Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

VIVIAN

A fter spending a sleepless night on the floor of my closet inside my dark apartment, I was in a foul mood.

As I sat on the floor of my tub with the shower curtain closed and attempted to do my makeup with only a purse mirror, I went over my plan.

Although the word plan was a bit strong.

More like a to-do item.

Or strictly speaking, a the-only-thing-I-can-think-of-to-do item.

I crept along the floor back into my closet.

I needed to choose a black outfit, but not so black it looked like I was planning a heist.

Because I was.

Selecting a pair of black skinny jeans, I paired them with a low-heeled black riding boot and a black cashmere sweater. After tossing my trusty knife and some of the cash from last night in a black Juicy Couture cross-body tiny backpack, I headed off.

I made the cab stop a few blocks away from the warehouse across from an abandoned lot. Since I'd already made him pull over so I could run into a drugstore to get an actual, physical newspaper, he didn't raise an eyebrow at the strange location.

It was really annoying not having my phone. My next stop would be to replace the one Varlaam stole. Since I was using his money to do it, it was more like he was replacing it.

While the cab driver drove, I searched the news section for any article on finding a dead dictator.

There was none.

That either meant that Varlaam and his friends had gotten rid of the bodies… or they were still there.

I shuddered as I approached the warehouse.

There were no cars in the lot and everything seemed still.

I half expected to see a bunch of cop cars or at least some police tape.

With a last glance over my shoulder, I snuck in through the warehouse.

As with the rotten egg smell before, the acrid stench of bleach almost took my breath away as my lungs filled with the chemical fumes.

After coughing a few times, I hiked the collar of my sweater up over my nose and mouth and continued toward the office.

The metal security door was set to one side, its melted hinges on display. That must have been the rotten egg smell from last night. They must have used some sort of corrosive acid.

Gingerly stepping over the threshold, I scanned the outer office.

Except for the metal door and the stench of bleach, everything looked neat and tidy. There was no hint of the chaos of tipped-over filing cabinets and thrown-about paperwork and files from earlier. My gaze wandered to the far door. On the other side was where the bodies had been.

Even though I knew they probably weren't there, I was still grateful that what I was looking for was in the outer office. I didn't think I could bring myself to enter that door, not even for the money I was owed.

And I was owed a lot.

Fifty thousand dollars for five artworks.

And my parents always said an art degree wouldn't pay the bills.

Ha!

Although the ten grand per piece I received was nothing compared to the millions my work would sell for on the black market.

But that would make me a criminal. A serious multinational on Interpol's radar criminal at risk of being charged with art fraud, money laundering, wire fraud, and all sorts of scary shit that would land me in a disgusting rat hole French prison for five years.

As it stood right now, I was simply someone who painted masterpiece look-alikes for art enthusiasts.

And I didn't need to be greedy. Fifty grand bought a lot of fabulous purses and shoes.

Lowering to my knees, I rolled back the carpet in the center of the room. I'd noticed last night that despite the entire office getting tossed, the wool carpet had not been disturbed, which meant they hadn't found Abakar's floor vault.

Since he had planned on distributing the paintings in Europe, there was a good chance they were still in there. I hoped so. I'd spent five months on the project. That was a lot of time wasted if I couldn't recover some of the money.

The metal latch did not have the usual padlock on it. The lock would not be an issue since Abakar had a silly habit of mouthing the numbers whenever he opened it, so I already knew the combination. But it missing was an issue. It meant the vault was probably compromised.

I sent up a silent prayer that the thieves had grabbed the cash and ledgers, but were uncultured louts who left the paintings.

Using both hands, I thrust open the trapdoor.

The vault was empty.

Crap.

So much for my to-do item plan.

My only choice now was to walk away from the whole mess.

After all, it wasn't like I could stroll into the police station and file a robbery report for my forged paintings. Or report the super shady, now dead dictator for not paying me the under-the-table cash he owed me for them.

I'd lie low for a few weeks, using Varlaam's cash for expenses… and maybe a little retail therapy… and then I'd go into my bank and claim identity fraud and get them to unfreeze my accounts and issue new credit cards.

Letting the trapdoor fall with a bang, I rose as I dusted my hands off.

Okay, I had a new plan.

I'd chalk all this up to a lesson learned.

From now on, I'd get the money in advance.

I was so occupied with my thoughts and disappointment, I didn't see the man approach until it was too late.

I turned to run.

"I wouldn't recommend it, Vivian."

Startled that he knew my name, I glanced over my shoulder.

The man was standing with his feet wide and arms outstretched.

Holding a gun trained on me.

"We need to talk. If you are bleeding out for that conversation is no matter to me."

Russian.

The man was Russian.

Dammit. What the hell was with all the fucking Russians!

I raised my arms over my head as I turned to face him. "All right. Don't shoot."

He nodded as he lowered the gun. "They told me you were a smart girl."

They?

Who the hell were they?

Was this man sent by Var? Did he know I hadn't gotten on the plane?

I scanned his features as he reached behind him to tuck the gun into his back waistband. Similar to Var, the man was impossibly tall and built of solid muscle. Also like Var, he was clearly covered in tattoos, as evidenced by the neck ink poking out above his suit collar and past his cuffs.

He wore an expensive suit that was clearly tailored for the breadth of his heavily muscled biceps, so the man had money. He wasn't some petty street criminal.

"I don't know anything," I blurted out.

Without responding, he snatched my upper arm and half-dragged me across the loading dock to a waiting black SUV.

I pushed down on my boot heels and resisted. "I'm not getting into a car with you."

"Relax. You are no good to me dead. I just want a place where we can talk."

"We can talk here. It's a nice day. You look like you could use some sunshine."

He stared down at me without smiling.

Okay, flirtatious banter won't work. Duly noted. "Please, I don't want any trouble."

He opened the passenger side back door and gestured for me to enter. "Then you shouldn't have gotten into the art world."

My gaze scanned the horizon. There was nothing but broken-up asphalt and weeds over a massive empty parking lot. I'd be an easy target. Hell, he wouldn't even have to shoot me. He'd have plenty of time to get into his car and run me over before I even got out of the lot.

The man held up the car keys. "Here. So you know I'm telling the truth."

I snatched the keys from his hand and climbed into the back seat.

He slammed the door shut and crossed in front of the car to then take a seat in the back behind the driver's seat. The moment he entered, the car seemed to shrink to half its size.

Damn, what the hell did they feed these Russians? Wild bear meat and shards of glass?

The man turned to face me as he adjusted his cuffs, but not before I saw an expensive silver Rolex on his wrist. "You have something that belongs to my employer."

I blinked as I forced air into my lungs. The air inside the car was thick with tension and fear. "I promise you, I do not."

He tilted his head to the side as he narrowed his gaze. "The paintings?"

At least that solved one mystery. Something told me that if Var had found out I was the art forger, he would have tracked me down personally, not sent some henchman.

So this man was part of a different group of Russians now threatening my life.

Great.

Not seeing any profit in lying to him, since clearly he knew enough to find me, I asked, "Which ones?"

"The Mona Lisas."

I swallowed. So his employer was the Russian oligarch. I should have known. Swiping my sweaty palms down my thighs, I said, "I turned them over to Abakar a few days ago. You have to believe me."

"I do, but that does not solve our problem. Does it?"

The collar on my sweater suddenly seemed too tight and stifling. Taking a shallow breath, I said, "You have to talk to Abakar about it."

He reached over and grasped my chin. "Here I thought we were getting along like friends, and now you lie to me. We both know Abakar's dead."

His accent was thicker than Var's, and way more sinister. While Var had a primal, almost beastly sexual appeal, this man was more Bond villain handsome. The kind of man women liked to look at but knew better than to approach. He practically radiated fuck-around-and-find-out energy.

Wrenching my face to the side, I pulled on the collar of my sweater. "I know how I know he's dead… but how do you know?"

"You seem warm." He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a second key fob. Pointing it toward the dash, he started the car.

A burst of cool air flowed from the vents.

My lips thinned as I opened my sweaty palm where I had been clutching the apparently useless keys. "Liar."

He shrugged. "I never said I didn't have a second set."

I tossed the keys on the seat between us. "You haven't answered my question."

"Neither have you."

"I'll answer yours if you answer mine."

I'd heard Russians liked chess, but these constant cat-and-mouse banter games were exhausting. It made a person miss good old-fashioned American brashness.

"I didn't kill Abakar. Like you, he is of no use to me dead. My employer paid a hefty sum for those paintings. We then learned Abakar was going to double-cross him, so I was sent to… retrieve them."

"Sounds like Abakar," I muttered under my breath. "I don't know what to tell you. I just checked in the vault and the paintings are gone, so clearly whoever killed the asshole took them."

"How much were you paid? Perhaps we could come to an arrangement. Of course, I would need them by the end of the week."

Both of my eyebrows rose. "That's in three days. These aren't Rothkos. If you want quality work that will fool all the tests, then I need time. Time to source the proper sixteenth-century materials. Time to paint."

"You have three days."

"Impossible."

He leaned forward. "In three days, I'm either leaving the country with five paintings or a body bag. Your choice."

My hand edged along the door handle. I knew it was locked, but that didn't stop me from pulling it. Locked. The space between my shoulder blades stiffened. "That's not much of a choice."

"If it helps, I've tracked down the men responsible for Abakar's death. It was an unrelated dispute over drugs with a small gang south of the city. They know nothing about the paintings."

"Are you sure?"

His eyes hardened with a sinister glare as his lips twisted in a macabre grin. "I have ways of being very persuasive. Trust me. They don't have them."

No longer warm, a chill ran up my spine.

The door locks unlatched. "You have three days."

My fingernails dug into my purse. "What is your name?"

"My name is immaterial. All you need to know is that it would be very dangerous to disappoint me on this."

Without meeting his gaze, I slowly nodded to show that I had understood the threat. My hand went to the now unlocked door handle.

"Vivian?"

I stilled. "Yes?"

"I'll be watching."

Without another word, I yanked on the door latch and climbed out as quickly as I could.

Seconds later, the SUV sped out of the parking lot in a trail of dust and debris.

I was so fucked.

It was impossible to recreate the forgeries in a few days, which meant my only option was to find the ones I'd already created.

If this man didn't have them, and the Southside gang didn't—that left only one other option.

Var has the paintings.