Final Bid.

Lorenzo's sleek car purred to a stop across the cobblestone street, casting a long shadow that obscured his elegant automobile. His gaze fell upon a discreet sign, its gold lettering proclaiming "Casa delle Arti" in a font reminiscent of the Renaissance.

The gallery itself was a study in understated elegance. Its facade, a warm ochre stucco, contrasted beautifully with the wrought-iron railings and the heavy oak door. Two burly guards, their faces like slabs of granite, stood sentinel at either side, their holstered pistols a not-so-subtle reminder of the valuable treasures housed within.

Lorenzo sighed, a hint of impatience flickering across his features. The few pedestrians bustling past seemed oblivious to the drama about to unfold. 

He then glanced at the chauffeur and said, "Signore Roberto, wait for me here. I won't take long."

With a curt nod Roberto responded. Lorenzo got out of the car, closed the door behind him. As Lorenzo stepped onto the cobblestones, and looked around to see if anyone was watching. 

Satisfied that no one, not even Roberto, was looking, he adjusted his hat, the brim dipping low to shade his face and he immediately turned invisible. His movements were those of a man accustomed to navigating shadows, a phantom slipping through the bustling street unnoticed by the watchful guards, their gazes fixed on the ever-flowing human tide.

Inside Casa delle Arti, a hush fell over Lorenzo. The air, thick with the scent of aged oil paints and polished wood, held a reverent silence. Soft beams of light illuminated an array of exquisite canvases adorning the walls, their colors a vibrant tapestry in the subdued light. Lorenzo moved with a predator's grace like a panther, his sharp eyes scanning every corner, taking in the layout and the smattering of patrons lost in artistic contemplation. A satisfied smirk played on his lips – not a bad haul for such a modest establishment.

His keen eyes caught a sliver of light filtering through a partially open door leading to a side room. Curiosity piqued, Lorenzo glided towards it, a silent wraith and peeked inside. 

The room, seemingly an office, was overflowing with paintings, each vying for attention. A large oak desk dominated the center, its surface cluttered with art catalogs and a silver inkwell. Bookshelves lined the walls, their leather-bound spines whispering stories of bygone eras. A crackling fire danced merrily in a small alcove, casting a warm glow on the room's occupant.

There, at the desk, sat a woman. Silvana Favoloso, no doubt. 

'It seems she won't be seeing Benito today.' Lorenzo watched, a sardonic smile curving his lips, as she engaged in a hushed phone conversation. 

"Yes, the auction has already begun," Silvana's voice, a soothing melody, drifted across the room. "Do you still wish to attend?"

Lorenzo strained to hear the response from the other end of the line. "Certainly," came the muffled reply. 

The person at the other end continued, "By the way, I'd like to meet with Benito myself. At the gallery, in three days' time."

A spark of understanding ignited in Lorenzo's mind. Silvana was clearly speaking with the anonymous artist. 

He couldn't help but be captivated by her voice, so calming and melodic. He wondered what secrets it held, what story it told. Resting his hand on his chin, he pondered what the artist looked like.

Silvana, oblivious to the silent observer in the doorway, sighed deeply. "Alright," she conceded, her voice laced with a hint of weariness. 

'I really don't know what is going on in her mind,' she thought as she caressed rubbed her temple.

The call ended with a soft click. Silvana hung up and soon began to gathered her things. 

A fire ignited in Lorenzo's gut. The artist would be here, in this very building, in three days. He watched intently as Silvana exited Casa delle Arti, her movements purposeful and he followed as well. As she exited the building, she slipped into a sleek black car.

In a swift motion, Lorenzo sprinted towards his own waiting car. The invisibility spell faded as he neared the vehicle, opened the door, and got in.

"Everything alright, young master?" Roberto inquired, his voice laced with concern as he looked back at him.

Lorenzo forced a reassuring smile. "Everything is under control," he replied, his gaze fixed on Silvana's car pulling away from the curb. "Return to the Moretti estate, and with haste."

The chauffeur nodded curtly, his foot finding the accelerator. The car surged forward, weaving through the bustling streets as Lorenzo grappled with the implications of his discovery. The artist was coming to the gallery – a golden opportunity, or a dangerous complication? 

***

Achille surveyed the room from his plush seat, his gaze flitting across the determined faces of his fellow patrons. The painting before them, an ethereal masterpiece, fueled a palpable tension in the air. Bids escalated swiftly, each new offer a tremor through the crowd. 

With practiced ease, Achille raised his paddle. "Ten million Valori," he announced, his voice steady and clear.

A collective gasp rippled through the room. "Did he just say ten million?" a hushed whisper broke the silence.

"Seems so, Signore," a woman confirmed, a hint of awe in her voice.

"As expected of the Selvaggio heir," another murmured, followed by a scoff of disbelief – "Absurd!"

But the scoff died quickly as a new challenger emerged. His paddle rose with a flourish. "Twenty million Valori!" he declared, his voice dripping with a challenge.

Achille's eyes widened as he recognized the rival bidder, Leopold Gonvaza, the eldest son of the Selvaggio family's archrivals in the business world.

Achille's eyes narrowed. Leopold, the arrogant peacock. It was obvious it wasn't just about the painting. This was a game of dominance, a public performance. 

'Ah, so this pest is here as well,' Achille thought, maintaining a cool demeanor as the room fell silent again. All other patrons swallowed, waiting for someone else to raise their paddle.

A cool smile played on Achille's lips as he met Leopold's gaze. He allowed a beat of silence to build the tension before raising his paddle once more. 

"Twenty-two million," a voice rasped from across the room, a valiant but ultimately futile attempt to break the deadlock.

Leopold chuckled, a sound laced with condescension. "Forty million Valori," he countered, his eyes fixed on Achille.

Achille feigned surprise. Did Leopold truly desire the painting, or was this simply a means to humiliate him? 

The question lingered unanswered as the auctioneer's gavel hovered, poised to strike. "Forty million Valori, going once... going twice..."

A slow, predatory smile spread across Achille's face, revealing his sharp canines. He let the anticipation simmer for a moment before his voice boomed across the room. 

"Ten billion Valori!"

A collective gasp erupted. The auctioneer himself mumbled a stunned "Jesus Christ" into his microphone. 

Leopold's face contorted in disbelief and fury. "Why you little bastard!" he spat, his facade of composure shattered.

Achille merely smirked, a glint of steel flickering in his golden eyes. The auctioneer, regaining his composure, rapped the gavel. "Ten billion Valori, going once... going twice..."

The tension hung thick in the air. "...Sold to Signor Selvaggio!"