Lucia smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, a small signal that she’d heard, understood. Quick strides carried her out of the gala crowd. She blended in, a guest simply heading toward the restrooms, until she pivoted sharply into the dimmer, narrower staff corridor.
Out of sight, she paused. One heel, then the other—off. She tucked the shoes into her purse, the cool floor biting the pads of her feet. The hush of the corridor pressed against her ears, amplifying every breath.
She crept forward.
“Stop,” Jules said.
Lucia froze in mid-step, heart slamming against her ribs, temples pulsing with each count she whispered in her head. Ten. Fifteen. Thirty.
“Go. Hurry.”
She darted forward, her bare feet whispering over the linoleum until she reached the supply closet where Skye hadstashed herMadonna. Her badge beeped softly against the reader, and the lock released.
Inside, the air was stale, dust motes suspended in the faint shaft of corridor light. She crouched, pulled aside a crate, and uncovered the hidden case.
“Is it safe?” she whispered.
“Yes. Get out now,” Jules replied, voice clipped but steady.
Lucia slid back into the hall, clutching the case tight, and padded toward the Conservation Lab. Another swipe of her card, another electronic click, and the door yielded.
Darkness met her.
The room swallowed the faint light from the corridor, shapes only half-suggested by shadow. She stilled, waiting for her eyes to adjust, then exhaled slowly.
Time to work.
On the nearest table, she laid out her tools—small, precise devices smuggled in her coat lining and purse, assembled in a neat row like surgical instruments. Beside them, she opened the slim case and slid the replacement canvas into reach.
Even here, away from the gallery floor, theMadonnawas still encased, locked inside a security shell. Penelope had warned her: high-profile pieces never went unguarded, not even in the lab.
Lucia pressed her finger to the scanner, praying Jules’s credential switch had taken. One breathless second stretched like a blade, then a soft chime, a green flash. The lock clicked open.
She snapped on her gloves, thumbed on her penlight, and groaned under her breath. Thin silver wires spiderwebbed from the glass case to the frame—heat-sensitive. Beneath it, the faint outline of a weight sensor.
“Heat and pressure,” Lucia whispered.
“That tracks,” Jules murmured in her ear. “I can disable the heat sensors for ninety seconds. But the pressure trigger stays active. You’re ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck. And…go!”
Lucia didn’t hesitate. She reached for the microsuction tool already laid out, flicked it open, and with slow, deliberate care lifted the glass lid. The suction cups hissed softly as they broke the seal. She set it aside, her shoulders trembling from the effort it took to keep her hands steady.
Now the hard part.
With a counterweight disk in her other hand, she lined it up. Then—in one smooth, practiced motion—she slid the disk into place on the pedestal at the same instant she lifted the realMadonnafree. The balance held.
Her pulse hammered. Sweat prickled the back of her neck. For one terrifying second, she thought the pedestal had shifted, but, no, the weight held steady.
Cradling the real painting against her chest, she reached for the forgery, gleaming faintly under her penlight, so close to perfect, it still unnerved her.
Reversing the process, she swapped them: fake down, counterweight off, real painting tucked safely into the case she’d carried in.
“Ten seconds,” Jules warned.
Lucia’s breath hitched. She slid the glass lid back into place, fingers trembling, sweat dripping onto her gloves. The green light flickered steadily.
