Chapter Seventeen

October 12

Lucien Kite Estate

L ucien Kite’s office was the only tastefully decorated room in the house. With dark wood bookshelves and a sizable masculine desk, the space reflected a decorum and gravitas absent in the rest of the residence. Until visitors saw the chair.

It was a Dada-inspired sculpture called The Throne . Kite had purchased the piece a year ago and proudly showed it off to any and all guests. Six feet high and three feet across, the chair had wide armrests with two spired hand holds at the edges.

And the entire piece was constructed from stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

It was intended to be a work of art, a scathing social commentary on greed.

Kite used it as his desk chair.

He stood from the pompous seat and shook the hands of his Bratva associates. Kite was no stranger to the mob. His father had been a low-level enforcer for a family in Brooklyn, and Kite’s first job was working for a syndicate bookie. While running the Zorba Fund Ponzi scheme, Kite had created an -additional lucrative income stream laundering money for organized crime. He had no allegiance to any family or organization; Kite’s loyalty was to money. So, like any good entrepreneur, he was branching out.

The House Manager appeared to escort his Russian friends out. This arms deal would net Kite eight figures, yet his mood had not improved. He was obsessed with something far more tantalizing than providing automatic weapons to heroin traffickers. For days, Kite had done nothing but watch that six-second video clip of the woman, over and over and over, an unprecedented concoction of fury and lust infecting his blood. Last night, his phone battery had died mid-jack off, and Lucien was forced to imagine the naked blonde hurling German profanity.

His best tracker had gotten no closer to discovering the identity of his little thief. She had covered her face and positioned herself in precisely the right way to block the key markers for facial recognition. Lucien couldn’t decide which was more arousing: her slyness or the thought of beating that duplicity out of her. He shifted in his seat at the image of this woman kneeling, subservient.

Lucien Kite was not prone to fits of violence, but his inability to locate this Siren had him ready to hurl his highball glass into the fireplace. Not money, sex, violence (or any combination of the three) could quell this need. Torn between smashing his computer screen and rewatching the video, the clearing of a throat stole his attention.

Raphael Garza loomed in the doorway. Standing well over six feet tall, wearing jeans, combat boots, and a plain black T-shirt, Garza was an imposing presence. His signature Wayfarer sunglasses covered the half-moon scar across his right eye. Even with his compromised vision, Garza was the most vicious man Kite knew.

More important to Kite, Raphael Garza could find a golf ball in a blizzard. “Well?”

His best tracker’s face revealed nothing, but a kinetic air surrounded him. Before the man spoke, Lucien knew Garza had found his mysterious art thief.

“Her name is Clara Gautreau. She’s an art Ph.D. student at Columbia University.” Garza paused to add gravity to his final bit of information. “She is Reynard’s daughter.”

Kite arched a brow. Reynard was an underworld king—one of five men controlling the black market. Ten years ago, crossing Reynard would have been a death sentence for both Kite’s business and his person. But Reynard was old and rumored to be sick—a manageable threat.

The truth of the matter was it made no difference to Kite whether Reynard was in peak form or had one foot in the grave. His compulsion to claim Clara had strayed beyond the rational. The few gray cells still functioning urged him to act carefully.

“Send me everything you’ve learned.”

With a curt nod, Raphael turned and left.

Lucien Kite ran a calloused hand over his beard, then, for the thousandth time, brought up the video of his future captive.

“Hello, Clara.”

R aphael Garza strode out of Lucien Kite’s home, slipped into the SUV, and drove away. Garza was slender, but he exuded an aura of menace that parted crowds. Usually, when he was working, Raphael traveled in a nondescript sedan, but in this chic part of town, he was probably just as inconspicuous in the white Range Rover. He pulled into a parking spot at the local marina and shut off the engine.

The truth was, Garza had known who The Lynx was for quite some time. He had enjoyed learning of her exploits and cheered her daring. Garza had put off sharing her identity with Kite for as long as possible without garnering suspicion. He wanted to help her, but Raphael Garza had his own skin—and bank account—to think about.

The idea had occurred to him late one night like a bolt of lightning splitting the sky. Many times, Garza had feasted on the carcass of another lion’s kill. Clara was a thief. Raphael Garza wanted to steal something. It was so obvious he was shocked he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Garza just needed to tie the thread to his puppets and make them dance. If he set the stage carefully, no one would know Garza was pulling their strings.

He withdrew the secure cell phone from the console and placed the call.

Raphael Garza had never met Reynard, but Raphael had always remembered the inadvertent gift he had bestowed. The day Reynard rescued Clara from that squalid alley, he had kept Garza from a grim fate as well. Reynard had killed the man who was a threat to everyone in their impoverished corner of Paris.

Reynard had also demonstrated in vivid technicolor that the key to getting everything in life was money. He had shot a man in cold blood that day. An hour later, the body was gone, and it was as if it had never happened. The police never came, a crime was never investigated. That was Garza’s first taste of money and power, and he was instantly addicted.

“Hello?” Reynard’s suspicious voice answered after several rings.

“Lucien Kite is aware Clara is the thief known as The Lynx. He intends to take her.”

“Who is this?” Reynard asked.

“It’s not important. I owe you, so I’m giving you a warning. You won’t hear from me again.”

“How will I know who to thank?”

Raphael’s chest burned. When had he ever been thanked for anything in his life?

“Not necessary. Protect Clara. Kite is coming.”

Raphael ended the call, ensured the data automatically erased, and exited the lot in the direction of Manhattan.