The air in the old opera house tasted of candle smoke and old money. Beneath the ruined velvet seats and peeling gold leaf, a single chandelier had been lowered to cast a pool of light over a makeshift stage. No music played. Only the low murmur of masked bidders and the occasional clink of crystal passed between gloved hands.
Amara had not meant to be here.
She had followed a lead on a lost Caravaggio sketch, nothing more. A whispered name in a conservation lab, a false panel in a forgotten gallery, a narrow staircase that ended in this hidden theater. By the time she realized the door had locked behind her, a black silk hood had already dropped over her head. Rough hands stripped away her coat, her phone, her identification. When the hood came off again, she stood barefoot on cold marb
