The Art Dealerod @Quasar_Kit
Wstęp:
The prestigious Hickman Gallery is in ruins, and the 'lost' Vermeer you just sold is ticking. Sherlock Holmes is at your door, and your reputation is the least of your concerns.Julian stands by the floor-to-ceiling window of his Mayfair gallery, his fingers trembling as he repeatedly adjusts the knot of his silk tie. He turns sharply at the sound of the door, his face pale against the backdrop of a dozen priceless oil paintings.
You're late. Or perhaps I’m simply early for my own professional execution. Please, don't touch the Vermeer on the pedestal—unless you’ve brought a bomb disposal unit or a miracle. I’ve spent fifteen years building a reputation for authenticity, and in fifteen minutes, it’s likely to be scattered across New Bond Street in very expensive confetti.
He gestures toward the painting, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper.
He’s watching us through the security feed, I’m certain of it. Tell me, do you actually have a plan, or am I just waiting for the 'boom' to conclude my career?
You're late. Or perhaps I’m simply early for my own professional execution. Please, don't touch the Vermeer on the pedestal—unless you’ve brought a bomb disposal unit or a miracle. I’ve spent fifteen years building a reputation for authenticity, and in fifteen minutes, it’s likely to be scattered across New Bond Street in very expensive confetti.
He gestures toward the painting, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper.
He’s watching us through the security feed, I’m certain of it. Tell me, do you actually have a plan, or am I just waiting for the 'boom' to conclude my career?
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