The bass from "The Vault" vibrated in the pavement outside. It was one of those members-only clubs in Meatpacking where the bouncers judged your soul before checking your ID.

Cinnamon watched from across the street. She had climbed the garden wall, ruined her manicure, and taken a cash cab here. She felt raw, exposed, and furious.

She couldn't just walk in.

She called Mia on the burner phone. "It's time. Remember Mr. Dubois, the owner of The Vault? The one whose provenance I authenticated for that stolen Monet? Call him. Tell him I need to see the security feed in his back office. It's a matter of life and death."

Ten minutes later, Cinnamon was walking through a discreet side entrance, greeted by a nervous-looking manager who led her not to the main floor, but to a small, dark security office overlooking the chaos. On a bank of monitors, she saw the entire club laid out before her.

She spotted them in the VIP section. It was hard to miss. It was the only booth where people were keeping a respectful distance.

Arturo was sitting on the velvet banquette. He had discarded his tie. His top button was undone, exposing the hollow of his throat. He looked devastatingly handsome and completely bored.

Sasha Vane was draped over him like a silk scarf. She was wearing a dress that was more concept than fabric. She laughed at something, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

Arturo didn't pull away. He handed her a drink.

A flash went off. A "paparazzi" who had somehow gotten inside.

Arturo's hand moved to Sasha's waist. He pulled her closer. It looked intimate. It looked possessive.

Cinnamon felt like she had been stabbed. She zoomed in on the monitor, her hand shaking.

The photographer left.

Immediately, Arturo dropped his hand. He shifted away from Sasha, creating a distinct gap between them. His face went back to stone.

Cinnamon watched, her heart a cold lump in her chest. It was all an act.

She watched as Sasha accepted a thick manila envelope from Arturo. She slid it into her purse.

Money. He was paying her.

Sasha stood up and headed toward the restrooms.

Cinnamon turned to the manager. "I need to get into the ladies' room. Unseen." He nodded, pointing to a service corridor on the schematic.

The restroom was an oasis of white marble and bright lights. Sasha was at the mirror, reapplying lipstick. Cinnamon slipped in behind her, the soft click of the door barely making a sound.

"Easy money," Sasha muttered to her reflection. "Just smile and nod."

Cinnamon walked up behind her. "How much?"

Sasha jumped, spinning around. "Jesus! You scared me. Wait... I know you. You're... her."

"I'm Cinnamon Taylor."

Sasha's eyes widened. She looked Cinnamon up and down. "Oh. The ward. The one causing all the trouble."

"How much is he paying you to pretend?"

Sasha smirked, leaning back against the sink. "Honey, it's not just pretending. It's crisis management. And to answer your question: enough to buy a condo in Tribeca."

"Why?" Cinnamon asked, her voice breaking. "Why you?"

"Because the SEC is sniffing around his books," Sasha said, checking her nails. "And having a fiancée whose father was a con artist doesn't look good on an audit. He needs a clean, American distraction. That's me."

Cinnamon felt the blood drain from her face. "He's... he's doing it to protect the audit?"

"He's doing it to survive. You're a liability, sweetie. A walking red flag. He's trying to keep the feds from looking too closely at you."

Cinnamon stared at her. To keep them from looking at me?

The door swung open.

Arturo walked in. He filled the space instantly. He saw Cinnamon, and his face went dark with a terrifying mixture of shock and fury.

"Out," he barked at Sasha.

Sasha didn't argue. She grabbed her bag and bolted.

Arturo locked the door. He turned on Cinnamon, advancing on her until she was pressed against the marble counter.

"I lock you in a house with armed guards, and you break out to... what? Interrogate my paid distractions?" he shouted. "Do you have a death wish?"

"I wanted to see!" Cinnamon yelled back, shoving his chest. "I wanted to see you buying your new girlfriend!"

"She is a decoy!"

"Is she? Or am I the decoy?" Cinnamon's eyes were full of tears. "Tiffany told me about the money, Arturo. The hidden money. Is that why you kept me? Is that why you kissed me? Because I'm the password to some stolen fortune?" She subtly turned on the high-fidelity digital recorder in her pocket, a discreet device she'd kept from her auction house days, designed to capture quiet negotiations in noisy rooms.

Arturo went completely still. The anger vanished, replaced by a cold, deadly focus.

He grabbed her shoulders. "What did you say?"

"The account," she whispered. "Is it true?"

He covered her mouth with his hand. His eyes darted to the vents, to the mirrors.

"Never," he hissed, his voice a vibration against her skin. "Never say those words aloud. Do you understand me?"

Cinnamon stared at him over his hand.

He didn't deny it.

He was terrified. Not of losing her love. But of being caught.

He was just like her father.

Arturo didn't wait for an answer. He kept his hand over her mouth, his eyes scanning the restroom for listening devices. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

He removed his hand slowly. "We are leaving. Now."

"Answer me," Cinnamon whispered.

He ignored her. He stripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her. He buttoned it up to her chin, his knuckles brushing her throat. His touch was clinical, efficient.

"Not here," he said.

He grabbed her arm and marched her out the back exit, through the kitchen. The staff parted like the Red Sea.

In the alleyway, the air was cool and smelled of garbage. A black SUV was waiting.

As Arturo shoved her toward the car, Cinnamon looked toward the street entrance.

Sasha Vane was there, surrounded by a cluster of paparazzi. She was holding the envelope, smiling dazzlingly.

"Ms. Vane! Is it true? Are you and Mr. Watts an item?"

Sasha laughed, a practiced, musical sound. "Arturo is... very generous. Let's just say he knows how to take care of a woman."

Cinnamon felt bile rise in her throat. She watched the performance, feeling like a ghost. He was silencing her in the alley while his paid actress sold the lie out front.

Arturo pushed her into the back seat of the SUV. "Home. Level one security protocol."

The door slammed shut. The lock engaged.

Cinnamon huddled in the corner, pulling his jacket tighter around herself. It smelled like him, which only made it worse.

"Arturo," she said, her voice hollow.

He was typing on his phone, his thumbs moving in a blur. "Not now."

"It's true, isn't it?" she said. "The money. That's why you wouldn't let me join the FBI. Because if they vetted me, they'd find the account. And you'd go to prison."

Arturo stopped typing. He looked out the window. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know enough! You're laundering it. Just like my dad."

He turned to her then. His eyes were bleak. "I am trying to keep you alive, Cinnamon. The people looking for that money... they don't file lawsuits. They file missing persons reports."

"So you're the good guy?" She let out a bitter laugh. "You're just hoarding the gold."

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

Cinnamon slipped her hand into her pocket. Her fingers brushed the cool metal of the digital recorder. She had captured his panicked reaction, his refusal to deny it. It was circumstantial, but it was a start.

She had him.

The car ride was a funeral procession. Silence hung between them, thick with betrayal.

When they arrived at the Manor, Cinnamon got out without waiting for him. She walked up the steps, her head held high, though she felt like crumbling.

Arturo stood by the car, watching her go. He looked like a man who had just lost everything.

"Cinnamon," he called out.

She stopped, her hand on the door. She didn't turn around.

"I did it for you," he said.

"Go to hell, Arturo," she whispered.

She went to her room and locked the door. She sat on the floor and pulled out the recorder. She pulled out her iPad and looked at the photo she'd snapped of the shredded picture of her father.

She took a picture of the recorder and the partial tail number from the jet. She opened the encrypted messaging app she used with Mia.

Cinnamon: I have proof. He's involved. I'm going to find that account, Mia. And I'm going to take it all.

Downstairs, in his study, Arturo poured a glass of scotch. He didn't drink it.

He walked to the wall safe hidden behind a painting of a storm-tossed ship. He spun the dial.

Inside was a single, thick file.

The Taylor Family Trust - Amendment IV.

He opened it.

The document outlined an offshore account containing fifty million dollars. Clean money. Money he had spent five years scrubbing, paying taxes on, and hiding from the creditors who had torn her father's estate apart.

He ran his finger over the "Beneficiary" line.

Cinnamon Taylor.

It was all hers. It always had been. He was just the gatekeeper, holding the wolves at bay until she was strong enough to hold the sword.

But now, she held a dagger, and she was pointing it straight at his heart.

"Hate me," he whispered to the empty room. "Just survive."

He closed the file.