document flashed onto the screen. The incorporation papers for V&M Heritage
Trust.

“Signatories,” I read aloud, a grim satisfaction settling deep in my bones.
“Marcus Sterling and Vivian Vance. He wasn’t just laundering money for the
cartels, Celeste. He was stealing from them, too. Skimming off the top to build
his own empire.”

Celeste stared at the screen, her mouth slightly open. “This is… Elena, this
is federal racketeering. This is wire fraud, money laundering, and grand
larceny. If the cartels find out he’s skimming…”

“The cartels aren’t going to get to him first,” I said, slamming the laptop
shut.

I picked up a burner phone and dialed a number I had memorized from a business
card years ago. It belonged to Special Agent Thomas Vance of the FBI’s Art Crime
Team. He was a man who hated white-collar criminals almost as much as I
currently hated my husband.

“Agent Vance,” I said when the gruff voice answered. “This is Elena Vale. I have
the ledger. I have the routing numbers. And I know exactly where the physical
evidence—the forged paintings—are being held.”

There was a long silence on the line. Then, Vance spoke. “Where?”

“Tonight,” I said, looking at a glossy, gold-embossed invitation Celeste had
managed to procure. “At the Vale Auction House. A VIP Pre-Wedding gala. He’s
auctioning off the final batch of fakes tonight to wash the last bit of cash
before he marries his mistress.”

“Give me three hours to get a federal judge to sign the warrants,” Vance said.
“Do not go in there alone, Mrs. Vale.”

I hung up the phone. I looked at the glossy invitation, then over to the garment
bag hanging on the closet door. Inside was a dress I hadn’t worn in three
years—a floor-length, backless gown in a shade of deep, arterial red.

Celeste looked at the dress, then at me. “You’re actually going to walk through