“We’re offering you a choice,” Dante said. “Return the painting. Walk away. Or we call the police, tell them where the real Caravaggio is, and let them arrest you for grand theft. The painting is worth forty million euros. In Italy, that carries a sentence of eight to fourteen years. And your friend Novak? He assaulted a civilian. That’s another five.”
Viktor felt the floor tilt beneath him. “The Duchessa is in Venice.”
Lina appeared from the stairwell like a ghost. She took in the scene—the shattered cup, the terrified woman, the painting in the case—and made a decision that would haunt all of them. She pulled a syringe from her pocket. Midazolam, enough to put a horse to sleep for four hours.