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I feel awful for what Yan did to Ilya because of me.

The fact that I’m experiencing such strong emotions when it comes to the twins shocks me. I’m capable of switching off the human part of me when I’m on a job. When I pull the trigger, I don’t feel remorse. I tell myself it’s because most of my targets are criminal filth, like the hijackers who murdered my parents, but deep down, I know it’s because a part of my soul died in the snow with my parents. Ever since that day, I’ve been going through life half-frozen, only partially alive.

Until the big, kind teddy bear, Ilya.

Until Yan.

Pinching my eyes shut, I stop the psychoanalysis. What’s the point? What matters is the job, the last one I’ll do. I think about Hanna as I get the suitcase from the closet and stand in front of the bathroom mirror to start my transformation. My stomach grumbles with hunger by the time I’m satisfied with the results.

The twins are sitting on the couch, Anton squeezed between them, when I come out of the bedroom. They must’ve been talking, because the television is off. Anton whistles in appreciation of the results. Ilya doesn’t look at me, and Yan’s expression is tight, bored almost.

“It’ll be better when I have the right clothes,” I say.

Yan gets up and goes to the laptop that’s lying on the table. “Come here.”

I walk to his side as he wakes up the screen and activates the camera to test the background. He turns it so it faces the wall and nothing else is visible.

He pulls out a chair for me to sit. “You know what to say.”

“I need to listen and watch her a few times.” I’m a quick learner. I can pick up accents and intonations like a parrot.

He opens a video file of Natasha Petrova, news and social media clips he must’ve collected, and pushes on the play button. I pay attention to her mannerisms, the way she flicks her hair and says “darling” a lot, and especially how she tries to conceal her mother tongue by rolling the r’s less when she speaks English.

In what language would she address Casmir Dimitrov? Would she speak to him in Hungarian or English?

No, she’d use his own language to be respectful. She’d choose Albanian.

“Ready?” Yan asks when the clips come to an end. “We’ll do a practice run.”

He picks up a Hermès scarf from the table and drapes it over my shoulders, gently almost. He arranges the silk just so before he activates a video call to himself.

I fall into the role, right down to the way the arts dealer flirts by batting her eyelashes and pushing out her breasts. I become Natasha Petrova, body and soul.

When I’m done, I look up at Yan for his reaction. His face is unreadable, but the intent way he stares at me is disturbing.

“Fuck,” Anton says. “She nailed it. She fucking nailed it to a T.”

Even Ilya lifts his unwilling gaze to me.

“I think she’s ready,” Anton says.

“I don’t think it.” Yan perches on the corner of the table. “I know it.”

“It’s too soon,” Ilya says in a nasally voice.

“We have three weeks,” Yan says. “Dimitrov is a busy man. Petrova wouldn’t give him less time to arrange a meeting and clear his schedule if needed.”

“Can you do it again?” Anton asks me. “Exactly like that?”

“Yes.” I’m certain.

Anton rubs his palms over his thighs. “I say let’s seize the moment.”

Yan opens a contact list and clicks on Dimitrov’s name. “You’ll go through a gatekeeper, a secretary or a guard. If you tell them what the call is about, Dimitrov will take it.”

The call connects. I take a deep breath, and the show is on.

As predicted, the moment I mention the Salvator Mundi, Dimitrov takes my call. He sits behind a desk—in his office, I presume. Even with the new beard, he’s as handsome as in the media photos. He’s wearing a white shirt and black waistcoat, and he’s in good shape for fifty-six. A woman, maybe his secretary, puts a glass of water on the desk. He waves a hand to dismiss her. When a click sounds as the door closes, he turns his full attention to me.

He’s charming, complimenting me—or rather, Natasha—on my appearance and elegance. He says he likes a well-dressed woman who takes care of herself. We talk about the weather and the current shortage of Russian caviar. I say I know he’s a busy man so I’ll get to the point. When I mention the painting, the change in the atmosphere is palpable.

“Are you sure your line is secure?” he asks, leaning closer to the screen.

“Of course.” I’m full of sugar, full of tease. “You can test it.”

“How much?”

Yan shows me a number with his fingers. “Two hundred million.”

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