What little wall space existed between the windows housed a museum-worthy collection of Renaissance paintings—a Botticelli, a Verrocchio, a Bellini—as well as some random artifacts, including a suit of samurai armor gripping a katana, its blade speckled with dried blood. Aside from the priceless artwork, the penthouse had been decorated sparsely so as not to distract from the view, just a handful of minimalist furniture intended more for feng shui than comfort.
The room’s least attractive feature: its owner. Carmine de Fiore set down his glass of wine and rose from his chair, smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit. A lifetime of high-speed thrill-seeking had recessed his hairline three inches and permanently slicked back what remained. His olive skin had been rendered ruddy and loose from overindulgence.
“Would you be offended if I asked you to remove your shoes?” Carmine gestured to the faded rug in the entertaining area. “This once belonged to Louis XIII in the Palace of Versailles, when the estate was but a hunting lodge.”
“Of course,” Sedna replied. “Preserving antiquity is my life’s work.” She left her boots back on the marble floor and padded gingerly onto the carpet.
Carmine clasped her hand in his sweaty grip, his beady eyes roaming unashamedly down her body. “I hope you take this as a compliment, but when I think of art brokers, I picture men as ancient as the paintings they auction. You don’t look a day over forty.”
Sedna suppressed a shiver of revulsion. So he was a misogynist and a shithead. Still, she smiled primly on the outside. “Art is blind to age. Michelangelo was only fifteen when he painted Madonna of the Steps. You’re never too young to do what you love. Or to profit from it.”
“Sage words.” He released her hand and gestured for her to take a seat in one of the leather settees. “Well, youth be damned, you come highly recommended from my old friend Janus. I’ve heard the Vermeer you sold him was positively stunning.”
Sedna remembered Janus howling for mercy as she dangled him off the edge of a skyscraper in midtown Manhattan, pleading that he would do anything she wanted. “Our negotiations escalated a little higher than I think he was comfortable with,” she said, “but we ultimately reached a compromise that didn’t let him down.”
Sedna pressed her thumb to a scanner on her handcuffs and the briefcase detached with a hiss. She set it on the coffee table between them. As she reclined into the stiff chesterfield, she noted that Carmine’s security team had fanned out around the room. Brigid lurked so closely behind her that Sedna could smell the patchouli cigarettes on the woman’s breath.
Sedna cleared her throat. “Before we begin negotiations, I just wanted to go over a few boring technical details and ground rules. First off, I think it’s only fair to mention the bomb in my briefcase.”
She had barely finished her sentence before the guards drew their weapons, safeties clicking off. Brigid clamped her hands down on Sedna’s shoulders. Carmine paused with his wine goblet halfway raised to his lips.
Sedna winced and mouthed oops. “It’s just a teensy bomb,” she clarified, holding her thumb and pointer finger an inch apart. “It’s connected to a vitals monitor on my wrist. If my heart rate should stop or rise above one hundred beats per minute—for instance, if you were to try to torture me, or I feel threatened—then the charges will incinerate the painting inside and probably take most of your face with it.” She let that sink in. “So now would probably be a good time for your men to lower their weapons and your chief of security to take her hands off of me, unless she intends to give me a deep-tissue massage, in which case: she may proceed.”
Carmine eyed Sedna warily. “Someone has trust issues.”
Sedna glared right back. “Says the man who needs three bodyguards to protect him from a girl who’s barely five-foot-two in three-inch heels.”
After a tense moment, Carmine laughed hoarsely and applauded. “I like this woman.” He nodded to his guards and they reluctantly holstered their sidearms. The pressure on her shoulders abated, though she could still sense Brigid menacing behind her.
“Perhaps some ’84 Sangiovese would keep your blood pressure down?” Carmine asked. Without waiting for her response, he poured a second glass. “It’s from a villa in Tuscany that has been in the de Fiore family for nineteen generations.”
The transmitter hidden in Sedna’s ear crackled to life. “Sedna,” Vulcan’s deep voice said. “I’ve breached the penthouse’s firewall. I also analyzed the flight path of the helicopter that just took off from the buyer’s yacht. Its current trajectory seems to be headed straight toward your location.”
Sedna’s pulse quickened. She glanced up toward the roof of the Millennium Tower above them. Until now, she had assumed Carmine was keeping the girl off-site somewhere and they planned to make the exchange out on international waters. But if the chopper was coming directly to his private helipad—
Sedna leaned forward and nonchalantly pressed her hands to the surface of the coffee table. She tuned out the drone of Carmine name-dropping celebrities who’d visited his family vineyard and willed her pulse quieter. Using her sonar abilities, she traced the vibrations down the coffee table legs, into the floor, across the hardwood, and to the northeast corner of the room. From the nature of the sounds she was hearing, she detected a hollow space behind the bookshelf, likely a small panic room.
In her mind’s eye, the vibrations coalesced from static into real noise. What she heard next was heavily distorted with interference, but nonetheless chilling:
The muffled sobs of a girl.
This brazen asshole was keeping her inside his own penthouse.
Sedna’s skin went cold. Her fingers tightened around the stem of the wine glass.
“So, shall we bypass the small talk and begin negotiations?” Carmine asked. “I am prepared to offer four million for the Storm on the Sea of Galilee.” He must have misread the fury sweeping over Sedna’s face, because he added, “I know this is significantly lower than you anticipated, but with the FBI still searching for it, I think you will find few collectors willing to risk housing a painting acquired through ‘less-than-legitimate’ means, shall we say?”
Before Sedna could reply, Vulcan’s voice came back over the transmitter. “Wrap it up and get the hell out of there. I’ll anonymously forward the evidence we have to the police. Let them finish this.”
But he should have known she had no intention of leaving. Even if this weren’t personal, they’d run out of time. Over the thrum of blood pounding in her ears, she heard a new sound: an approaching helicopter. The whir grew louder as it descended onto the helipad above.
“Ahna …” Vulcan pleaded one last time, using her mortal name.
She cleared her throat. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll give you the painting for one.”
Carmine’s beady eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You want to take one million when I just offered you four? Is this some backwards American negotiation technique? Nevertheless, I accept your price.”
Sedna shook her head. “I didn’t mean one million dollars. I meant one life.” She nodded to the bookshelf. “The life of Senator Ra’s fifteen-year-old daughter. The one you kidnapped and are currently holding in your panic room.”