The Monet was a forgery. I could tell from across Marcus Levine's private atelier, even in the dim amber light he preferred for restoration work. The brushstrokes in the water lilies were too confident, too practiced. Monet's hands had trembled with age when he painted his final pond series. This canvas showed none of that beautiful, tragic uncertainty. "What do you think?" Marcus asked, studying my face rather than the painting. I kept my expression neutral, professional. Six months of preparation had brought me here, to this converted warehouse in Brooklyn where the world's most notorious art thief kept his private collection. Six months of building a reputation as Elena Castellano, forger extraordinaire, willing to work outside the law for the right price. Six months since I'd learned that Marcus Levine was the man who'd orchestrated the Getty heist that sent my mother to prison twelve years ago. The heist that broke her spirit before lung cancer finally broke her body. "It's good," I said carefully, stepping closer. "Very good. But the ultramarine in the shadows is too pure. Monet mixed his pigments with lead white. This forger used modern titanium." Marcus's lips curved into a smile that made my stomach twist—part attraction, part hatred, all dangerous. "Excellent. That's exactly what I told the seller before I refused to fence it." He moved beside me, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something expensive and woody. "You have your mother's eye." My blood turned to ice. "Excuse me?" "Your mother." His dark eyes met mine, unreadable. "You mentioned she was an art history professor. That kind of training, that attention to detail—it's genetic, I think." I forced myself to breathe normally. He didn't know. Couldn't know. I'd covered my tracks perfectly, changed my name legally, built my false identity with the same meticulous care my mother had once used to authenticate Renaissance paintings. "She taught me well," I managed. "I'm sure she did." Marcus turned back to the Monet, but something in his tone made my skin prickle. "I have a project for you. Something that requires not just technical skill, but absolute discretion." This was it. The moment I'd been working toward. Marcus only brought crew members into his actual operations after months of testing. I'd aced every examination, every trial he'd set before me. Now I'd finally get access to his records, his contacts, his methods. Everything I needed to destroy him. "I'm listening," I said. He walked to the far wall and pressed his palm against what looked like solid brick. A section swung inward, revealing a climate-controlled vault. Inside, illuminated by soft LED strips, hung a painting that made me forget to breathe. *Woman with a Pearl Necklace*. Johannes Vermeer. Stolen from a private collector in Amsterdam three years ago. Worth approximately forty million dollars. My mother had been obsessed with Vermeer. She'd written her dissertation on his use of light, spent years studying his technique. She used to joke that if she could have dinner with any artist in history, living or dead, it would be Vermeer. She'd been arrested two weeks before a major Vermeer exhibition she'd spent five years organizing. "It needs restoration," Marcus said softly, watching my reaction. "The previous owner kept it in less than ideal conditions. I need someone who can bring it back to its full glory. Someone who understands not just the technical aspects, but the soul of the work." I stepped into the vault, drawn to the painting like a moth to flame. Up close, I could see the damage—minor cracking in the varnish, some darkening of the whites. Nothing irreversible. Nothing that couldn't be fixed by someone with the right skills. Someone like my mother had been. Someone like I'd become, specifically to get close enough to Marcus Levine to make him pay. "When do I start?" I asked. Marcus smiled. "Tomorrow. But Elena?" He waited until I looked at him. "This painting has a complicated history. Before you begin, there's something you should know about its provenance." My heart hammered against my ribs. "What's that?" "It was the last piece your mother authenticated before her arrest." ---