Chris Diamond Miss Lexa Link

The rain over Los Angeles wasn’t the cleansing kind. It was the sticky, neon-refracting kind that made the city look like a broken slot machine. Chris Diamond knew this because he’d been staring at it for three hours from the penthouse window of a man he’d just robbed.

Chris froze. His eyes darted to the painting. The Monet was lovely—hazy water lilies, soft light. But he’d noticed it the moment he lifted it off the wall. The frame was slightly thicker on the bottom edge. Just a millimeter. But a man who steals art for a living notices millimeters. chris diamond miss lexa

“Miss Lexa,” Chris said, placing the Monet on the glass table. “I was just leaving. The owner is… indisposed.” The rain over Los Angeles wasn’t the cleansing kind

Chris Diamond had one rule: never work for someone smarter than you. But as he slipped the duplicate card into his pocket and watched Lexa slide the real Monet into a cylindrical case, he realized he’d already broken it. Chris froze

“No.” She pressed the duplicate card into his palm, her fingers cold as a scalpel. “I want you to be a partner. If you survive the night, you get forty percent of the auction. That’s seven million dollars. Enough to buy a new identity. Maybe even a conscience.”

Chris laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. “You want me to be bait. For free.”

“To see if you could resist opening the frame.”