Justice of the Supreme War God

Chapter 9: The Literary Treasure

Paul's companion, a silver-haired man in an immaculate charcoal suit, stepped forward with reverence etched across his distinguished features. Tony Blackwell was nearly as famous in collector circles as Paul—a man who'd spent forty years acquiring rare manuscripts and historical writing instruments.

"May I?" Tony asked Elizabeth, his voice hushed with awe.

Elizabeth nodded, holding the pen steady as Tony produced a jeweler's loupe from his pocket. He examined the engravings with meticulous care, his hands trembling slightly as he traced the worn Italian script.

"It's authentic," Tony confirmed, his voice thick with emotion. "This is Leonardo Torretti's personal 1905 Montegrappa Meisterstück. Look here—these microscopic scratches along the barrel match photographs from the 1938 Rome exhibition. And this engraving, 'Per sempre nelle parole'—forever in words—Torretti's personal motto."

Paul leaned closer, nodding vigorously. "This is the very pen used to write 'The Sailor's Return.' The poem that revolutionized Italian literature. Torretti carried this pen for twenty years, wrote his greatest works with it. After his death, it passed to his daughter, then vanished during the war."

The crowd pressed forward, trying to glimpse the simple object that commanded such reverence.

Tony's voice grew stronger, more authoritative. "Literary collectors and museums compete desperately for artifacts like this. The British Museum has standing authorization to spend unlimited funds on verified Torretti materials. The Italian Ministry of Culture has recovery teams dedicated solely to finding his lost works and personal effects."

"How much?" someone in the crowd asked breathlessly. "What's it worth?"

Paul and Tony exchanged glances.

"A similar Torretti pen—though with less impressive provenance—sold at Sotheby's London for fifty-two million dollars three years ago," Paul said carefully. "But that pen only wrote two minor poems. This one..." He gestured to the worn instrument in Elizabeth's hands. "This created masterpieces. With proper provenance documentation, authentication certificates, and historical significance factored in... this pen is essentially priceless."

The word hung in the air like smoke.

Fifty million dollars. Priceless. Literary history.

Diana stood completely still, her ice-blue eyes fixed on the pen, then on Marcus, then back to the pen.

She'd expected ridicule, humiliation, mockery for presenting Elizabeth with what appeared to be garage sale trash. Instead, the entire family stood stunned into awed silence.

Elizabeth's fingers trembled as she lifted the pen closer to her eyes, examining the historical engravings with new understanding. "Marcus," she said quietly, "this is extraordinary. Truly extraordinary."

The crowd remained frozen, processing the impossible reversal. The nobody in the borrowed suit had just presented a gift that eclipsed every other offering by orders of magnitude.

Ryan's face had gone from white to an unhealthy purple. His forty-million-dollar fake Caravaggio suddenly looked like worthless trash compared to Marcus's genuine historical treasure.

"It's just luck," Ryan said loudly, desperately trying to salvage something from the wreckage of his evening. "He probably doesn't even know what he had. Stumbled across it during some military thing and grabbed it without understanding—"

"I knew exactly what it was," Marcus interrupted calmly. "Which is why I kept it safe for twelve years, waiting for the right person to give it to. Someone who would appreciate its significance."

Liam, still cradling his dislocated wrist, had gone completely silent.

His earlier mockery—laughing at the "used pen," calling it "garage sale trash"—now echoed in his memory like accusations.

He edged toward the ballroom's periphery, trying to distance himself from the disaster, knowing his uncle Lucas would hear about this spectacular failure.

Catherine's face cycled through shock, rage, and calculation. Her eyes burned with fury as she realized Marcus had just elevated his status in the family's eyes beyond anything she could easily undermine.

The man she'd offered ten million dollars to disappear had casually presented a gift worth five times that amount, maybe ten times, maybe more.

Victoria whispered urgently to her husband, both of them reassessing every assumption they'd made about Diana's mysterious husband.

The relatives who'd mocked Marcus earlier now avoided eye contact, embarrassed by their earlier certainty, their cruel laughter now a liability they desperately wanted forgotten.

Diana's hand found Marcus's arm again, her grip different this time—not territorial or defensive, but something else entirely. Her perfectly maintained composure showed the tiniest crack, confusion and questions bleeding through.

"Where did you really get this?" she murmured, barely audible beneath the crowd's excited chatter.

"I told you," Marcus replied quietly. "Military recovery operation."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I can give."

Before Diana could press further, the ballroom doors burst open with military precision.

Four men in pristine dress uniforms entered, their movements synchronized, their bearing unmistakably military.

The lead officer—a colonel based on his insignia—scanned the room with tactical efficiency before his eyes locked onto Marcus.

The four men snapped to attention simultaneously, their salutes crisp and exact.