Justice of the Supreme War God

Chapter 7: The Caravaggio Challenge

Liam struggled to his feet, cradling his dislocated wrist, his eyes gleaming with vindictive opportunity. Pain and humiliation had sharpened his cunning, and he saw a chance for revenge served on a silver platter.

"Ryan, my friend," Liam called out, his voice loud enough to carry across the ballroom, "someone here has been claiming that your priceless Caravaggio is nothing but a fake."

The effect was immediate and electric. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, champagne glasses froze halfway to lips, and every head swiveled toward the center of the room.

Ryan's face went rigid with fury, his practiced charm evaporating like water on hot steel. "What? Who? Who dared to insult my gift?"

The ballroom fell completely silent, tension crackling through the air like static electricity before a lightning strike. Every eye turned toward Marcus, who stood beside Diana with perfect military posture, his expression calm and unreadable.

"That would be me," Marcus said simply.

"You?" Ryan's voice climbed toward a shriek. "You insignificant nobody! You pathetic gold-digger in a borrowed suit! How dare you question a gift authenticated by the Vatican Museum itself! Do you have any idea who I am? What I'm worth? I have connections that could destroy you with a single phone call!"

"I'm simply stating what I observed," Marcus replied, his tone unchanged, quiet confidence radiating from him like heat from pavement.

Ryan's face flushed crimson. He crossed the ballroom in aggressive strides, stopping inches from Marcus's face. "You want to embarrass me? Fine. Let's make this interesting. I'll give you a chance to prove your ridiculous claim."

The crowd pressed closer, sensing drama.

"If you can't prove that painting is fake," Ryan announced, his voice dripping with contempt, "you kneel before me right here, right now, and apologize in front of everyone. You admit you're a fraud, a nobody, a pathetic leech who married Diana for money. You beg my forgiveness for insulting me."

Catherine's eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction. Victoria smiled behind her hand. Even some of Diana's cousins looked eager to see Marcus humiliated.

Diana's hand tightened on Marcus's arm, her nails digging in slightly. "You don't have to do this," she murmured, barely audible.

"And if I do prove it's fake?" Marcus asked calmly.

Ryan laughed, the sound harsh and ugly. "Impossible! But if by some miracle you do, I'll pay you a million dollars right here, right now. Cash. Consider it compensation for your inevitable unemployment after I destroy whatever pathetic career you pretend to have."

"Deal," Marcus said.

The crowd erupted in excited whispers. This was entertainment they hadn't expected—better than any gift presentation.

Marcus approached the painting with careful precision, his movements deliberate and measured. He leaned close without touching, examining the brushwork with the intensity of someone trained to spot details that separated life from death in combat situations.

Ryan stood behind him, arms crossed, smugness radiating from every pore. "Well? Hurry up and admit you're wrong so we can all watch you grovel."

Marcus pointed to the Virgin Mary's robes, rendered in deep, rich blue. "This particular shade of blue is ultramarine created from lapis lazuli—specifically, the refined synthetic version developed in the 1820s by French chemist Jean-Baptiste Guimet."

The crowd leaned closer, trying to follow his logic.

"Caravaggio died in 1610," Marcus continued, his voice carrying clearly in the absolute silence. "He never had access to synthetic ultramarine. During his lifetime, artists used natural ultramarine ground from lapis lazuli, which had a distinctly different chemical composition and color consistency. This blue is too pure, too uniform. It's modern."

Gasps rippled through the assembled guests.

"Additionally," Marcus gestured to specific brushstrokes, "these sections show evidence of palette knife blending—a technique for mixing and applying paint that wasn't developed until the 18th century, over a hundred years after Caravaggio's death. Look at these edges here—the paint has been scraped and smoothed in a way that would have been impossible with the tools available in 1598."

Even those with limited art knowledge could follow the timeline problem. The mathematics was simple: if the techniques postdated the artist, the painting couldn't be authentic.

"You're lying!" Ryan's voice cracked with desperation, but uncertainty had crept into his expression. "The Vatican authenticated this! Multiple experts verified the provenance!"

"Then either the experts were incompetent, or someone paid them to lie," Marcus said evenly. "The evidence is right here on the canvas. The materials and techniques don't match the period. It's a skilled forgery, probably created within the last fifty years, but it's definitely not Caravaggio."

Elizabeth Morrison rose from her chair with surprising agility, crossing to the painting with narrowed eyes. Her hands, gnarled with age but still steady, hovered over the canvas as she examined the very details Marcus had indicated.

The ballroom held its collective breath.

"He's right," Elizabeth said finally, her voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. "I've seen three authentic Caravaggios at the Louvre. The brushwork is wrong. Too smooth. Too modern." She turned to Ryan, her expression cold with disappointment. "You've been swindled, young man."

Ryan's face went completely white, all blood draining away as the impossible reality crashed down on him. His hands trembled as he reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a platinum bank card with shaking fingers.

"This... this has five hundred thousand on it," he stammered, his earlier arrogance completely evaporated. "You'll have the rest by tomorrow. I swear it."

Marcus accepted the card with the same calm composure he'd maintained throughout the entire confrontation, tucking it into his pocket as casually as if it were a grocery receipt.

Five hundred thousand dollars—an amount that wouldn't cover fueling his private jet for a single international flight, wouldn't pay interest on his smallest investment accounts for a week, meant nothing to a man who commanded resources that could reshape nations.

But to everyone watching, it represented total victory.

Ryan's humiliation was complete and absolute.

The man who was supposed to marry Diana, who represented everything her family wanted—wealth, connections, prestige—stood exposed as a fool who'd spent forty million on worthless canvas and paint.