Chapter 7: Performance Art
Victor’s head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that pulsed behind his eyes as consciousness seeped back in. The cold, hard floor of the vault pressed against his cheek, the scent of dust and aged canvas filling his nostrils. He blinked, his vision swimming into focus on the scene before him, and a wave of nausea washed over him that had nothing to do with the blow Damien had landed.
Sloane was astride Damien, her body a pale, shimmering curve in the low light. Her head was thrown back, a cascade of fiery red hair brushing against the small of her back. Damien’s hands were on her hips, guiding her, his fingers digging into her flesh with a possessiveness that made Victor’s stomach clench. They were on the floor, just feet from the Rothko, its vibrant hues a silent witness to the raw display.
“Open your eyes, you bastard,” Damien’s voice was a low, gravelly command, cutting through the hum of the generators. “You wanted to see a performance? Watch this.”
Victor tried to move, but his wrists were bound behind his back with a zip tie, the plastic biting into his skin. He was forced to watch, propped against a crate, his own helplessness a bitter pill.
Sloane’s breaths came in ragged pants, her skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. She rolled her hips, taking Damien deeper, a sharp, guttural moan escaping her lips. “Fuck, Damien…”
“That’s it, take all of me,” Damien growled, his blue eyes locked on Victor, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. He thrust upward, meeting her movements, the sound of their bodies connecting a wet, rhythmic slap that echoed in the cavernous space.
Victor’s jaw tightened, his face flushing with a mixture of rage and humiliation. “You think this changes anything? You’re both dead. You hear me? Dead.”
Sloane ignored him, her focus entirely on the man beneath her. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against Damien’s chest, her mouth finding his in a savage kiss. When she broke away, her voice was a husky whisper. “Make him watch. Make him see what he’ll never have.”
Damien’s hands moved from her hips to grip her ass, spreading her wider, and he drove into her with a brutal, punishing rhythm. “You like that, Sloane? You like him seeing you come on my cock?”
“Yes,” she gasped, her nails scraping down his chest. “God, yes.”
The obscenity of it was visceral. Sloane’s body was a canvas of desire, every movement a deliberate act of defiance. Her inner muscles clenched around him, milking his length, and she cried out as another wave of pleasure crashed over her. “Don’t stop… please, don’t stop.”
Victor spat on the floor, the glob of saliva landing near Damien’s foot. “You’re a whore, Mercer. A common whore.”
Damien’s smirk widened. “And you’re a man who appreciates art, right, Sinclair? Well, this…” He punctuated his words with a deep, grinding thrust that made Sloane scream. “…this is what real art looks like.”
Sloane’s orgasm ripped through her, violent and consuming. Her body convulsed, her back arching sharply as she rode him through the spasms, her cries echoing off the vault walls. “Damien! Oh, fuck… I’m coming…”
Damien held her hips steady, his own release building, his gaze never leaving Victor’s. “Watch her come, you sick fuck. Watch her fall apart because of me.”
As Sloane’s climax subsided, she slumped against Damien, her breath hot against his neck. For a moment, the only sounds were their heavy breathing and the distant hum of machinery.
Then, Victor laughed, a dry, hacking sound that held no humor. “You stupid, stupid children. You have no idea what you’ve stumbled into.”
Damien gently shifted Sloane off him, his movements fluid and confident despite the rawness of the moment. He stood, pulling his pants up, and walked over to Victor, kneeling so they were eye to eye. “Enlighten us.”
Victor’s eyes glittered with malice. “The Rothko isn’t the prize. It’s a key. A key to a vault far more valuable than this one. And you’ve just painted a target on your backs for every player in the underworld.”
Sloane, now wrapping her discarded blouse around herself, moved to stand beside Damien. Her green eyes were sharp, the passion replaced by cold calculation. “What vault?”
Victor smiled, a thin, cruel line. “The one containing the Medici Lament. A piece lost to history. Worth more than your lives combined.”
Damien’s expression didn’t change, but Sloane saw the flicker of interest in his eyes. “Where?”
“Why would I tell you?” Victor sneered. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”
Sloane knelt, her voice dropping to a whisper. “We’re not killers, Victor. But we can make your legal problems disappear. Tell us where, and I’ll ensure the charges against you are… mishandled.”
Victor barked a laugh. “You expect me to believe that? After this?”
“Believe what you want,” Damien said, his voice dangerously calm. “But your options are limited. Talk, or we leave you here for your own people to find. I doubt they’ll be pleased about the Rothko.”
Victor’s confidence wavered, his eyes darting toward the painting. “It’s in Zurich. A private bank. The coordinates are embedded in the frame’s lining.”
Sloane and Damien exchanged a glance. The game had just changed.
From the corridor outside, a faint click echoed, followed by the slow creak of a door opening.