Chapter 1: Nike of Samothrace

Light flirted into the Louvre museum, illuminating the Daru staircase with a golden hue. At the ascension of the staircase, standing proud upon the prow of her ship, the Winged Victory of Samothrace gazed down at the occupant at her foot.

Elena sighed in fond affinity, as she looked upon the newly restored magnificent statue. Hugging her clipboard to her chest, Elena gazed at one of the Louvre's Grandes Dames, as if it were the first time she had laid eyes upon the ancient statue, as if she was not the head of the monumental effort to restore the statue to its previous glory. Her eyes twinkled in pride even as her heart told her, she (and her hand picked team) had truly outdone themselves.

The marble was properly restored with cutting edge technology, removing much of the rudimentary plaster that had previously defiled the statue during its 1934 restoration. Now, Nike of Samothrace had a slight yellow tinge to her pale white marble, casting a depth into the dramatic folds of her stone robe. Her wings held back and her chest puffed outward, indicating grace and power. Even without her head and arms, the statue had transcended beyond a sculpted rock and into the messenger of victory for the Olympian Gods.

"Magnificent, isn't she?" A voice interrupted Elena's thoughts. Elena turned around to see a middle aged man, slightly shorter than her. He had a balding head, and sported a thick framed pair of glasses. With his tan coat and casual khakis, Elena thought that he wouldn't have belonged in the Museum even if it were open hours.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur," She started carefully. "The Museum isn't open." And how did you get in? Elena thought to herself. She unconsciously took a step back, keeping to herself as she kept a wary eye on the intruding man.

The older man smiled gently. "Please don't be worried, Madame. I merely requested the museum administrators to be in the presence of the restored sculpture." He turned away from her as he let his hands slide into his coat pockets. "The museum complied. They had told me it was the least they could do, given my meager donation for this restoration."

Elena's eyes widened in recognition. "Monsieur Oudea," She acknowledged, even as she felt her face blush in embarrassment at not recognizing the man who had spent millions of euros to restore the Hellenistic statue. "My apologies for not recognizing."

He smiled, waving her off. "I am camera shy, so I didn't anticipate any recognition." He explained, accepting her apologies.

Elena turned towards the Goddess again, and both occupants remained silent, each admiring the mastery of movement and stability displayed in the marble stone.

"She's quite powerful, isn't she?" Elena breathed out, as her green eyes traced the delicate detail of her robe outlining Nike's right leg. Nike looked like she had just stepped forward, shifting the center of mass so that the majority of the weight of the statue leaned on her right leg.

"Truly," Oudea agreed. "She is the masterpiece of surviving Hellenistic sculptures, unmarred by the Roman empire."

Elena turned her face to gaze at the sponsor. "Why had you chosen her to restore?"

Oudea shrugged. "My family has the greatest interest in Greek sculptures. I grew up visiting this fair lady since I was a child. Her mere presence brings me great joy."

Elena nodded. "Eight of the finest archeologists in the world had spent over a year cleaning and restoring this piece. Countless hours of effort to clean up the statue and bring to it the natural hue of marble. This is a restoration that will last decades." The head archeologist explained, her voice embedded with the pride she took in her successful completion of the project. She licked her lips nervously. "Do you approve the restoration?"

Oudea's eyebrows furrowed as he looked up thoughtfully. "Most definitely." Elena relaxed, feeling a bit more at ease. "Except…" The older man trailed off.

"Except?" She encouraged him, wanting for him to proceed.

"Except this statue isn't real."

She spun around, shocked as she stared at the man who had the audacity to claim her prized project a proxy. "A forgery?"

Oudea nodded slowly, as he reached into his front coat pocket, revealing a small business card. "Perhaps you should discuss this with one of your archeologists." He handed her the card that simply outlined an address. "Victor Moreau. This is his address."

Elena reached to the card, her face contorted in confusion before it morphed into indignance as she understood what Oudea was suggesting. "Victor is the finest young archeologist to ever set foot in this Museum," she found herself defending her team member. "A brilliant young man with many talents - "

" - And many names." Oudea interrupted. "The Americans know him as Neal Caffrey."

"What?"

"Please, Madame." The older man turned around, walking slowly to the nearest exit, even as he felt the incredulous eyes on his back. "I highly recommend authenticating this statue." He turned to give her one quick glance before leaving. "And perhaps talking to your Victor might reveal the location of the real Nike of Samothrace."

{White Collar}

The police started closing onto the abandoned brick building, swiftly making their way up to the top floor, covering all of the exits.

"Suspect is a white male, early 30s. Blue eyes, brown curls," The radio transmitted. "Suspect is believed to be unarmed. Do NOT - I repeat, do NOT shoot unless self defense."

The stomps of the black boots resonated across the high ceiling empty floor, as the police honed towards the north window.

White curtains waved gently by the large pane windows, obstructing the view for a brief minute before they moved out of the way, revealing a young man crouched at the heel of a marble block. His right hand held a chisel, while his left hand gently tapped the chisel with a small hammer.

At the commotion, The young man looked up, revealing stunning blue eyes that hid slightly behind the few strands of soft curls that trespassed his face. He wore a white tank and gray sweatpants, white marble dust smudged around his arms and face. In the muted white light with the flecks of marble dust on his chiseled jaw, the young man looked more like a sculpture than a sculptor.

As soon as his eyes landed on the police, his face broke into a bright grin, dimples forming on his cheeks.

"That didn't take too long," He started, his haughty voice confident and not at all shocked by the recent turn of events. The police surrounded him quickly, their guns pointed at their target, their black suits in stark contrast to the white building.

"Put down your weapon." One of the officers stated, twitching his gun slightly towards the ground.

The younger man looked around first, acting as if not understanding what weapon the officer implied, though his eyes clearly told a different story. "Oh! You mean this?" He showed the men his chisel and hammer. The officer nodded.

Carefully, he lowered his utensils down to the ground, before slowly raising his hands up. "No weapons." He assured them. The officers didn't lower their guns. "Are you armed," the same officer asked.

The soft brown curls bounced a bit as he shook his head. "I don't like guns."

Another officer came up behind him, and pulled his hands down, cuffing him behind his back.

"Victor Moreau, alias Neal Caffrey." The blue eyes looked up, twinkling with unexplained mirth. "You are hereby arrested by the Paris Police Prefecture for stealing and forging the Winged Victory of Samothrace from the Louvre Museum."

Neal's angelic smile was absolutely deceiving.

A/N: This is my first White Collar Fanfiction and my first story after nearly 2 years of not publishing anything on this site. Before I get into the purpose of this fic, I kind of wanted to talk about something else: What fanfiction means to me. Fanfic was something I had started writing first in the early 2014s right after I graduated highschool. My sister would tell me constantly that I should try to pursue an original idea, to not continue off of other people's stories. But I'm not a professional writer. I'm just a fangirl who wants to enjoy the stories and relationships that extend from my favorite tvshows or books or movies. It is a platform for me to talk directly with like-minded people who have a story of their own to share. Fanfiction is a virtual society that I am proud to be a part of. So yes, I may be embarrassed in the real world to say that I am a fanfic author, but as Moni, I celebrate my ability to share a simple small story with you.

On the topic of this story: White Collar was an absolutely brilliant tv show that I recently finished binge watching. I loved every minute of the six seasons that I completed within a week while still fulfilling my daytime job that goes well past its normal 8 hour shift. This story that I have written out is a way for me to escape the dark world (especially dark now) around me.

I wanted to bring Neal back to New York, but increase the stakes. Neal isn't playing a game anymore. No, he's battling now, and he's battling against Gods. This is a slow story, but I promise that once it picks up, this will be a fun cat-and-mouse chase, where no one can be trusted and everyone has to be.

I don't quite like the title of this story, but I'll stick with it for now. May be subject to change later on.

As always, please review and positive criticism is always, always, welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar and this fic is simply my tribute to the greatest tv show to grace our television sets.