CHAPTER SEVEN

"Welcome to the Prometheus Foundation, gentlemen. I understand you wanted to speak with someone about making a sizeable donation."

"We wanted to speak with Amy Fontenot," said Nine. The man's face paled, and he shook his head.

"I'm sorry. Amy is no longer with our organization."

"Well, that's a shame," said Gaspar. "I spoke with her directly and will not have anyone else handle our donation. We'll contact her and see where she landed. Thanks for your time."

"No! Wait. Let me show you around and tell you what we do here."

Nine and Gaspar shrugged, Marcel just watching the deception in action. He followed the men toward a conference room, glancing at the paintings on the walls. There was only one he was interested in. The one that was his own, and it was hanging just outside the room.

"That's remarkable," said an older woman seated near the conference room. "You look just like Mr. Robicheaux, our founder."

"Yes, we're distantly related," said Marcel. He stared at the painting, suddenly filled with memories and emotions. He remembered sitting for the portrait in the artist's studio at Belle Fleur.

"Please, Mr. Robicheaux, if you could just sit still a while longer. I'm almost done."

"This is ridiculous, all so my mother can remember me while I'm sailing the world. I have other things I need to do."

"Yes, sir. I know, but I'm really almost there."

"Fine. Just don't take long. I need to be back on the ship and sail for London tomorrow."

"You have an exciting life," smiled the artist. He hoped to engage him in conversation just long enough to finish the painting.

"It's not exciting. It's necessary. I bring goods back and forth to the crown and her people, providing for my family's future and, hopefully, one day securing enough of my own wealth to marry and have a family of my own."

"I'm sure it will happen, sir."

It seemed as if it were only yesterday. He'd sat for another hour before the artist was done. He had dinner with his parents, left, and returned to his ship. By sunrise, he had set sail and was on his way to London. Months later, he was returning on a ship loaded with cargo, including gold. By the time he rounded the peninsula of Florida, once ruled by Great Britain, he knew a storm was chasing him home.

"Excuse me? Sir?" asked the man.

"Sorry, I was just realizing how much this man looked like me," whispered Marcel.

"Oh. Yes, he does look a great deal like you. I'm Paz Sheffield. I'm the manager of the Prometheus Foundation."

"Sheffield," repeated Marcel, his fists balling at his sides.

"Uh, hey, why don't we have a seat," said Nine, staring at the man. As they entered the room, he leaned over to Marcel. "Stay calm. We don't know if he's done anything wrong."

"I wish to know why Amy Fontenot is not here to take my donation," said Marcel.

"Well, so much for subtlety," smirked Gaspar.

"I-I can't divulge that, sir. I'm sorry. The Foundation and Amy have parted ways."

"Parted ways? She was a stellar employee who raised more money than anyone else. Prometheus was founded on the very notion of raising money to provide for those less fortunate, and you've allowed your most productive employee to leave."

"Wh-what is happening here?" asked Sheffield, staring from one man to another. Beads of sweat lined his upper lip, making the men far more suspicious than when they'd walked into the room.

"Nothing," said Gaspar. "As we said, we spoke to Amy about a sizeable donation to the foundation, and we only wanted to deal with her. No one else."

"Listen," said Sheffield, standing, "you're correct. Prometheus was founded on the idea of raising money for those less fortunate. And we've done that. Quite well, I might add. Amy was invaluable at what she did, but she'd made some mistakes lately that we couldn't abide by."

Now, that caught the attention of Nine and Gaspar.

"Mistakes? I believe we need to know what those are."

"Sir, I don't think…"

"I think a twenty-five-million-dollar investment should make you rethink. If I'm investing that much money, I want to know that my funds are going where they were intended. What mistakes?" asked Nine.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "we believe Amy diverted funds into her personal account, and we also believe she was using company funds to start her own business, which would be in direct competition with us. She signed a non-compete."

"Liar," said Marcel, standing, his fists rammed into the surface of the table.

"Who are you?" asked Sheffield.

"We don't matter," said Gaspar, "but my friend is right. You're a fucking liar. Amy was cleared of all charges related to the fund transfer that your own head of IT fucked up. He was the one who allowed the virus to get into the system, divert the money, and use Amy's name in the process. She never started any company in competition with Prometheus. Prometheus was her life until you fucked with that life."

The three men stood from the table and walked out the door of the conference room. Gaspar stopped at the painting, smirking at Marcel.

"It's a damn fine painting, Marcel." He lifted it off the wall, holding it in his arms.

"Hey! You can't take that!"

"Oh, I can and I will. See, my name is Gaspar Robicheaux, and the man in this painting is my ancestor, Marcel Robicheaux. In fact, that's his name as well. This painting belongs to my family, and if you so much as dream of a way that you're going to get this from me, you will be sorry for the hell and havoc I wreak on this shithole.

"So, try me. Please. I'm begging you. Just try to fuck with me and my family and see what happens to you and everyone in this fucking place."

Sheffield was breathing heavily, staring at the three men. If they were ancestors of Marcel Robicheaux, the painting, in fact, did belong to them. They'd been told years ago by an attorney and an auditor that they should seek out his ancestors and return the painting. They did not. They definitely looked nearly identical to the man in the painting. Right now, he honestly didn't give a shit. He just wanted the men gone.

"That's what we thought," said Nine. "We'll be taking the painting and our donation to a more worthy organization. You're a fucking shitty guy, and Amy deserved better than she got."

As they left the offices and walked down the street with a massive portrait tucked beneath their arms, the men caught stares and glares. Once safely inside the SUV again, Marcel could only stare at his likeness.

"What do we do now?" he asked. "We know that man was lying about Amy, but why?"

"That's what we're going to find out."