Madame Bouvier clasped her tanned fingers atop her desk, raising her gaze toward her two henchmen.

  “No more excuses. Go back to his house and find me something, anything. You might have been in my father’s employ a long time, but know this: if you come back empty-handed again, you’re going home to your wives with nothing but this month’s paycheck. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, madame, and the woman, what shall we do with her?” The driver of the boat dared to ask, prompting a questioning sideways glance from his betrayed accomplice.

  From beneath her thick, black bangs, their employer raised an eyebrow, soon followed by a similar curious look from the man by the window.

  “What woman?” Madame Bouvier asked.

  Chapter Seven

  Alone in Gustav’s safe house, Jorja took her time rummaging through the drawers of the desk in his study. Her eyes danced between ledgers and appraisal documents, finding nothing to make known the location of the Salvator Mundi. Frustrated, she scooped an arm behind a row of books on the nearby bookshelf, throwing it in a messy pile to the floor.

  “Come on, Gustav, where would you hide the file? I know it’s here somewhere. You were always so meticulous with the details of your projects, so where did you hide the file on this one?” She spoke as if he was in the room with her, as if he’d answer her.

  With her hands on her hips, she stood in the center of the room, scanning it in search of anything she might have missed. But there was nothing there.

  A hollow feeling of dread pushed into her heart and made it skip a beat before it sank like a pile of stones in her stomach. Gustav was a con artist, a fraud who tricked buyers into paying huge sums of money for forgeries or, worse, stolen paintings, often inflating the prices along the way. He’d pinned anonymous buyers against each other, auctioning the paintings to the highest bidder before he sank his grubby paws into the winner. Nothing was beneath him and he was as devious and slick as a slithering snake lying in wait for his next prey. Twenty years ago, they had stood on the same side of the moral fence and he had no reason to hide anything from her. But everything had changed, and though he had revealed his plans, she was the one person he hated most in the world. And, she was now convinced, he had conned her too.

  If he were alive, she would shake the truth out of his timid body. But, he wasn’t. He had died at the hands of the man she feared more than a thousand deaths. A man whose eyes were as dark as his soul. A man who had promised to take hers.

  And he had Ben.

  She buried her face in her palms, rubbing her hands vigorously over her face before she smoothed them back over her hair.

  “You can do this, Jorja, you have to, for Ben’s sake. Think…think!”

  Chewing at the soft flesh inside her bottom lip, she decided to search Gustav’s bedroom. He’d been in jail and it was said that ex convicts’ world of reference shrunk when they returned to life after prison. If that fact rang true, he might have hidden the details somewhere in his room, where he’d become accustomed to feeling safe.

  She ran up the staircase to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time. Several large paintings decorated the wall alongside it. Nothing of great value—as far as she could tell.

  But, in his bedroom, she quickly froze where she’d stopped at the foot of his bed. Suddenly more questions than she had time to digest flooded her mind. There, on the wall above his bed, evenly spaced in two neat rows of six, hung twelve small paintings. Her breath caught in her throat, as if someone had just punched the air out of her stomach. Jorja stared at Claude Monet’s entire collection of Charing Cross Bridge paintings, including the five unique replicas she’d acquired for Myles Brentwood.

  Stunned, she walked around the bed to get a closer look. Certain that her eyes were deceiving her, she climbed atop the bed, leaning closer to study the replica artist’s distinct signature strokes. She had studied them all too well. There was no mistaking it. The paintings hanging above Gustav’s bed, displayed like trophies for his secret pleasure, were the ones that had gone missing from Myles’ house, hours after he’d been at her shop to collect his final purchase.

  Jumping off, she paced the length of the bed, desperate to make sense of it all. How had Gustav come to have these paintings? Did he kill Myles? And Ewan! Had it been him behind their murders all along? Or were he and Sokolov working together? Nothing made sense anymore and she thought of calling Charlie to tell him she’d found the paintings they’d been looking for—and Myles’ murderer.

  But she shelved the prospect as soon as her rational thoughts resurfaced. She couldn’t call Charlie, not now. She had disappeared into thin air over a week ago. He would ask too many questions. Questions she couldn’t explain without telling him who she really was—or what she’d gotten herself entangled in. And Charlie, being the stickling law keeper he was, would not walk away until he put Sokolov behind bars. That would jeopardize everything—and quite possibly get Ben killed in the process. No, she finally decided, she couldn’t risk it. Besides, it wouldn’t make any difference now anyway. Gustav was dead. So were Myles and Ewan.

  She turned to look at the paintings once more. Like she needed to reassure herself that she wasn’t imagining it. Sick to her stomach, she tore herself away from what she had just discovered. None of this changed anything, except that she now knew Gustav got what he deserved. He was no different than Sokolov. They were one and the same. Cold-blooded murderers who harbored more secrets than she cared to know.

  Forcing herself into the present, she searched through his bedside tables, now more determined than ever to find what she came there for so she could put this entire horrific ordeal behind her.

  But the contents delivered nothing but a few small personal items, not even a flash drive. She stuck her hand deeper inside the cherrywood drawer, feeling her way through a few loose coins, a couple of pens, and an antique pocket watch. As she pulled the watch out, the gold chain snagged on a small piece of bright orange fabric that, at first instinct, she tried pulling off, fully intent on tossing it back into the drawer.

  Until her mind made sense of what it was: a prison number.

  Dropping the watch back inside the drawer, her attention turned to the piece of fabric she now held in her hand. It had been cut from a piece of clothing, the uneven edges giving away that it might have been done with something other than a pair of scissors. Perhaps it was Gustav’s prison number, kept as a souvenir.

  But what if it wasn’t? What if the fabric belonged to his cellmate, the very acquaintance he so proudly boasted had tipped him off on the whereabouts of the Salvator Mundi?

  As she stood there fingering the fabric, trying to make sense of the riddles that swirled in her head, a thought snapped into place. There was no file because he hadn’t made one yet. All he had was the so-called tip-off from his fellow inmate. A tip he must have only just received. That’s why he had come for her. He needed her, and Ben, to do his dirty work for him, to find the painting, to build his file.

  Which meant only one thing: she had to find Gustav’s prison roommate and make him tell her what he knew. Finding the French gang member was her only chance at finding out exactly where the painting was—if it even still existed.

  With her heart now pulsing excitedly in her chest, she set off to the den where she had found Gustav’s computer earlier. She sat down in front of it, fighting the anxiety that teased at her insides when booting it up took longer than she had anticipated. When the screen eventually lit up, she clicked the cursor across the screen, searching for any information she could find which might indicate who his cellmate was or, more importantly, where she could find him.

  His email inbox revealed a few letters from the prison board. She scanned through the contents and easily found Gustav’s prison number in the top corner on one of the letters. Holding the piece of orange fabric up to the number on the screen, she compared the two numbers.

  They weren’t a match.

  Thrilled with her discovery she safely assumed that it must then belong to his cellmate. Odd as it might be for Gustav to have held onto it, she was certain of her suspicions. If only she had a way of finding his name, where he lived and if he was still in prison, or if he too had been released. If only she had Ben, who she knew would’ve already found his way into the prison’s database to reveal the information.

  She skimmed a few more emails, desperate to find what she needed, before she once more settled on the name of Gustav’s parole officer, noted at the bottom of the parole board letter. She copied his contact details onto a sticky note and slipped it inside her pocket.

  Without Ben’s help there was only one way to track down Gustav’s fellow inmate, and it might not be as easy a task as she was hoping for.

  Chapter Eight

  As always, Pascale Lupin parked his car two blocks away from the restaurant. The crisp evening air hit his body when he stepped out, causing him to flip the collar of his black cashmere coat over his neck. From there, it was a quick walk to his destination along the banks of the Rhône then up past the church. After five years, he knew the route well—every cobble and every pothole in the road.

  As always, he stayed vigilant, sneaking glances behind him every few yards along the way. It’s what was necessary in his line of business if he wanted to stay alive.

  When he eventually reached the restaurant, he paused a few shops away, leaning against a lamp post to light his Gauloises. As he dragged on the cigarette, he staked out the surroundings—another precautionary habit he’d picked up over the years. Satisfied there were no noticeable threats, he inhaled three quick draws of his cigarette, stubbed it under his expensive Italian leather shoes, and crossed the street toward the restaurant.

  To the ordinary man on the street, La Petite Maison was one of the top French restaurants in Geneva, and unlike the name suggested, was not the cosy, little house everyone thought it was. Crisp white damask tablecloths, crystal wine glasses, and Michelin star French food was nothing but smoke and mirrors to what truly happened within those walls. For behind the facade, one floor below ground, one of Europe’s oldest and most dangerous organized crime syndicates gathered to strategize over all things illicit.

  Pascale had first met its ringleader, Gerard Dubois, six years ago at an exclusive VIP art auction sponsored by his good friend, Jacques Bouvier. He had impressed both men with his unsurpassed technical knowledge of some of the world’s most famous artists, and was soon recruited into the Bouvier organization. Gerard Dubois and Jacques Bouvier’s friendship stretched over several decades to when both of them had first moved to Switzerland as teenagers, attending the same elite school in Geneva. But unlike Bouvier, his friend, Dubois, chose to make his name and fortune by means of participating in high profile illegal endeavors, soon affording him significant power and criminal status across Europe.

  When early on in Bouvier’s career, a foolish night of partying led to an accidental hit and run that threatened to jeopardize his marriage and career, Dubois used his influence to buy his friend’s freedom. But it wasn’t until much later that Bouvier realized the simple favor had cost him far more than he had realized and that their friendship would take on an entirely different meaning in the years to come when Gerard Dubois used his friend’s guilt and past mistake to further his own gain. Forever indebted to Dubois for keeping him out of prison and saving his life, Jacques Bouvier played a pivotal role in his friend’s illegal operations, using his auction house to fence the art pieces Dubois had illegally acquired. Jacques Bouvier had been trapped in a web of lies until the day he died.

  But, it wasn’t long before Bouvier’s daughter fell in love with Pascale’s charisma, and the two entered into a relationship that had Pascale securely rooted in the Bouvier empire by the time her father died. And, unaware of her esteemed father’s significant interests in the Dubois organization, Gabrielle Bouvier became the perfect pawn that placed Gerard Dubois in the prime position he needed to be in order to continue his clandestine business activities.

  So, when Jacques Bouvier died, taking his secrets to his grave, his sins continued long beyond his death and Pascale became Gerard’s much needed man on the inside.

  “Good evening, Monsieur Lupin,” the friendly restaurant hostess said as he entered.

  He tipped his head and smiled as he passed her, making his way to the door in the far corner of the restaurant.

  The two muscly men who stood on guard in front of the door stepped aside and let him through. They had come to know him over the years and treated him with the utmost respect, knowing full well how important his relationship with their employer was.

  The familiar staircase took him to the restaurant’s basement where a short, narrow corridor led him through large wooden doors and into the Dubois headquarters. Exquisitely decorated with luxurious antique furniture and rich red colors, it looked like an exclusive private gentlemen’s club fit for aristocracy, complete with a butler standing on call to the side. In the farthest corner, Gerard Dubois sat reading his newspaper in a vintage ox-blood leather wingback chair, his beefy fingers curled around a thick Cuban cigar.

  Peering over the edge of his newspaper, his face lit up as soon as Pascale entered.

  “Just the man I was hoping would save me from the pestilent news they call good reporting. When are these people going to give us something a bit more meaty to sink our teeth into?”

  He dropped his paper on the nearby table and beckoned Pascale to take a seat opposite him.

  “And by ‘meaty’ I take it you mean something that would grab your interest, like, I don’t know, the discovery of an ancient painting that’s worth millions, perhaps?”

  Gerard gave a throaty chuckle from beneath a cloud of cigar smoke. “You know me too well, Pascale.”

  And he did. Pascale had long since established Gerard possessed a huge lust for high ticket art. Partly because he knew the true currency of these items, and partly because his ego loved the challenge.

  “So, what brings you here, my friend? Tell me you have something interesting for me, something to bring back some luster to my life.”

  Pascale settled into the chair opposite his employer. “I think I just might, yes.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  “I take it you’ve already heard that they found Gustav Züber’s body this morning.”

  “Indeed I have. The deadbeat fraud finally got what was coming his way.”

  “Might be, but… “ Pascale paused for effect.

  “Spit it out, man,” Gerard said impatiently as he shuffled to the edge of his seat.

  “Gabrielle and I suspect the guy might have actually been onto something.”

  Gerard shuffled back into his chair and crossed his arms as he rolled his eyes, dismissing what he already suspected was going to come from Pascal’s lips.

  “Oh, not this ridiculous nonsense about the Salvator Mundi again. Surely you of all people know better, Pascale.”

  “I think the guy was telling the truth, Gerard.”

  “I’ve known Züber a long time, Pascale, and believe me when I tell you he was a master at conning vulnerable women out of their family fortunes. It was no secret that Jacques’ dying wish was for his daughter to get that painting back under Bouvier ownership. Züber saw an opportunity and did what every low-life conman would do to a daughter grieving the death of her beloved father. He preyed on Gabrielle’s vulnerability, played her, told her what she was desperate to hear. She’s a fool if she thinks he was telling the truth. Take it from me.”

  “Ordinarily, I would believe you, Gerard, but not this time. She sent two investigators to Züber’s house to look for the painting.”

  “Let me guess. They didn’t find it.”

  “Right, but there was someone else snooping around in the house. A woman.”

  Gerard burst into laughter. “The man was in jail for years, Pascale. It wouldn’t be the first time an ex con kept some company.”

  “Oh, she wasn’t company, I assure you. From what the men said, she was no weak damsel. She packed a serious punch.”

  Gerard sat forward in his chair again. “Any idea who she is?”

  “Not yet, but I have a few people looking into it.”

  Gerard’s eyes narrowed as he studied Pascale’s face, his mouth sucking on his cigar a few times before he spoke again.

  “You really think he knew where the Da Vinci is.”

  “I do.”

  “And you suspect this mysterious woman is after it too.”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Except, of course, the weasel is now dead and he’s taken its location to the pits of Hell. How typical of him.”

  “Perhaps not all is lost, Gerard. When he initially came to the house to meet with Gabrielle, he had mentioned that he’d received a tip-off on where the painting is. As I recall, he’d said the tip came from his former cellmate, some French mobster, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Gerard called his butler over then asked that he hand him his mobile phone. “I’ll take care of it. He’ll be easy to find. In the meantime, find this mystery woman and find out what she knows. If she’s after the painting, we can simply throw a bit of money at her and book her a one-way ticket to a tropical island somewhere. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s just one of Züber’s scorned victims of deceit coming to claim a bit of whatever his lying mouth had promised her.”

  Pascale jumped to his feet. “I’m on it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  As he bid his farewell and started toward the exit, Gerard called out after him. “Job well done, Pascale, and if the Salvator Mundi is out there, I want it. I don’t care what it takes.”

  Chapter Nine

  The address in her pocket led Jorja to a busy neighborhood on the other side of the city. As she stood in the shadows to one side, carefully watching the frontage of the block of apartments, she finished the fresh pretzel she’d bought from one of the street vendors a few blocks away. Standing there, watching the entrance, reminded her of the times she’d done a stakeout of their next heist—observing and studying their target to ensure their plan was airtight. The memory stung, because this time Ben wasn’t in her ear as backup, nor would he be there when she would need to execute this heist. She shoved the feeling aside, focusing her attention back to the moment at hand.