My heart stops.
Standing in the doorway, blocking the exit, is a man in a white tuxedo. He is tall, broad, with pale blonde hair slicked back and eyes that look like chips of flint.
Nikolai Sokolov.
And he is not alone. Two guards stand behind him.
"Problem?" Nikolai asks. His voice is smooth, deep, heavily accented. It sounds like oil poured over gravel.
I freeze. My finger hovers over theEnterkey.
"Silas," Ivy breathes. Her heart rate on my monitor spikes.
150 BPM.160 BPM.
"Stay calm," I command, though I am already reaching for my rifle. "Do not break character."
"Who are you?" Nikolai asks, stepping into the vault. He walks toward Ivy, ignoring Henderson completely.
Ivy stands her ground. She lifts her chin. "I am Sarah Jenkins. Professor Sterling’s associate. And I was just explaining to Mr. Henderson that your merchandise is... problematic."
Nikolai stops two feet from her. He looks down at her. He studies her face, her wig, her glasses.
"Problematic," he repeats. He smiles. It’s a shark’s smile. "I was told Professor Sterling was coming personally."
"He is indisposed."
"Pity." Nikolai walks around the table, trailing his hand along the velvet. He stops behind Ivy.
He leans in close.
"And you,Sarah," he murmurs. "You have a very sharp eye for such a young assistant. To spot a forgery that the Louvre experts missed?"
"I am very thorough," Ivy says. Her voice is steady, but I can hear the tremor in her breath through the earpiece.
"Silas," she whispers. "He’s too close."
"I’m moving," I say. "I’m coming in."
"No," she whispers back. "Wait."
Nikolai leans closer. He inhales.
"You smell nice," he says. "Vanilla. And... turpentine?"
He frowns.
"Turpentine," he repeats slowly. "For an art historian, you smell very much like a painter."
My blood turns to ice.
He reaches out. His hand—large, ringed with heavy gold—moves toward her face.
He touches a strand of the wig.
"And this hair," he says softly. "It is very high quality. But synthetic."
"Don't touch me," Ivy snaps, slapping his hand away.
