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Mother.

Of.

God.

The statue stands nearly seven feet tall on a rectangular marble pedestal, its enormous body carved from the most exquisite white stone I’ve ever seen.

Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist. Thick, powerful arms hang at his sides. His chest is massive, his abdomen a ridiculous arrangement of sculpted muscle that looks less like anatomy and more like an architectural masterpiece.

And his thighs?

Sweet Jesus.

Whoever carved this man clearly had a very specific appreciation for the male form.

I move closer, studying the astonishing detail.

“Well?” Jules asks.

I swallow. “I think I just found religion.”

“Told you.”

“Who is he?”

“Nobody knows. He came from a private collection in Europe. The acquisition paperwork says Greek, possibly Hellenistic, but the provenance is a mess. Apparently, the previous owner died, and his estate wanted everything sold.”

“How much did we pay?”

“Enough that Dr. Whitmore nearly had a stroke signing the check.”

I circle the pedestal, unable to take my eyes off him.

The sculptor has captured every muscle with impossible precision. The curve of his shoulders, the defined ridges of his abdomen, even the subtle veins running along his forearms.

It’s almost unsettling.

Most ancient sculptures idealize the human body.

This one looks like someone took an actual god, dipped him in marble, and left him here for women to lose their minds over.

My gaze travels lower.

And stops.

“Oh, come on.”

Jules bursts out laughing.

A marble fig leaf covers the most interesting part of the entire sculpture.

“Seriously?” I demand. “They went to all this trouble, and then slapped a salad on him?”

“Maybe he’s modest.”

“Look at those shoulders. That man has never been modest a day in his life.”

“Well, technically, he’s never been alive.”