Chapter 15 #2
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 in Greece, 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 at the 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—”
“Someone has been in there.” She stepped closer, letting her body language broadcast outrage. “That icon is worth more than this entire level of vaults combined. I want to see the access logs. Now.”
Stavros held her gaze for a long moment. He was trying to read her, but she stared defiantly back, refusing to give him anything.
“Perhaps we should continue this discussion in my office,” he suggested at last.
Perfect. His office was on the upper level, as far from the lower vaults as they could get.
“I want to see those logs,” she insisted, loud enough that a client emerging from another vault turned to stare. “And I want to speak with your head of security.”
A muscle twitched in Stavros’s jaw—the first genuine crack in his composure she’d seen. “Of course. If you’ll follow me, we can review everything.”
She followed Stavros to the elevator, maintaining her mask of indignant fury. Inside, he turned to her with a look that was far too perceptive.
“I do hope you find what you’re looking for, Ms. Cavalier,” he said quietly as the doors closed. “Some treasures, once lost, are difficult to replace.”
She couldn’t tell if it was a threat or a genuine sentiment. With Stavros, it was probably both.