Lark
THIRTY-THREE
“Okay.” Breezy capped a marker. The whiteboard displayed a timeline, a financial flow chart, and three names circled in red.
“We know Creed Capital funds the operation. We know the forgeries move through pop-ups and online marketplaces. We know the printing is restoration-grade quality from one source.” She tapped the circled name at the center.
“Leif Cross. Former Prestige Restorations. Current ghost.”
“That’s the gap.” Breezy pulled up a map on her tablet.
“Rune’s team traced the adhesive formula and the press signatures.
The equipment Leif needs is specialized—climate-controlled paper storage, high-end letterpress, testing gear for quality control.
That’s not a basement operation. That’s an industrial space. ”
Breezy typed. “I’ll pull commercial lease records for those corridors. Cross won’t have signed under his own name, but the lease terms will need to accommodate specialized electrical and climate systems. That narrows the search.”
Lark’s phone buzzed. Sybil.
Sybil: How’s the investigation going? Oliver says I should ask if you’ve caught the bad guy yet. I told him it’s not a movie. He says it’s absolutely a movie.
Lark: It’s not a movie. Although Breezy has a whiteboard with red circles on it, so it’s at minimum a procedural drama.
Sybil: That’s exciting! Do you need anything? I can bring lunch.
Lark: You are a perfect human. Yes please. The usual for me and Breezy. Also bring a salad or grain bowl for Rune because he’ll be back from his council thing and he eats like a Viking nutritionist.
Oliver: THE LION MAN HAS A COUNCIL? LIKE A LION COUNCIL? Do they sit in a circle? Do they ROAR?
Lark: Oliver, I swear on our mother’s cross-examination skills, if you text him the word “roar” I will end you.
Oliver: Too late. Sent.
She put the phone down and rubbed her eyes. Three days of investigation on top of running two businesses had compressed her sleep schedule into a thing Breezy described as “medically concerning,” and Lark described as “Tuesday.”
“I need to get to Leif.” She directed the words at the board.
Breezy looked up. “The financial trail connects Creed to the operation, but it’s layered through shells and consulting fees.
A prosecutor could argue legitimate business dealings.
We need direct evidence—a transaction, a recording, a buy. ”
“You want to set up a sting.” Breezy’s voice was flat. Not disapproving. Assessing.
“I want to set up a buy.” Lark closed her laptop.
“I have industry contacts. Villainette’s expansion means I’ve worked with every vendor, distributor, and collector network in the tri-state area.
If Leif Cross is selling forgeries through pop-ups, someone in my network has crossed his path.
I can find the introduction. I can arrange a purchase.
We record the transaction, document the product, and tie the physical evidence to the money. ”
Breezy set down the marker. Her face settled into the expression she reserved for moments when Lark’s plans were both brilliant and terrible—an expression that had served them well since middle school and currently resembled a woman calculating the exact probability of catastrophe.
“You want to walk into a forger’s operation pretending to be a buyer.”
“I want to walk into a forger’s operation being a buyer. Villainette purchases rare editions for our display cases. It’s a legitimate business activity. I’m not pretending. I’m placing an order.”
“For forgeries.”
“For editions I suspect are forgeries. The distinction matters legally.”
“And Fallon Creed, who is bankrolling this operation and has already sent a scarred lion shifter to attack you in a SoHo alley, won’t find this suspicious at all.”
“Which is why we control the introduction. The buy happens through a contact Fallon can’t trace. We move fast—find Leif, place the order, document the transaction, get out. Seventy-two hours from contact to evidence.”
Breezy crossed her arms. Stared at Lark. Stared at the red-circled names. Stared back at Lark.
“I’m adding ‘sting operation’ to the insurance claim template.”
“Does our insurance even cover sting operations?”
“Our insurance doesn’t cover lion fights on public sidewalks either, but here we are.
” Breezy picked up the marker. Started writing.
“Seventy-two hours. I’ll run logistics. You find the introduction.
And Lark—” She pointed the marker like a weapon.
“You are not doing this without security. Full team. Wired. And I am monitoring from a vehicle within extraction range, because if you think I’m sitting in this office while you play informant, you have confused me with someone who doesn’t have your iPhone location on permanent display. ”
“You’re the best person I know.”
“I know. Add it to my year-end evaluation.”
The service door opened. Rune. Still in the charcoal suit, which on his frame looked less like business attire and more like what happened when tailoring met architecture.
His hair was pressed flat—deliberately, recently—which meant it had been misbehaving during the council meeting and he’d spent the ride here smoothing it down.
She read his face from across the room. The jaw was set. The eyes were steady but carrying weight behind them. His shoulders held the tension of a man who had performed authority and was still wearing the performance like a coat he hadn’t taken off yet.
She stood. Crossed to him. Her hands found his lapels and she smoothed them—a gesture that was about touch, not fabric. “How was court?”
“The council acknowledged my choice.” His hands settled on her waist. The contact was automatic now—three days of shared space had given his body permission his mind had spent weeks denying. “Yara invoked advisory privilege. She made her position clear.”
“Which is?”
“That you’re human, American, and you sell lipstick.”
“All three of those things are true. Did you point out that the lipstick outsells her portfolio?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. The almost-smile—the crack in the regal mask that she’d spent weeks hunting and now caught multiple times a day, each one a small victory she hoarded shamelessly.
“I may have mentioned your commercial achievements.”
“You defended me in lion court with my sales numbers.” She tugged his lapels gently, pulling him closer. “That is the most Rune Sterling sentence in the history of sentences.”
“I also told her that you didn’t run.”
He looked at her the way he looked at rare things behind glass—with steady, careful reverence.
“What did she say?”
“She said the matter is recorded. She sat down.”
“That’s it?”
“For Yara, sitting down is a ceasefire.”
“Your family is very dramatic.”
“We’re lions.”
“You’re cats. Very large, very political cats.
” She kissed his jaw. His hair lifted at the temples.
She tracked it—automatic now, the tally she’d started three days ago and maintained with the dedication of a naturalist documenting a species whose primary tell was follicular rebellion. “Your hair liked that.”
“My hair has no opinions.”
“Your hair has more opinions than your entire council.”