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THIRTY-TWO

Secrets Unveiled

Vivianne

Paul seems to sense my unease. He cups my face gently, his thumb caressing my cheek. “It’s complex work but necessary,” he says softly before leaning in to place a tender kiss on my forehead.

I close my eyes, savoring the moment even as doubts swirl within me. In Paul’s arms, I feel safe and cherished. But the weight of my family’s secrets hangs heavy between us, an invisible barrier I’m not sure how to cross.

No way would I give up that family heirloom. My grandparents brought it over when they immigrated to America after the war. They brought other things with them as well—valuables I have never seen but have heard whispered in the halls.

One day, when my father passes, I will gain that information during the reading of his will. Prescott might become my husband, but he’s nothing more than a man marrying into a rich legacy. Everything my family owns will pass through me to my male heir.

I don’t understand why Prescott agreed to such terms, except marriage will secure him a place on one of the boards of the empire my father controls.

I shiver, thinking of a future with such a man, but my role is clear. There isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

“So, what do you do with those pieces?” I ask. “The ones that don’t belong to anyone?”

“The foundation secures them.”

“Shouldn’t they be given to museums?”

The amount of historic art lost during the Nazi raids is a global catastrophe. They destroyed more than they hoarded.

Obsessive record keepers, the Nazi regime was diligent in keeping track of what they stored as well as destroyed. Many of the caches found after the war were returned to the appropriate governments for distribution back to families, but it’s estimated that billions remain unaccounted for from that time.

I glance at what Paul has stashed on the shelves, and I estimate a few of those billions rest here. The undertaking is breathtaking.

My field of study concerns this era. I could spend decades cataloging these shelves. I rigorously researched and pieced together some theories surrounding the years following the war for my thesis.

The enigmatic Merlin is one of the most interesting pieces of that puzzle. I’d love to meet him, but he has to be ancient by now, if not dead.

“You must be familiar with the legend of Merlin,” I say, probing for information.

“The wizard?” His face scrunches up, adorable lines wrinkling his nose. “From Camelot?”

I shake my head. “Not that one. Merlin operated immediately after the war. Considering you picked up his work, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him.”

“I’m aware of the legend.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “He inspires me, and I’m honored to continue a great man’s work.”

Inspires? Not inspired?

The word catches me off guard; a small but telling detail. Present tense. Does Paul know something I don’t? Is Merlin—still alive?

“What I wouldn’t give to meet him. His skills are legendary, and most of his heists are still unsolved. I studied his work, what little there was, for my thesis. It’s unclear which great thefts in history are truly attributable to him, although there’s quite a bit of speculation within certain circles.”

“You sound like a fan.”

“I marvel at his legacy. Did you know there was a movie made many years ago about the theft of a pink diamond that always makes me think of him?”

“The Pink Panther?” He crosses his arms over his chest and laughs.

“Yes.”

“What does that have to do with a wizard?”

“Part of the premise behind that movie was built upon several famous heists. The movie talked about the theft of a pink diamond. A flaw inside the gem looked like a panther, but the mystique of that film, plus several other stories, was derived from Merlin’s works.”

“How so?” Paul cocks his head, looking genuinely interested.

It encourages me to continue, “He was able to get in and out of places without leaving a trace. And he stole from the rich?—”

“And gave to the poor?” Paul arches a brow. “You’re telling me Merlin is a modern-day Robin Hood? We’re crossing through a lot of fiction here, my dear Vivianne. Camelot, Robin Hood, and the Pink Panther? You’re placing all of that on one man’s shoulders?”

“They’re only theories.” I shrug. “You’re the same. You’re basically a modern-day re-creation.”

“Me?”

“You’re the Starling.”

“But I’m not a wizard. Now, I’m thinking I should’ve come up with a better name, like Gandalf.”

I laugh. “No beard, and you’re too young to be Gandalf.” I pause, studying him for a moment, curiosity bubbling up. “Why pick a starling for your thief name?”

“My thief name?” He laughs, low and lusty, sexy. “What are your thoughts?”

“They’re one of the world’s greatest mimics. Is that why you chose that name?”

“ Mais, oui. I copy a painting and replace the original. I might be even more mystical than Merlin because most of my…exchanges…have still not been discovered.”

“Not that the owners could say anything,” I counter. “To whom do you report the theft of stolen art?”

“ Touché ,” he says. “Perhaps I’m not as good as I think. Maybe all my pieces have been discovered, but the owners are too ashamed to admit they are fakes.”

“I don’t know,” I say, feeling increasingly at ease with Paul as we banter. “I’ve seen your work.”

“Yes, this is true.” He scratches his head, his eyes glinting with amusement as he watches me carefully. “Now, you must decide what to do with this newfound knowledge.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I admit, a hint of frustration creeping into my voice. “The right thing to do would be to notify Larson.”

“Larson already knows.”

I blink, taken aback. “He does?”

Paul’s smile widens, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Of course. Why do you think I’m on this case?”

Relief washes over me, but it only lasts a moment. I want to believe Paul is more than just a thief—a criminal hiding behind charm and artistry. The fact that Larson is in the loop should ease my suspicions, yet the lingering doubt about Paul’s meeting with the mysterious visitor gnaws at me.

He kisses a slow, deliberate trail down the side of my neck, his lips brushing my skin like a whispered promise. His arms tighten around my waist, pulling me back against his chest, his warmth seeping through the thin sheet still clinging to my body. Each featherlight kiss ignites a trail of heat, sending sparks of electricity down my spine.

The teasing is unbearable, his breath hot against my skin, but he takes his time—clearly enjoying the game. The silence stretches, thick with tension, his lips never quite giving enough. It’s as if he’s daring me to ask the next question, yet all I can focus on is the ache his touch leaves in its wake.

Finally, his lips curl into a teasing grin. “When are you going to ask me about my visitor?”

My heart skips. “Who was that?”

Paul steps closer, his gaze locked on mine. “His name is Urakov,” he says, his tone shifting into something darker. “He works for the Russian mob, but that’s only part of it. He’s also security for the FSB.”

I frown, confused. “Russia’s security service? What would they need with an art auction?”

“Because they are in a bit of a bind,” Paul says, voice laced with amusement.

“What does that mean?”

“Anthrax was stolen from one of their facilities. The facility reported it destroyed years ago, but…Surprise—they didn’t destroy it. And now it’s on the market. Russia can’t afford to let the world know they’ve been hoarding something that was supposed to be gone. He needs it back.”

My stomach twists. “Anthrax? You’re telling me, Dr. Gachet is being used to?—”

“—to transport the anthrax, yes.” He looks almost impressed by how quickly I catch on, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “The painting is the mule.”

“Mule?”

Paul’s smile returns, but this time, there’s an edge to it. “Usually, during these high-end auctions, the artwork itself is just a front. A sophisticated way to launder money—big numbers tossed around to move dirty cash between parties. But in this case,” he continues, lowering his voice as if sharing a dark secret, “the painting is not just moving money. It’s hiding something far more dangerous. The anthrax is hidden within the painting itself.”

I swallow hard, the weight of what he’s saying sinking in. “So the painting is—a mule? Like in drug trafficking?”

He nods, his expression serious now. “Exactly. Mules are typically people or objects used to transport illegal substances or contraband. In this case, Dr. Gachet isn’t just valuable art—it’s a token. The real sale is the anthrax hidden within it. Whoever buys the painting isn’t interested in the Van Gogh. They’re buying a weapon.”

A chill runs down my spine as I absorb the full implication of his words. My voice is shaky when I finally speak. “And Urakov? What’s his role in all of this?”

“His job is to make sure the anthrax returns to Mother Russia—and ensure it never gets to its buyer. They want to avoid an international incident.”

I freeze, the words sinking in like a lead weight. Anthrax. Weaponized. This isn’t just about recovering a stolen Van Gogh anymore.

My heart stutters in my chest, panic clawing its way up my throat. I thought I was here to help retrieve a priceless painting, and that would be the end of it.

But this? This is something else entirely.

My mind races, piecing together the fragments. Russia. Stolen anthrax. A buyer lurking in the shadows, someone who could turn a painting into a weapon. The realization crashes over me like a wave, the room suddenly feeling too small, too suffocating.

I look up at Paul, desperation flooding my voice. “And you…You’re involved in this? Why?”