Black Market of the Elite

The ocean air was thick with the scent of salt and money. A warm breeze rolled off the Atlantic, ruffling the palms that lined the driveway of the 60,000-square-foot estate, their fronds swaying in the moonlight like silent sentinels guarding a den of wolves. The private compound, an opulent masterpiece of wealth and secrecy, sat perched on six sprawling acres of Palm Beach’s most coveted coastline.

Marcus adjusted the lapel of his tailored midnight-blue Brioni tuxedo, blending in among the world’s most dangerous and influential criminals. His invitation was forged, but his presence was effortless. Over centuries, he had learned that power wasn’t just in the wealth one possessed—it was in the secrets one kept.

Tonight wasn’t just an auction. It was a marketplace for the wicked.

Inside, chandeliers of Venetian crystal cast golden light over a polished marble floor so pristine it looked like a sheet of black ice. Soft jazz floated through the air, mixing with the murmur of conversations held in five different languages. Here, beneath the glittering facade of luxury, warlords, oligarchs, arms dealers, and smugglers spoke in hushed tones, trading in more than just fine art. Weapons. Drugs. People. Influence.

But Marcus wasn’t here for any of that.

He was here for a single painting.

A supposed copy of a work by Francesco Melzi, da Vinci’s protégé, but Marcus knew better. This was the same painting that had passed through the hands of Bruno Lohse, a high-ranking SS officer who had looted it from Paris during World War II.

And the myth?

Before Hitler’s death, he supposedly used Erythium-based paint to conceal a hidden map within it—a map that could lead to where his regime had hidden the last remaining fragments of Erythium.

Most dismissed it as legend.

Marcus couldn’t afford to.

He moved through the crowd, champagne flute in hand, untouched. His immortal memory cataloged every detail—faces, accents, nervous twitches, security rotations, camera placements. These were not guests. These were predators.

And then—names.

He listened. Watched. Gathered.

• Kairos Blackwood. British aristocrat. Underworld banker. A man who could launder money through five countries before breakfast.
• Elianore Quasar. French-Russian oil magnate. Ruthless. Dangerous. No conscience.
• Caelum Nightshade. Name likely fake. European. Black-market cyberweapons dealer.
• But one name stood out.

Erebus Flynn

The moment Marcus heard it, he knew the game had changed.

Flynn wasn’t just any criminal.

He was a monster in a tailored suit. An international arms dealer wanted in 42 countries, responsible for civil wars, assassinations, and coups. The man had sold nuclear components to rogue states and walked away unscathed.

And tonight—he wanted the painting.

As the room dimmed and the spotlight fell on the velvet-draped easel, Marcus leaned against the sleek onyx bar, watching.

The auctioneer—a man with a French accent and dead eyes—spoke smoothly.

“We begin with Lot #17—a rare and priceless Renaissance masterpiece. ‘Genesis of Eternity’—from the collection of a distinguished European patron.”

Bidding started at $5 million.

It jumped instantly.

$8 million.

$12 million.

Marcus kept his expression blank, but his mind was racing. Did Flynn know about the myth? Or was he after something else?

$18 million.

And then, Flynn’s hand rose.

$25 million.

Silence.

Then—the hammer fell.

Erebus Flynn had won.

Marcus exhaled, slow and steady. He had no intention of bidding.

The real game was just beginning.

Because stealing from a man like Erebus Flynn wasn’t just about the painting.

It was about information.

And information?

That was the most dangerous currency of all.