“So now what?”

“Now we let the Kowalski and Yang connections do what they do best.”

“Which is?”

“Sell the Kowalskis’ fake bullshit art to ridiculously rich people who are so desperate to have a piece of important art they refuse to know any better.”

Shen smiled. “Excellent.”

Grekina Renard opened her arms and hugged the giant bear of a Russian whom she’d invited into her art studio.

“I’m so glad to see you, Stepka Chumakov.”

“And you, Grekina.” He sized her up. “You look beautiful as always.”

“Now, now, old friend. I didn’t call you here for any of that.”

“Then what do you want? My father is expecting me back in Moscow in the next day or two. You can come with me,” he sweetly offered. “See your old homeland?”

“I’m only half-Russian. I was raised right here.” Grekina dropped down into a comfortable chair. “Remember that offer you made to me a year or so ago?”

“I made lots of offers to you.”

Grekina smiled. “I’m talking about the one that would get me money.” And before he could run with that, she added, “If I brought you unique . . . art?”

“My father likes art. But he’s very choosy.”

“What about a Matisse?”

“He has one. Actually, he may have two.”

“This one he won’t be able to have on display.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was stolen a few years back. It really belongs to a local museum.”

The Russian suddenly sat up in his chair and paid close attention to what Grekina was saying rather than staring at her tits.

“You sure about this?”

“I have lots of friends in the art world. They tell me things.”

“Is it here? In Belgium?”

“No. You’ll have to travel for it. It’ll be worth it, though. Interested?”

“Maybe.” Stepka stood up. Adjusted what had to be a tailor-made suit because the man could not possibly shop at a regular store. “Text me the details, yes?”

“And, Stepka?”

“Yes?”

“My finder’s fee?”

“When we find something . . . you’ll get paid. Okay?”

“Perfect.”

Grekina jumped up and walked to the elevator door of her studio. She lifted it and waved at Stepka before lowering it again. She went to one of the big windows and watched the street until she saw him leave the building and get into a Mercedes-Benz stretch limo.

Once he’d driven off, Grekina pulled the no-name cell phone out of the pocket of her denim shorts and dialed a number.

“Give it a day,” she said to the voice that answered on the other end.“I’m positive he’s in? How do I know?” Grekina grinned. “He stopped looking at my tits for longer than two seconds. That’s how I know.”

“Good news and bad news,” Jocelyn announced as she walked into the living room. She stopped and stared at her cousins sitting on the floor. Each on laptops, with headphones on.

“What are you guys doing?”

“Killing stuff,” Livy said, her gaze focused on her screen.

“Not killing,” Vic said as he passed Jocelyn. The big hybrid dropped onto the couch. His hair was wet, and he’d changed out of what he’d worn earlier in the day. He never made much about it, but he’d clearly been enjoying Novikov’s indoor pool. Not that she blamed him. “Massacring. They’ve been massacring.”

“What?”

“They joined a game, created a league, and now they’re killing everyone and taking all their shit.”

“I now have the most amazing armor,” Jake said, grinning. “It’s got spikes. If I were a warrior from back in the day, I would totally have spiked armor.”

“Anyway,” Jocelyn said, totally dismissing this conversation since she didn’t understand the appeal of gaming. “Word has come down that Chumakov is sending an art appraiser to evaluate the painting before he’ll come to the States.” She glanced at Vic. “He’s apparently being very cautious at the moment.”

“Can you blame him?”

“No.”

“So what if he’s sending an appraiser?” Jake asked, his fingers pounding on his poor keyboard. Now Jocelyn understood why he had one laptop for his “work” and one for his gaming, considering the abuse the gaming one took. “Who cares?”

“We need to.” Jocelyn waited a moment for full dramatic effect, before stating, “He’s sending Pierre-Phillipe Anwar from Paris.”

Every honey badger eye turned to Jocelyn and she knew why. Although the hybrid didn’t.

“Who’s Pierre-Phillipe Anwar from Paris?” Vic asked.

“Well, we’re screwed!” Jake announced, always more dramatic than the rest of them.

“Pierre-Phillipe? Are you sure?” Livy asked.

“I’m sure.”

“Still don’t know who that is,” Vic said.

“One of the best art appraisers in the world.”

Livy scratched her ear. “Jake’s right. We are so screwed.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Pierre-Phillipe Anwar works for the biggest and most powerful museums in the world,” Jocelyn explained. “He’s testified in federal and international cases that have put people away for decades, including a few of our relatives.”