A bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild sat on their table, opened, to allow the Bordeaux to breath—compliments, the hostess told them, of Kane and Associates.

“You must be doing one hell of a job,” Max commented after consulting the wine list. “That bottle costs five hundred bucks.”

Ellie excused herself to use the restroom. It was downstairs, housed inside an actual bank vault. She seemed to be the only one inside but checked the stalls, just to be sure.

The stall door locked, she removed the toilet tank lid. The burner floated in the water, sealed inside a pouch. She removed the phone and hit the redial button.

Roland answered, his voice loud, almost explosive, against her ear. “Sebastian’s security guy, Ron Wolff, is in Vegas, trying to dig up information on Faye Simpson.”

That explains why Sebastian has so many people watching me, Ellie thought, fear blooming in her heart. “Did he—”

“No, absolutely not,” he said. “Your cover story is flawless. He’s been going around asking questions, showing people a copy of this picture of a boy of maybe seven or nine sitting in front of a Christmas tree.”

Ellie felt unsteady on her heels.

“Any idea what that’s about?” Roland asked.

“I don’t know.” Although she did. The photo of her missing brother had been tucked inside her shoe. Sebastian—or someone in his organization—had found it before her clothes were incinerated. If Sebastian hadn’t found it, someone had given it to him.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Roland said. “If you’ve deliberately hidden something from me, something that will jeopardize this operation, I swear to Christ I’ll—”

“Sebastian had two visitors come by his house this morning, a Fed and a woman named Ava.” She kept her voice low, barely above a whisper, but it still echoed off the cool marble walls. “I don’t know her last name.”

“Lewis. Her maiden name is Martinez. She and Sebastian grew up together, were heavily involved. She was there when he killed that undercover cop.”

Wonderful. Thanks for reminding me, Ellie thought wryly.

“He went off to prison,” Roland said, “and she went off and got married.”

“She seemed upset.”

“I’m sure she is. Her daughter was recently kidnapped. She’s a carrier.”

That explained why the woman had broken down in tears. But why had she come to Sebastian? Did she know he was in the blood business?

“There’s a ransom—twenty million,” Roland said. “She’s going to several people, including Sebastian, looking for additional money. We’re keeping a close eye on the situation.”

“Paul also reached out to Sebastian earlier today, while we were in his car. He didn’t reach out to him directly; he called Sebastian’s secretary at the real estate office, looking for his new phone number. She told Sebastian that Paul had sent him an email—and I’m quoting here—on how to meditate with grace.”

“That’s it?”

“I didn’t read the email, and Sebastian hasn’t mentioned anything to me about it.”

Roland sighed. “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“Grace is the name of Ava Lewis’s daughter. Maybe Paul phrased the email that way as code, to let Sebastian know he has the young girl.”