Read Chapter 22: The Mastermind's Face

The grand hall of the Hôtel de Sully blazed with candlelight and the low hum of silk and secrets. Camille moved through the crowd in a borrowed gown of deep burgundy, her smile fixed, her pulse a war drum. Étienne had gotten her in through a security contact—a favor burned, one more bridge reduced to ash behind her. She owed him. Again.

She scanned the room under the guise of admiring the chandeliers. Faces passed in a blur of champagne and diamonds. The collectors, the critics, the parasitical elite who fed on art without ever understanding it. And there, near the central podium, stood the piece: a Caravaggio, “newly discovered,” gleaming under a cone of museum-grade light.

A fake. Camille was certain of it. Roussel’s chip had listed it among the twelve slated for swap.

But she wasn’t here for the painting. She was here for the face behind it.

Then she saw him.

Dr. Alain Petiot, the senior authenticator from the Louvre lab. A man she’d shared coffee with a dozen times, traded technical jargon about pigment degradation and craquelure patterns. A man whose tedious, meticulous lectures on varnish layers had nearly put her to sleep on three separate occasions. He stood at the far edge of the room, flanked by two men she recognized as Legrand’s silent heavies, lifting a champagne flute to his lips with the calm satisfaction of a predator who had already eaten.

Petiot.

The authenticator signed off on everything. He verified the provenance, validated the condition, stamped the paperwork that made a forgery a masterpiece. Of course. Of course he was the gatekeeper. He didn’t just approve the fakes—he created the space for them, made sure no one looked too closely at the light, the brushwork, the age of the canvas.

Camille’s fingers tightened around her clutch. Inside, wrapped in silk, was a small magnetic tracker the size of a coin. Her only play if she got close enough.

She moved, drifting through conversation clusters, nodding at a woman who gestured at the Caravaggio with theatrical awe. She angled toward Petiot, heart picking up speed as she closed distance.

“Dr. Petiot.” Her voice came out warm, surprised, perfectly calibrated. “What a delight to see you here.”

He turned. For a moment, his eyes showed nothing. Then a smile—thin, mirthless, the smile of a man who saw the entire chessboard. “Camille Moreau. I did wonder if you’d have the nerve to come.”

The temperature of the room seemed to drop. The two heavies didn’t move, but their attention snapped to her like drawn blinds.

“Nerve?” Camille laughed lightly, as if he’d told a joke. “I was invited. And when I saw the piece you’d authenticated, I had to congratulate you personally. Truly stunning work.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Petiot’s eyes glittered. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “You should know. You’ve had your hands on enough of it lately.”

Her blood went cold, but she held his gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” He gestured to a shadowed alcove near the grand staircase. “Walk with me. Or we can make this awkward in front of the cultural elite. Your choice.”

She walked. There was no other option. The heavies followed at a respectful distance, forming a loose barrier between her and the glittering crowd. The alcove smelled of dust and old wood polish. Camille kept her spine straight, mentally cataloguing exits. A service door behind a velvet drape. A window, painted shut. None of them good.

Petiot stopped, turned, and studied her with that clinical gaze she’d seen in the lab, the one he used to spot a micrometer of botched restoration. “You know, I’ve watched you for weeks, Camille. Your habits. Your patterns. The way you think you’re cleverer than everyone in every room you enter.”

“Should I be flattered by the attention?”

“You should be terrified.” The smile didn’t waver, but something behind it shifted. Something hard and patient. “You found the workshop. You found Roussel’s little insurance scheme. And yet here you are, in my city, at my gala, wearing a dress you can’t afford and a smile you don’t mean.” He tilted his head. “You’re here to confront me. To expose me. To be the heroine.”

“You flatter yourself.”

“No. I read your file.” He reached into his jacket and produced a folded paper, not looking at it. “Your father died with a gambling debt of 340,000 euros. You’ve been paying it off in chunks through a shell company registered in Brussels—a company I happen to own.”

The air left her lungs.

“That’s right.” Petiot smiled. “Every payment you’ve made for the last three years went into my pockets. I didn’t buy your debt. I was the one who held it all along. I could have called it in a hundred times on a hundred different ways. I waited.” He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “I always wait. It’s the most reliable strategy of all.”

Camille’s hands trembled, and she forced them still. “What do you want?”

“I want you to stand down. I know about your contact in the police. I know who he is, and I know what he worries about at night. His daughter’s tuition. His ex-wife’s legal threats. His tendency to gamble on horses he can’t afford.” Petiot’s eyes were flat. “I have enough on him to destroy him, his career, his family. And if you don’t walk away from this—tonight, now—I’ll use it. He’ll go down for obstruction, for leaking sensitive case documents, for protecting a known fugitive. He’ll go to prison.”

A sob rose in Camille’s throat. She swallowed it. Vasseur. She thought of his tired face, his gruff kindness, the way he’d trusted her despite every sign he shouldn’t. “He doesn’t know anything.”

“He knows enough. And you know what happens next.” Petiot gestured vaguely toward the garden windows. “Your partner. The one calling himself Étienne. The one who saw my face at that workshop.”

Her heart hammered so hard she felt it in her teeth. “He hasn’t told anyone.”

“He doesn’t have to. He’s a witness. A liability.” Petiot’s voice was soft, almost tender. “I have people watching him as we speak. They have orders to act if I don’t walk out of this gala satisfied. And satisfied doesn’t mean you promise to behave, Camille. It means you prove it.”

“What proof do you want?”

Petiot’s smile widened, just slightly. “Leave. Walk out the front doors. Go back to your empty apartment. Cut contact with the ghost. Return to your quiet, debt-ridden life. That’s what you’re good at, after all—surviving.”

For a long moment, Camille said nothing. She imagined striking him. She imagined screaming for the police. She imagined the torrent of ruin that would follow, drowning everyone she cared about.

Instead, she let her shoulders drop, let her face crumple into an expression of defeated compliance. “You’ve won.”

“I usually do.”

“If I leave,” she said quietly, “promise me he stays alive.”

“His life isn’t worth anything to me if you’re out of the picture.” Petiot tilted his head, amused. “That’s the deal. Take it or don’t. But the clock’s running.”

Camille nodded, slow and broken. And as she stepped forward to shake his hand—a gesture of surrender, of acceptance—her fingers brushed his jacket lapel. The magnetic tracker slipped from her palm and clicked softly against the fabric beneath the fold.

She pulled back, eyes wet. “You’ll have your quiet.”

Petiot didn’t look down. He didn’t notice the tiny weight now on his lapel. He was already turning, already dismissing her, already confident that another pawn had been removed from the board.

As he walked back toward the glittering crowd, Camille stood alone in the dusty alcove, heart pounding.

She hadn’t stopped him. She hadn’t exposed him.

But she knew what he didn’t: the tracker had a range of two kilometers, and Étienne was waiting outside in a stolen van with a receiver in his hand.

Let him enjoy his gala.

The chase was only beginning.