Chapter 9 9

The bass from "The Vault" vibrated in the pavement outside. It was one of those members-only clubs in Meatpacking where the bouncers judged your soul before checking your ID.

Cinnamon watched from across the street. She had climbed the garden wall, ruined her manicure, and taken a cash cab here. She felt raw, exposed, and furious.

She couldn't just walk in.

She called Mia on the burner phone. "It's time. Remember Mr. Dubois, the owner of The Vault? The one whose provenance I authenticated for that stolen Monet? Call him. Tell him I need to see the security feed in his back office. It's a matter of life and death."

Ten minutes later, Cinnamon was walking through a discreet side entrance, greeted by a nervous-looking manager who led her not to the main floor, but to a small, dark security office overlooking the chaos. On a bank of monitors, she saw the entire club laid out before her.

She spotted them in the VIP section. It was hard to miss. It was the only booth where people were keeping a respectful distance.

Arturo was sitting on the velvet banquette. He had discarded his tie. His top button was undone, exposing the hollow of his throat. He looked devastatingly handsome and completely bored.

Sasha Vane was draped over him like a silk scarf. She was wearing a dress that was more concept than fabric. She laughed at something, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

Arturo didn't pull away. He handed her a drink.

A flash went off. A "paparazzi" who had somehow gotten inside.

Arturo's hand moved to Sasha's waist. He pulled her closer. It looked intimate. It looked possessive.

Cinnamon felt like she had been stabbed. She zoomed in on the monitor, her hand shaking.

The photographer left.

Immediately, Arturo dropped his hand. He shifted away from Sasha, creating a distinct gap between them. His face went back to stone.

Cinnamon watched, her heart a cold lump in her chest. It was all an act.

She watched as Sasha accepted a thick manila envelope from Arturo. She slid it into her purse.

Money. He was paying her.

Sasha stood up and headed toward the restrooms.

Cinnamon turned to the manager. "I need to get into the ladies' room. Unseen." He nodded, pointing to a service corridor on the schematic.

The restroom was an oasis of white marble and bright lights. Sasha was at the mirror, reapplying lipstick. Cinnamon slipped in behind her, the soft click of the door barely making a sound.

"Easy money," Sasha muttered to her reflection. "Just smile and nod."

Cinnamon walked up behind her. "How much?"

Sasha jumped, spinning around. "Jesus! You scared me. Wait... I know you. You're... her."

"I'm Cinnamon Taylor."

Sasha's eyes widened. She looked Cinnamon up and down. "Oh. The ward. The one causing all the trouble."

"How much is he paying you to pretend?"

Sasha smirked, leaning back against the sink. "Honey, it's not just pretending. It's crisis management. And to answer your question: enough to buy a condo in Tribeca."

"Why?" Cinnamon asked, her voice breaking. "Why you?"

"Because the SEC is sniffing around his books," Sasha said, checking her nails. "And having a fiancée whose father was a con artist doesn't look good on an audit. He needs a clean, American distraction. That's me."

Cinnamon felt the blood drain from her face. "He's... he's doing it to protect the audit?"

"He's doing it to survive. You're a liability, sweetie. A walking red flag. He's trying to keep the feds from looking too closely at you."

Cinnamon stared at her. To keep them from looking at me?

The door swung open.

Arturo walked in. He filled the space instantly. He saw Cinnamon, and his face went dark with a terrifying mixture of shock and fury.

"Out," he barked at Sasha.

Sasha didn't argue. She grabbed her bag and bolted.

Arturo locked the door. He turned on Cinnamon, advancing on her until she was pressed against the marble counter.

"I lock you in a house with armed guards, and you break out to... what? Interrogate my paid distractions?" he shouted. "Do you have a death wish?"

"I wanted to see!" Cinnamon yelled back, shoving his chest. "I wanted to see you buying your new girlfriend!"

"She is a decoy!"

"Is she? Or am I the decoy?" Cinnamon's eyes were full of tears. "Tiffany told me about the money, Arturo. The hidden money. Is that why you kept me? Is that why you kissed me? Because I'm the password to some stolen fortune?" She subtly turned on the high-fidelity digital recorder in her pocket, a discreet device she'd kept from her auction house days, designed to capture quiet negotiations in noisy rooms.

Arturo went completely still. The anger vanished, replaced by a cold, deadly focus.

He grabbed her shoulders. "What did you say?"

"The account," she whispered. "Is it true?"

He covered her mouth with his hand. His eyes darted to the vents, to the mirrors.

"Never," he hissed, his voice a vibration against her skin. "Never say those words aloud. Do you understand me?"

Cinnamon stared at him over his hand.

He didn't deny it.

He was terrified. Not of losing her love. But of being caught.

He was just like her father.