Page 69

“Basilisk. So, you know, watch your eyes if he takes the glasses off.”

“Noted.”

For the first time since we stepped into the warehouse, a shot of unease moves through me. Lovelace has given no indication he’s about to whip off the glasses and petrify us, butit adds another layer of threat to the situation I’m not entirely comfortable with.

Though, with the way Serra’s turned her gaze back to him, her mouth tilting up at the corners and some unspoken message passing between them, perhaps I don’t have to worry. Lovelace shifts where he’s standing, and the faintest hint of a blush creeps up his cheeks.

A few moments later, the office door bangs open and Enzo steps out with two more of his lackeys behind him.

“It’s done,” he proclaims, like he had anything at all to do with it. “Let’s get the damned thing out of here.”

Serra speaks up from beside me. “Alright if I have my crew come in and move it?”

“We’ll meet them outside.”

Enzo snaps his fingers, and the lackeys retreat into the office, only to reappear a few moments later wheeling out a cart with a sheet-draped canvas sitting atop it. They head for the door, but I hold up a hand.

“Wait. I’d like to take a look at it first.”

“Fine,” Enzo allows. “Hurry the fuck up, though.”

Serra and I both cross the room, and as we approach the painting, I see her shoot a glance toward Lovelace out of the corner of my eye. He nods nearly imperceptibly, and some of the tension I’d been holding in my jaw and shoulders releases.

With careful, reverent hands, I pull back the corner of the sheet and peer down at the canvas. Beside me, Serra’s breath catches in her throat. Her eyes are wide when they meet mine, but she recovers in a couple of seconds and steps back, nodding to the lackeys pushing the cart.

We all step outside, and the process is simple enough from there.

Our crew loads it into the back of the van, then they both climb inside and drive off without a word. From here on out, we won’t be seeing them again—for the best, all things considered.

Enzo’s lackeys go next, followed by Lovelace after he and Serra share one last charged look.

“Fine doing business with you,” Enzo says. “Now get the fuck off my property.”

Happy enough to do as he asks, Serra and I leave the warehouse behind, keeping our eyes and ears alert as we walk briskly to where I’m parked a couple of blocks away.

My entire being vibrates with each step.

Triumph, sharp and satisfied, courses through every inch of me. There will still be one final confirmation sent when the painting makes it to its destination, and I’ll be watching the news like a hawk in the next couple of weeks for any word of it, but my part is done.

A sliver of light in all the darkness, something I might hang my hat on and point to like a north star proving I’m capable of some small bit of good, after all.

Rounding a corner and heading down another quiet, dimly lit street, I check my phone, which has been silenced for the past hour at least as I made my way here and kept my entire focus on the task at hand.

Looking to see if I’ve missed anything, I freeze in the middle of the sidewalk, dread seeping through my veins.

Ophelia called five times and must have left a voicemail on the last attempt, but it’s the most recent message—a text, sent almost an hour ago—that has my feet moving again and all that dread hardening into fury.

Philippe called. Not sure how he got my number, but he wants to meet. Can’t reach you, and he wants to talk NOW. Headed to the Raven.

“Cas,” Serra calls, voice full of the same breathless, triumphant high I was feeling just a moment ago. “That was fucking wild, huh? I can’t believe we actually got it. I mean, what are the odds that—”

Her words cut off abruptly when I break into a sprint, heading down a side street to the car.

“What’s going on?” she asks, running after me.

“Get in.”

I barely have time to bark the order before I’m sliding into the driver’s seat, but she follows it without question, climbing in the other side and slamming the door shut behind her as we speed off into the night.