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The second I hit the bottom of the stairs, a green arrow appears on my screen, and I follow it down a series of unfamiliar halls before ending at a door I don’t remember seeing before. Then again, Gray Wolf is so big, I doubt I’ll ever truly know my way around.

Since there’s nothing on the door to indicate what this might be, I lift a hand and give a tentative knock. A moment later, an electronic click sounds, the door springs open, and after taking an initial step through the entry, I pause.

I’m not sure why I’m feeling so edgy. I mean, it’s hardly the first time I’ve been summoned by Arthur, and so far, it’s never gone badly.

Then again, I did fail to bring back the Star, and I’m starting to worry that this might be the Gray Wolf equivalent of a visit to the principal’s office.

I force my legs forward, stepping deeper into the room. The walls are black as midnight, while the floor—a mosaic of gleaming white marble and mother-of-pearl—shines as bright as the moon.

There’s a tapestry on a far wall that might’ve been lifted straight from the palace of King Henry VIII. On another wall hangs a gilt-framed master I don’t immediately recognize. And though most of the furniture is modern and sleek, it manages to blend seamlessly with the other pieces that are clearly antiques.

There’s an enormous fireplace with a blazing fire crackling inside, and a quick glance at the mural that covers the domed section of the ceiling has me wondering if Michelangelo might’ve painted the Sistine Chapel as practice for this.

And of course, there, poised behind a huge carved wooden desk, sits Arthur himself.

“Welcome to the inner sanctum.” He motions for me to take a seat just opposite him.

Because my earliest impression of Arthur was shaped by all the magazine covers I saw long before we first met, I always expect him to appear much bigger than he actually is.

In person, he’s average in height, with the sort of lean body of a dedicated runner. His hair is dark, his features simultaneously blunt and fine, as though his face was carefully whittled from a soft piece of wood using a very sharp knife. His clothes lean toward casual—mostly high-end cashmere sweaters, dark, slim-cut jeans, and designer loafers, lately tending toward Gucci.

At first glance, he seems like any other standard-issue rich guy. Just another lump of meticulously maintained flesh who somehow managed to surpass nearly everyone else in the game of success.

That is, until you take in his eyes, which always remind me of shattered obsidian.

“So,” he says, watching me gaze around the space. “What do you think?”

“Is it possible your office is even more amazing than a trip to the Vault?”

As expected, Arthur laughs.

“Do you have a favorite?” I ask, remembering how closely he watched me choose a piece from the Vault, like he was getting a glimpse into a part of me I might otherwise try to keep hidden.

And if that’s the case, then what does Arthur’s favorite piece say about him?

He leads me toward a display cabinet containing what looks to be an ancient manuscript. “Meditations,” he says. “A collection of essays written by Marcus Aurelius. A great Roman emperor. Are you familiar?”

I cringe, embarrassed to admit my one and only connection to him. “It’s not exactly the timeline I’ve been researching,” I say. “But I do remember him from the movieGladiator.”

Arthur lets out a short bark of a laugh, which comes as a relief. “If we ever manage to stretch our time-travel abilities back to his day, he’s the first person I plan to meet. If you’ve never readMeditations, you should at least take a look. There are several copies in the library in various translations, and his writings are still relevant to this day. One of the wisest men on earth, and he had an absolute shit for a son—the dreadful Commodus.” He shakes his head. “Which just goes to prove that the apple doesn’t always fall close to the tree.”

The way his gaze catches on mine makes me wonder if he’s referring to me and my parents—and if so, which one?

“And that?” I motion toward an easel draped with a cloth cover. “Is it what I think it is?”

Arthur shoots me a quizzical look. “I suppose that depends on what you think it is.”

My belly instantly clenches, like it knows I’ve made a terrible mistake well before the realization can take hold in my brain.

I thought it might be theSalvator Mundi—that Arthur summoned me here to show it to me. But now I realize I’ve made a mistake.

Not to mention how there’s a really good chance Braxton wasn’t authorized to tell me about his recent Trip to Renaissance Italy. In which case, now we’re both screwed.

“I—I don’t know,” I mumble, followed by an awkward pause. “I just—”

I watch as Arthur grasps the edge of the cloth, and in one swift motion that reminds me of how my mom used to rip off my Band-Aids when I was a kid, he whips it right off.

“Not what you thought?” Arthur cocks his head, responding to my look of confusion as I study the painting.