain monthly.

His Tom Ford suit fit like it had been painted on, his Patek Philippe watch caught the light just so, and his smile radiated the effortless charm that came from generations of old money and social dominance.

Everything about him screamed pedigree, power, connections—exactly what Diana's family had wanted for her.

"Grandma Elizabeth!" Ryan's voice boomed across the space, rich and warm and commanding. He swept toward the elderly woman with arms outstretched. "Happy birthday, beautiful lady! You look more radiant with each passing year!"

Elizabeth's stern expression softened marginally as Ryan kissed her hand with practiced gallantry.

Diana's entire body tensed beside Marcus, her spine going rigid as steel.

The hand holding the rose case trembled almost imperceptibly. Marcus felt the shift in her energy, recognized the defensive posture of someone facing an unwanted confrontation.

Without conscious thought, Marcus's hand found hers. His fingers, calloused from years of weapons training and combat, rough from handling everything from assault rifles to satellite communication equipment, wrapped around her soft skin. The contrast was stark—her manicured perfection against his scarred functionality.

Diana didn't pull away.

Ryan commanded the room with the ease of long practice, gesturing grandly as four uniformed guards in crisp black suits entered carrying a large frame covered in embroidered silk.

The crowd's attention shifted completely from Liam's disaster to this new spectacle.

"Grandma Elizabeth, I wanted to give you something truly special," Ryan announced, positioning himself center stage like an actor hitting his mark. "Something worthy of the matriarch who built this family's legacy."

He gripped the silk covering with both hands, pausing for maximum dramatic effect. The ballroom held its collective breath.

Ryan yanked the covering away with theatrical flair.

The painting revealed beneath stopped conversations mid-sentence. Gasps rippled through the crowd like waves breaking on shore.

A madonna figure, rendered in Caravaggio's unmistakable style—dramatic chiaroscuro, intense realism, profound emotional depth. The woman's face captured in a moment of exquisite sorrow, tears glistening on painted cheeks, her hands raised in supplication or despair. The composition radiated mastery, centuries of artistic significance compressed into canvas and oil.

"'The Weeping Madonna,'" Ryan declared proudly, his voice resonating with satisfaction. "Painted by Caravaggio in 1598. One of only twelve authenticated works by the master still in private hands. Authenticated by the Vatican Museum itself, with provenance tracing back to Cardinal Scipione Borghese's private collection in Rome."

The crowd erupted in appreciative murmurs, clearly impressed. This wasn't just art—this was history, culture, significance beyond mere monetary value. Museum-quality treasure that belonged in climate-controlled galleries, not private homes.

"My God, Ryan," Victoria breathed. "That must be worth—"

"Forty million," Ryan supplied smoothly. "Though really, how do you put a price on history?"

Catherine's eyes gleamed with vindictive triumph as she glanced toward Diana. This was what her daughter should have married—not the shabby nobody currently holding her hand.

Marcus studied the painting with the same intense focus he'd given the jade sculpture, his expression unreadable.

Ryan basked in the attention, his smile widening as he soaked up the admiration. Then his eyes found Diana across the ballroom, and his smile transformed into something more predatory.

"Diana," he said warmly, crossing toward her. "It's been too long."