Forty-one minutes left.
The vault was exactly as she remembered it—small, sterile, temperature-controlled to preserve whatever treasures the client deemed worthy of this kind of security. Vivi’s eyes adjusted to the subtly different lighting as she moved deeper into the space. Three years. It had been three years since she’d stood in this room, looking at these remnants of a life she’d triedto leave behind. The life where she’d been Sabin’s partner, not just his sister. The life before everything went to hell in Istanbul.
She checked her watch. Forty minutes left before the next security rotation. Dom would be moving through the service corridors by now, using the access point they’d identified near the wine cellar. If everything went according to plan, he’d already have bypassed the first checkpoint and be working on creating an entry point to the lower level.
Focus, Vivi.
The safe deposit boxes lined the walls, each with its own biometric lock. She went straight to the one at the back, placing her palm against the scanner. Another soft beep of confirmation, and the drawer slid open silently.
Inside was everything they’d left behind. Banded stacks of cash—euros, dollars, and Swiss francs, all high-denomination bills. Four passports in names that felt like strangers now: Ellie Masters, Catherine Durand, Sofia Renaldi, Alessandra Bianchi. Women who had never really existed except on paper and in hotel registers across Europe. The sight of them made her chest tight. She’d been all of them once, slipping in and out of identities like changing outfits.
And there, nestled in black velvet at the back of the drawer, was the icon.
Her breath caught as she lifted it from its bed. Smaller than her hand, darkened with age, its gold leaf worn at the edges where centuries of reverent fingers had touched it in prayer. The Madonna’s face gazed out with ancient, knowing eyes, the Christ child in her arms rendered with a stylization that placed it firmly in the 12th century. The icon predated the fall of Constantinople. Had survived wars, fires, looting, and centuries of history, only to end up here—in a climate-controlled box, a stolen treasure that she and Sabin had never had the heart to sell.
Istanbul.
The job had seemed simple enough. A wealthy collector with questionable ethics wanted specific Byzantine artifacts from a private collection with equally questionable provenance. Getting in had been easy; Sabin charmed the owner’s wife while Vivi slipped through security. The vault had yielded more than they’d expected—not just the contracted items but this small, perfect icon that hadn’t been on the acquisition list.
Sabin had looked at it for a long moment, then wrapped it carefully and tucked it into an inner pocket. “This one’s not for sale,” he’d said. When she questioned him, he’d shrugged. “Some things shouldn’t be locked away in some asshole’s private collection, you.”
They’d been on their way out when everything went wrong. Police sirens. Shouts. The realization that they’d been set up.
Then Sabin’s decision. The one that saved her and condemned him.
“Get her out of here,” he’d told Dom, their eyes meeting in perfect understanding. And Dom—who’d been their occasional partner, her occasional lover—had done exactly that. He’d dragged her away while Sabin stepped into the corridor to face the police. He’d locked her in that safe house while her brother went to prison. Three years, four months, and seventeen days in a Turkish prison before they’d managed to negotiate his release.
Now here she was, holding the very object that had triggered that chain of events, while Sabin sat in another cell with broken fingers because of her. Because of them. Because of choices that stretched back further than she wanted to admit.
The weight of it was almost unbearable.
She traced the icon’s edge with her fingertip. What would have happened if they’d just sold it? If they’d never kept it? If they’d never tried to go straight? A hundred diverging paths, and somehow they’d ended up here—with her standing in a vault inGreece, her brother held hostage, and Dom crawling through air ducts to reach a dead scientist’s research.
Thirty-five minutes left.
She set the icon down and gathered what they needed. Cash—twenty thousand euros would be enough for emergencies. One of the passports—Sofia Renaldi, with its Italian visa stamps and perfect documentation. These went into the hidden pocket of her dress, flat enough not to create a telltale bulge.
Then she picked up the icon again, studying it one last time before slipping it into another concealed pocket specially designed for just such an object. The weight of it pressed against her hip, solid and real.
It was time.
She rearranged the remaining items in the drawer, creating a noticeable empty space where the icon had been. Then she closed the drawer firmly, took a deep breath, and composed her features into a mask of growing concern. The performance was about to begin.
When she emerged from the vault, Stavros was exactly where she’d left him, elegant and still in the corridor chair, checking something on his phone. He looked up with his practiced smile.
“Everything in order?” he asked.
Vivi let her expression shift from concern to alarm. “No, actually. Something’s missing.”
Stavros’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes sharpened. “Missing? That’s not possible.”
“Well, it is.” She folded her arms, letting anger seep into her voice. “An artifact. A Byzantine icon. Small, 12th century. It was here the last time I checked the vault.”
Now his smile did fade, replaced by a frown of professional concern. “Ms. Cavalier, I assure you?—”
“Assurances aren’t going to bring back a priceless artifact.” She raised her voice slightly, enough that the security officers atthe desk turned to look. “I want to know who has accessed my vault since my last visit.”
“No one has accessed your vault,” Stavros said, standing now. “Our security protocols?—”
