The Almighty Convict's Revenge

06

The room went dead silent.

Belmont stood frozen beside his wife, both blinking as though the world had tilted sideways. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked once, twice, the sound impossibly loud in the sudden vacuum. Celeste pressed one hand to her chest, fingers curling into the silk of her blouse, lips parted but unable to form words. They stared at the painting in Alfred's hands, then at each other, then back again, searching for some confirmation that what they were seeing was real.

Belmont wanted to slap himself. His palms felt clammy, and a faint ringing persisted behind his ears. If Alfred hadn't arrived when he did, he would have thrown away something worth tens of millions today. The thought made his stomach lurch. And if word got out that he'd nearly discarded The Aurola Portrait like yesterday's newspaper, his reputation would have been finished. Every collector in the city would have laughed him out of the room.

Alfred turned to Curry with a new note of respect. "Your son-in-law's got taste. Young man, where did you get this painting?"

"A friend gave it to me," Curry said simply.

"You know someone wealthy enough to hand over something like this?" Celeste couldn't stop herself. Her tone bordered on accusation, and she took a half-step forward as though proximity might extract a more satisfying answer.

"He's alright. Not particularly wealthy." Curry shrugged.

In Stonegate Federal Penitentiary, the powerful figures he'd treated were beyond counting. Nicolas Kalyn barely registered as a footnote among the wealthy people he'd come to know.

Celeste pursed her lips in open disdain, crossing her arms tightly against her chest.

Alfred cradled the painting, his eyes lingering on the brushstrokes as though greeting an old friend. His thumb hovered a centimeter from the surface, tracing the outline of a figure without touching it. When he looked up, his expression was almost sheepish. "Young man, would you consider selling this? After the Fine Art Auction that night, I spent days regretting it. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. I'll confess something, I actually bought two fakes. Hung them in my study just so I could look at them."

He chuckled at his own embarrassment, shaking his head. A semi-professional antiquarian caught buying counterfeits. If that story circulated in collecting circles, he'd never hear the end of it.

"I already gave it to Mr. Turner," Curry said, tilting his head toward Belmont. "Whether it sells is his call."

"Belmont." Alfred spun toward him instantly, his leather shoes squeaking against the hardwood. "What do you say?"

Belmont hesitated. His jaw tightened, and he rubbed the back of his neck where tension had gathered in a hard knot.

Who could have predicted a convict fresh out of prison would produce a piece worth thirty million? The Turner family's situation was far from comfortable. Their business holdings had taken hit after hit, and internally, the family was a nest of vipers. Each day seemed leaner than the last. Forty million could buy breathing room, could silence creditors and buy time for restructuring.

But The Aurola Portrait... he genuinely loved it.

Before he could answer, Celeste stepped forward, eyes gleaming. "Alfred, how much would you pay?"

Alfred considered, resting his chin against his knuckle for a moment, then smiled. "Belmont and I go way back. The piece sold at auction for thirty million. I'll add ten on top. Forty million. How does that sound?"

"Oh my God." Celeste's voice came out breathless, barely above a whisper. Forty million dollars. She'd never seen that kind of money in her life. Her fingers trembled at her sides.

"I always keep my word," Alfred said.

"Yes, perfect! When can we close?" The words tumbled out in a rush. If she got forty million, no one would ever dare look down on her again.

"Celeste!" Belmont's voice cracked like a whip. "Nobody asked you."

She fell silent, though her eyes still burned with barely suppressed frustration.

Belmont drew a long breath, letting it fill his lungs before releasing it slowly. "I'm not ready to sell. This is the first gift my son-in-law ever gave me, and it means something. But if anything worthwhile crosses my path, you'll be the first person I call."

Celeste nearly choked. Forty million, gone, because of sentimentality over a gift from a convict. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper.

Alfred laughed warmly and returned the painting, though his gaze lingered with visible reluctance. "Fair enough. You love the piece more than the money. But if you change your mind, call me first. Price is negotiable."

He settled back into the sofa, adjusting the crease of his trousers. "Listen, there's a Fine Art Auction in three days. Why don't we go together?"

Belmont waved him off. "Funds are tight. Remember that fellow six months back? Misread a painting and lost fifty million overnight. I can't afford that gamble."

"You're overthinking it." Alfred's eyes slid toward Curry, studying the younger man's composed face. "Bring your son-in-law. I have a feeling he knows his way around these things."

Celeste didn't look up from her phone. "Don't be ridiculous. He's a convict who got lucky. Whoever gave him that painting obviously thought it was fake."

Alfred rose, brushing the front of his jacket smooth. "Well then, it's settled. I'll expect you both."

"Stay for dinner," Belmont offered.

"Can't tonight. But Belmont..." Alfred paused beside Curry and clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder. "This son-in-law of yours has a limitless future."

The instant Alfred's palm made contact, Curry's hand shot up and locked around his forearm. The grip was sudden, precise, unbreakable. Alfred's wrist twisted slightly under the pressure, and a flicker of confusion crossed his face before settling into something harder.

Alfred's warmth drained from his face.

"What are you doing?" Celeste scrambled up, voice shrill.

"You're sick," Curry said quietly. His eyes had gone still, focused somewhere past Alfred's skin, reading something beneath the surface.

"What nonsense! Let go of him!" Celeste shoved Curry's chest with both hands, but he didn't move an inch. Like pushing a stone wall. Her palms stung from the impact.

Alfred's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Tightness in your chest. Coughing blood at night. Stiffness spreading through your arms." Curry's tone was flat, clinical, each symptom delivered with the certainty of someone reading from a chart.

The furrow in Alfred's brow relaxed into surprise. Then fascination. He wet his lips. "You're talking about me?"

"Who else?"

Belmont leaned forward, gripping the armrest. "Alfred, you've been ill?"

Alfred nodded slowly, gaze fixed on Curry. "Started about a month ago. I've seen every doctor I could find. None could help. Coraline arranged a traditional healer for today, hoping he might have answers."

He studied the young man with renewed intensity, searching that calm face for any sign of trickery. "How did you know? The only person I've told is my wife."

"I can see it," Curry said.

The room went still again, but the silence carried a different weight, heavier, expectant.

"And it's not just you. Your father has identical symptoms, except further along. Far more severe." Curry's voice remained even, unhurried, as though describing the weather. "I'd guess he's already on the edge of critical."

Alfred's face darkened. His jaw set hard, and his free hand curled slowly into a fist at his side.

"Shut your mouth!" Celeste erupted, shoving Curry's chest again. He didn't sway. She might as well have pushed a mountain. "Get out! You have no idea what you're saying!"

She whirled toward Alfred, face pale. "Don't listen to him. Something's wrong with his head." Then she turned on Curry, voice low and venomous. "Watch your words. If anything goes wrong because of your big mouth, it has nothing to do with our family. Not one cent of liability."

Medicine was no game. If Curry caused a disaster playing doctor, the consequences could drag every Turner down with him. Celeste needed that separation on record.

But Alfred had already lowered himself back onto the sofa, slowly, as though his legs had decided for him. His eyes never left Curry. "How do you know about my father's condition?"

"It's the Parsons hereditary affliction," Curry said, his voice quiet as still water. "It runs in your bloodline. Your grandfather died of the same thing."