Chapter 6 My Cousin Is In Trouble

• The moment the layer was revealed, Wesley and his two bodyguards leaned in closer, their breaths quickening. Despite their skepticism, anticipation and nervousness filled the air as they watched the unfolding scene.
• At that moment, Peter's hand trembled. Following a sharp sound, the layer that had just been lifted was torn.
• Wesley's heart skipped a beat. He sighed in exasperation. “Such a beautiful painting, and now it's ruined. It was worth eighty thousand, you know.”
• The two bodyguards also exchanged glances of pity.
• This guy is dressed so plainly. He doesn't seem like a wealthy man. Maybe the eighty thousand was his savings from years of hard work. He probably hoped to find a bargain at the antique market, but it seems like all his money has just gone down the drain.
• Peter, on the other hand, swallowed hard. He continued to peel, ignoring the torn area. As the entire sheet of paper gradually unfolded, a hush fell over the shop.
• Beneath the second layer of canvas, a remarkably lifelike portrait emerged in all its glory. Though it bore some resemblance to the first layer, anyone with even a modest understanding of artistry could immediately recognize its extraordinary craftsmanship.
• The previous portrait seemed dull and lifeless, but the one beneath looked like it was about to come to life.
• It was adorned with numerous seals, each affirming the authenticity of the artwork.
• Peter stared at the painting, his face growing pale. He felt as though he might faint. Having sold an authentic Thaddeus Blackwood masterpiece for a mere eighty thousand, he realized he had incurred a tremendous loss.
• An original piece by Thaddeus Blackwood could easily fetch ten million and potentially command an even higher price at auction.
• “Despite the convincing appearance of this painting, the framing technique exposes its true nature as a counterfeit. Imitation antique frames are usually crafted with the highest quality materials, meticulously chosen to enhance the illusion. However, the materials used for this painting are quite ordinary. The intricate craftsmanship of the framing contrasts sharply with the poor quality of the wood, suggesting that someone was trying to conceal something,” Jaziel explained nonchalantly.
• At that moment, Wesley began to see Jaziel in a new light. Despite priding himself on being a seasoned antique expert and spending half an hour meticulously studying the painting, he had missed the details this young man had identified with a single glance.
• “Impressive indeed, young man. My name is Wesley Zinnecker. I have a passion for collecting antiques, and it seems you have quite the eye for detail. Perhaps we could exchange insights more frequently,” Wesley said.
• “Since you're into antiques, do you happen to have any fine emeralds?” Jaziel asked, his eyes lighting up. Finding a quality emerald in an antique market could be challenging, and seasoned collectors often had hidden treasures.
• He thought of buying directly from Wesley if he had some.
• Wesley's face brightened. “Indeed, I have a passion for collecting emeralds myself and have quite a collection. I own an antique museum on Nightingale Street, and we're hosting an exhibition in three days. You're welcome to come by and take a look. If you see something you like, feel free to take it.”
• Wesley sensed that Jaziel was no ordinary young man and was genuinely interested in forming a connection.
• However, Jaziel shook his head. He was reluctant to accept rewards without earning them and didn't want to feel indebted over something like an emerald.
• Besides, Wesley didn't strike him as the type to make a losing deal.
• “Alright, we'll meet in three days,” Jaziel said, instructing Peter to wrap up the painting and paying the additional two thousand for the framing.
• Peter, feeling the sting of the deal, had no one to blame but himself. According to the rules of the antique trade, once a price was set, there were no take-backs.
• After leaving the shop, Jaziel went straight back to his mansion at Lakefield Estates.
• Meanwhile, Vivian and her group arrived at the bar, which was dimly lit.
• As Caleb and his companions settled into their seats, a bald middle-aged man approached them. The man was burly and rugged, his imposing presence accentuated by a dragon tattoo that sprawled across his body, hinting at a connection to the underworld.
• Vivian and the other girls tensed up the moment the middle-aged man approached, anxiety evident in their expressions.
• However, to their surprise, the man broke into a grin and said, “Well, if it isn't Mr. Zillen! What an honor to have you here.”
• With that, he waved over a waiter and ordered a bottle of the finest wine for Caleb and his friends.
• After ensuring everything was in order, he walked away, leaving Caleb basking in a sense of triumph. The gesture made Caleb feel both smug and respected, and even Vivian's gaze toward him softened, now tinged with admiration.
• “Caleb must really be something. Even the bar owner personally came over to greet him.”
• “Of course. Every time Caleb comes here, he spends tens of thousands. He's their top customer.”
• The flattering words from those around him only fueled Caleb's growing sense of pride. Smiling, he leaned back in his chair, basking in the attention. A moment later, he raised his glass confidently and turned to Vivian. “Vivian, join me for a drink.”
• “Share a drink! Share a drink!” the crowd around them chanted, their voices rising with excitement.
• Vivian blushed slightly but didn't turn Caleb down. She lifted her glass and downed the wine in one go.
• Caleb, seeing the opportunity, quickly poured her another drink before she could even set her glass down. The alcohol was starting to take its toll, and soon Vivian felt a wave of dizziness wash over her, her head spinning slightly.
• As the bar grew more crowded, the atmosphere thickened with noise.
• A young man, clearly drunk, staggered over and carelessly bumped into Caleb just as he was raising his glass for a toast. The wine spilled down the front of Caleb's shirt, soaking him.
• Caleb's face darkened with fury as he stood up abruptly, shouting, “Are you blind?”
• The young man, not one to back down easily, fired back with slurred words, even hurling a string of insults right at Caleb.
• Having had more than a few drinks himself, and surrounded by friends and admirers, Caleb wasn't about to let this slide. His pride flared up, and there was no way he'd tolerate being disrespected in front of everyone, especially not in front of Vivian.
• Fueled by alcohol and his rising temper, Caleb launched a swift kick, sending the young man flying a good two meters. Caleb's boxing training had paid off—few could stand against him, let alone a drunk stranger.
• The young man crashed to the ground with a painful thud, groaning as he tried to catch his breath. After a few moments, he staggered to his feet, clutching his side. With a look of fury and humiliation, he pointed at Caleb and spat out, “You'll regret this. Just wait.”
• After hurling his parting threat, the young man stormed toward the bar's exit.
• Caleb, completely unfazed, simply lifted his wine glass and swirled the liquid inside, his expression cool and indifferent.
• However, from his vantage point on the second floor, the bar owner observed the scene with a hint of concern flickering in his eyes.
• “Let's continue!” Caleb said with a laugh, waving off any concern. He didn't view the young man as a threat.
• However, moments later, the door burst open with a loud crash. A group of towering, muscular men stormed into the bar, their presence immediately commanding attention. They approached the staff and demanded the music be turned off, plunging the lively atmosphere into an abrupt silence.
• Several staff members hesitated, preparing to intervene, but the bar owner discreetly signaled them to stay back. Without wasting any time, the men made a beeline toward Caleb's table.
• Caleb and the others were thoroughly drunk, too intoxicated to fully grasp the situation. It wasn't until the burly men loomed over their table that Caleb finally recognized the blond young man he had just pummeled.
• Even then, Caleb showed no fear. Rising to his feet with a swagger, he glared at the group and asked, “Who the hell are you? What do you want?” He scoffed, adding with bravado, “You should know, I placed third in boxing.”
• With that, he swung his fist through the air, as if to prove his point, grinning with misplaced confidence.
• Several of Caleb's friends stood up. They, too, were trained in boxing and were combative.
• But before anyone could make a move, a sharp noise rang out—a slap, landing squarely on Caleb's face, stunning him into silence.
• A few of Caleb's buddies grabbed wine bottles from the table as weapons, ready to fight.
• The leader of the burly men sneered. “I don't care how good you think you are at boxing,” he said, his voice cold and dangerous. “You hit our boss' younger brother. Looks like you've got a death wish.”
• “Your boss? Who's your boss?” Caleb instinctively asked.
• The man stepped forward, his presence commanding the room as he spoke slowly, enunciating every word with deliberate menace. “Damian Hardman,” he said, his eyes narrowing, “from Apostle Street.”
• As soon as the name was mentioned, Caleb and his companions, who had been seething with anger moments before, felt as though a bucket of cold water had been thrown over them. A flicker of fear quickly replaced their bravado.
• Damian Hardman, hailing from Apostle Street, was indeed a figure of considerable significance in Cadrexia. He had a background in freight, served on the battlefield, and was now engaged in the real estate industry. His ascent was marked by bloodshed and brutality, and he was known for his ability to navigate the shadows of power with impunity. Crossing Damian was not just a dangerous move—it was a gamble with one's life. His influence was so pervasive that he could commit crimes and face no real consequences.
• “Let's go. Damian's waiting for you. He has a short temper, so don't keep him waiting,” the leader said coldly.
• In an instant, Caleb and his crew, who had been so arrogant moments before, set down their wine bottles and lined up like convicts. They filed out of the bar one by one, their earlier bravado replaced by uneasy compliance.
• As soon as they stepped outside, they were ushered into an MPV and driven to a club on Apostle Street.
• Vivian, trembling with fear, asked in a quivering voice, “What should we do now?”
• Caleb's face had gone ashen, but he tried to sound confident. “Don't worry,” he said, “Once I mention my father's name, they'll back off.”
• They were swiftly led into a private room at the club, where they stood in a line. Seated on the couch was a middle-aged man, leisurely sipping his tea.
• “D-Damian, my father is Fabio Zillen,” Caleb stammered, his voice quaking. “There must be some misunderstanding—”
• Bang!
• Without a word, Damian abruptly stood up, his calm demeanor vanishing in an instant. He seized Caleb by the hair, slamming his head onto the table with a forceful thud. Then, with a swift motion, he grabbed a glass teapot and smashed it against Caleb's head.
• Crack!
• Tea and shards of glass scattered across the floor, mingling in a chaotic splash.
• “I don't care who you are,” Damian growled, his voice cold and unyielding. “You hurt my brother, and now you'll pay the price. Even if your father comes, I'll deal with him too.”
• He wiped his hands clean with a tissue handed to him by a young man standing nearby. Settling back onto the couch, Damian's tone turned icy as he issued his command, “Everyone, kneel down.”
• Seeing how brutally Caleb was beat up, no one else dared to resist. They all dropped to their knees, trembling in fear.
• Vivian, flustered, clutched Sophie's sleeve tightly. “What should we do now?”
• Sophie, equally terrified, could only stammer tearfully, “I... I don't know either...”
• In the meantime, Jaziel was engrossed in examining the “The Graceful Muse” painting he had just acquired when his phone suddenly rang. It was a call from Vivian.
• He answered immediately, and Vivian's voice came through, trembling and tearful. “Jaziel, you need to help me. I'm at Cloudview Club on Apostle Street... They're trying to force me into... into sleeping with them... There are so many of them...”
• Jaziel's face darkened as he listened, his frown deepening. “What's happening?” he demanded, his voice tight with concern.
• “F*ck! How dare you call for help? You're seeking death!”
• Suddenly, the line went dead with the sharp sound of a cellphone crashing to the ground, followed by the harsh echoes of slaps and shouting.
• Jaziel's expression hardened. No one has the right to lay a hand on my cousin no matter how wrong she is! I will discipline her myself!
• Without hesitation, he stood up and dialed Sean's number. “Get someone to Apostle Street immediately. My cousin's in trouble,” Jaziel ordered, his voice steely and urgent.
• “Understood, sir,” Sean responded crisply, sensing the urgency in Jaziel's voice.
• He could tell Jaziel was furious.
• Within five minutes, more than a dozen black sedans were racing toward Apostle Street.