“Mr. Smith is my tailor,” Lexa said. “And he does lovely work, doesn’t he?” She gestured to his suit. “I also paid for the shoes. The left one has a tracker in the heel. Don’t worry, I’m not here to reclaim the painting. I’m here to change the deal.”

He blinked. That was the first crack. “The client was a shell corporation in the Caymans. Male name. ‘Mr. Smith.’”

“No.” She pressed the duplicate card into his palm, her fingers cold as a scalpel. “I want you to be a partner. If you survive the night, you get forty percent of the auction. That’s seven million dollars. Enough to buy a new identity. Maybe even a conscience.”

“The original deal,” she continued, pouring herself a glass of the owner’s Macallan 30, “was for you to steal this painting and deliver it to a dead drop. But I had a secondary objective. A test.”