Between Shadows And Justice

ing her small apartment with the aroma of fresh coffee. She leaned against the counter, gazing at the sunlight as it streamed through sheer curtains, casting golden patt

dubious business dealings, Bianca fled her past and carved out a space of her own in the bustling heart of the city. As an art cura

ray of rare 19th-century paintings, was rumored to be one of the most extensive in the country. The chance to work with such pieces had her equal parts thrilled and anxious. Pulling her blazer over her shoulde

espresso and the low murmur of conversation. She spotted her contact immediately: a sharply dressed man with a calculating smile that didn't

Bianca remained poised, countering his concerns with thoughtful arguments about the cultural significance of the exhibit and the security measures the galler

y person who knew about Bianca's past, and her support had been instrumental in helping Bianca rebuild her life. Smiling, Bianca

ning crowd. His eyes, cold and calculating, were fixed on her. For a fleeting moment, Bianca felt an inexplicable chill, but sh

ays the vibrant, animated counterpart to Bianca's reserved nature, launched into a story about her latest office drama, filling the air with l

lend several pieces for the exhibit. Bianca was elated but also surprised by how quickly the decision had

s shipments of priceless artwork began to arrive. Late nights became the norm, and Bianca often found h

a figure from one of the paintings she was curating, an imposing, darkly handsome person, who exuded a quiet danger. Bianc

is sharp features were illuminated by the soft glow of the gallery's lights, and his dark eyes bore int

composure. "Victor," she said, the name

s head. "Victor

moved, deliberate and controlled, that set her on edge. Yet, she couldn't deny the magnetic p

Maksimillian?" she asked, her

played," he said, his tone casual but his eyes betraying a deepe

as his "client," not his employer. She suddenly realized that she knew al

n?" she asked, careful

ll, enigmatic curve of his

ask what "other things" he meant. The way he carried himself, the quiet powe

ing about her background, her work, and her thoughts on the pieces she was curating. His questions felt both genuine a

a professional encounter, but deep down, she knew better. Maksimillian Vorobev was not a man you simply met and f

was r

mentioned her name. And he wasn't the only one. Across the city, Special Agent Brandon Meriwether sat in his office, staring at a photo of Bianca Petit. The curator had b