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“What did you do?” Viktor whispered.

Three men stood with him. They were not police. They were not Interpol. They were dressed in expensive suits, and the tallest one held a tablet showing a photograph of Viktor’s face.

“Hold her still,” she said.

Signora Ricci laughed and waved him through.

“The Duchessa will be in Venice for the Biennale. The palazzo will be staffed by three night guards, one day manager, and a rotating security team from a private firm called Salvatore & Sons. They are competent but lazy. They play cards on the night shift.” grand theft

But when he turned, Signora Ricci was standing in the doorway.

It was about the thing you left behind.

“I told you,” Marcus said. “I copied the soul. But I also copied the canvas. The cracks. The varnish. The way the light falls on the boy’s sleeve. I spent a year painting that forgery. But you know what I spent the other two years doing?”