The metallic taste of blood pooled inside my lip, spilling warm down my chin as I pushed up from the floor. But the heel of a boot sunk into my ribs, buckling my elbows as the door slammed shut. Sharp pain shot through my side as I squirmed to roll onto my back, staring up blindly into the spinning glare of the limo's violet accent lights.

As I tried to focus, a pile of papers fell around me. Photographs. I squinted through the floating specs, trying to unblur the faces in the images, only to recognize my own first. My freshly dyed dark hair and my freckled body stretched out on a volcanic beach, burning beneath the hot Mediterranean sun, taken about a year ago. Fresh out of prison. Proof of my lies. I sucked in a sharp breath, wincing from the pain as the image of the other woman took shape in my mind without needing reference from the photos.

Long, wavy hair draped over olive skin. Sicilian blue eyes flashed bright beneath the stupid, fucking floppy hat that she'd originally bought for me. And that dimple that dipped into her cheek. It was one of those moments that I had meticulously sketched in my mind, to always remember her like that. She was happy that day. Free. We both were.

"So, Kirby McKinley," the glassy voice cut through me like a shard. I turned my face to the side, squinting through the light that silhouetted his perfectly styled pompadour. "Did you really think I wouldn't figure out who you were?"

"I guess you're smarter than you look," I groaned as I pushed up from the floor. "Your dead wife thought otherwise."

Landon lunged down at me, fingers gripping my hair as he dragged me up between his legs. I already knew fighting back would be pointless. I'd been jumped like this more than once. The only reason I was still alive was because he needed something from me. And maybe insulting him wasn't the smartest move, but setting him off seemed to take away some of his control.

The side of his mouth twisted up to a crooked smile as he loosened his grip. "And what a fool you are, believing she thought any higher of you." His voice dripped with disdain. My teeth clenched as his fingers slid down to stroke my cheek. "But she did always love a pretty little charity project."

Pulling away, I quickly slid backwards til my back hit the opposite seat. "What do you want, Landon? An apology for fucking your wife? I thought men like you were into that shit."

"So classy." He flashed that amused, toothy grin again. "No wonder Pino had you locked up."

"Pino can go fuck—"

"Good news is, he considers your debt paid, you know, thanks to my dead wife. Bad news is, you owe me now, Kirby. Your little stunt tonight cost us hundreds of thousands of dollars."

I was about to open my mouth again, but for once in my life I kept it shut. Did he think I staged Gabriel's body? Or was he pissed we stumbled upon it like Desirae thought?

"Add that debt on top of the very generous donation Artemisia made to the prison to get you out early and I'd say you owe me the equivalent of a couple Degas pastels."

There it was.

With a smile, I tongued the cut on my lip and slid up from the floor into the white leather seat behind me. "While I couldn't think of a more vile, suitable owner than you, I think your math is off a bit. Those pastels are worth close to a million each."

His slick grin faded with a huff as he tugged at his blazer. "Maybe on the open-market, but—"

"Pino has never had a problem moving art for near what it's worth," I replied, careful to watch his subtle reactions; the flare of his nostrils, the twitch of his lips, the way he fumbled with his cufflinks. "Unless, you're trying to make this deal without him knowing? Which I would totally advise against. Even if I did know what Artie had done with the sketches."

Not a hair on his head fell out of place as he leaned closer. "You lie worse than that Nigerian scam artist."

"Desirae?" I knew I needed to play this carefully to keep her safe, but I also wanted to figure out how much they had on her.

"I assume she commissioned you to steal my personal Benin bronzes. I overheard her on the phone the other day talking to a buyer. She switched to Nigerian when I walked by."

"Nigerian...?"

"When her blackmailing me with the skull didn't work, she brought you in. You two aren't fooling anyone, least of all me. Fortunately for you, I can make your job easier if we can reach an agreement, but I want you both gone before her show next week which will regretfully be postponed due to tonight's circumstances."

At first I thought Landon was joking, but there was no change in his hardened features. He seriously believed we were after "his" bronzes—looted artifacts from the Benin Royal Palace. It actually wasn't a bad idea now that he'd planted the seed in my head. I'm sure Desirae would love to repatriate the pieces to Nigeria, maybe she'd get a fat FBI bonus or something. Maybe they'd make me some kinda reformed special art thief agent like they do with hackers.

I almost laughed aloud. "They really do just pay you to stand around and be the pretty face of the museum, huh? All hair, no brains up there." But if this was really just about moving stolen artwork, I didn't understand how that horrific tableau of Gabriel played into it. Some kind of reverse blackmail? I figured I'd better play along. "Seriously, does Pino know you're trying to cut a deal with me and ultimately, Black Axe?"

"Pino just wants his daughter's body back."

Any confidence I thought I had gained from the conversation bottomed out and hit the floor. The limo's backlighting began to streak and blur in my eyes. My ribs tightened. Pulse pounded. "Her body?"

"He seems to think you know where it is, but your face is telling me otherwise." His eyes shifted over me a couple times before he reached up to press a button on a screen. "Then again, you're smarter than you look too. Calò?"

Cousin Cal.

"No—wait." I finally exhaled, blood rushing back to my head. "Landon, I swear on my mother's grave, I don't—"

The door next to me swung open and Calò Cassini gripped my arm, yanking me out. My ankles twisted to find the ground, still strapped to my broken pumps.

"The Degas, Kirby," Landon said through the window. "Calò, don't mess her face up too much. She still needs to be able to see."

I guess I should've been glad he still wanted me alive, but my mind was fixated on the thought of Artemisia's dead body. And that it was missing. Something I knew nothing about.

The limo looped around the darkened bait shop before turning out of the marina. Its headlights faded somewhere beyond the yacht club on the rocky bluffs above. I glanced around for any sign of human movement along the docks, but just shadows of boats bobbed in the harbor.

Just shadows of me and Calò Cassini.

"Cousin Cal," I forced my voice to a new octave to try to hide the tremble, "I didn't realize that was you earlier." He was your typical mafia goon—a towering juicebag, dressed in all black, greased hair slicked back to his thick neck. And he had a habit of being overzealous with his jobs. "Sorry about your uh, hand."

"Walk."

Looking down at my tattered heels, I knew I'd need to get them off if I was going to make a run for it. "Can I just—"

The poorly bandaged palm of his hand hit my chest, knocking my ass to the sandy cement pier. "Crawl."

I did as I was told, sliding backwards away from the dockhouse and down the concrete breakwater. Sand and gravel cut up under my fingernails, scratching the heel of my palms raw the farther I went. I dragged myself along until my fingers hit the edge of the cement. The black, murky harbor waters were just a couple feet straight down behind me.

Out of the corner of my eye, the bright hull of Artemisia's old Sundancer, Pitruzza, gleamed beneath the moonlight, docked at the far slip all by herself. But even if I could get away, even if the dock gate were open, I didn't have the keys. Cal had me cornered at the end of the concrete pier.

As he reached into his jacket, I held my breath, waiting to see what my fate would be.

But instead of a weapon, he pulled out my phone. "You got some nice pics in here, Kirby."

"Yeah?" My voice cracked with nerves. "Uh, help yourself."

"Already did." He continued to scroll through the images. "Ya know, girls are makin' a lotta money postin' pics like these online. Got dudes subscribing to 'em and shit."

"Monthly?" I asked, half-curious, but mostly I just wanted to keep him talking.

"Yeah. Pretty lucrative, huh?"

"Sex work is one of the oldest professions in history because it continues to evolve." While he kept his face in my phone, I slowly worked one of my heels off. "Women are smart."

"Buncha sluts if ya ask me." As Cal looked back up, I froze. "Oh, and I sent this one to Uncle Pino." He flashed a selfie of me with Artemisia. One that had been taken just days before she committed suicide. One of those little secrets I had been keeping to myself, letting it eat away at me. And it was just a fraction of the truth I had been keeping from Rafael.

"Just let me talk to Pino," I urged as I started pushing up to my feet, "I can explain."

Cal's boot caught me in the ribs again, stealing the breath from my body. Gasping for air, I rolled to my back. My hair dangled over the edge of the concrete pier as he stood over me, watching with delight. "All right," I groaned. The cold air stung as it returned to my lungs. "Can we just get this over with? Like Landon said, not the face."

"Landon ain't my boss."

My head screamed for me to move, to roll off the edge into the bay, but my body reacted too slow. In a second, his hands were around my throat. My head hit the cement. His body pinned me down. Tearing at his fingers, I sunk my nails into the backs of his hands, but he only gripped and pushed and squeezed harder. The pressure in my head felt ready to burst as I started losing sensation in my hands, my feet.

My feet.

Reaching down to my ankles, my numb fingers wrapped around the broken red-bottomed stiletto and I tore it completely away from the shoe like the dagger it was named for. In one quick motion, I used all the strength I could find to thrust the point of it into Cal's eye. Soft tissue gave way to the crunch of bone. Instantly, his hands left my throat as he wobbled above me, howling in pain.

Blood and some other viscous liquid dripped out around his bulging eye down onto my dress; the stiletto still wedged in deep. I gave him a hard shove and stumbled up to my feet.

In that moment, I had never been more grateful for cheap, knock-off Louboutins.

Unbuckling what was left of the other shoe, I tossed them both into the bay and took off down the breakwater back towards town.