Lexa — Chris Diamond Miss

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.

He looked at the card. Then at her. Then at the rain lashing the window.

“Dinner is for survivors, Chris.” She pressed the elevator call button. “Try not to die before dessert.” chris diamond miss lexa

Chris didn’t flinch. He’d learned long ago that flinching got you killed. He turned slowly. A woman sat cross-legged in the dark, her silhouette framed by the downtown skyline. She wore a severe black pantsuit, her platinum hair pulled back so tight it looked like it hurt. Her eyes were the color of frozen vodka.

Chris looked at his wristwatch. A cheap, reliable piece he’d had for years. His heart hammered once, twice. Then he smiled—a real smile, for the first time in months. Chris froze

“Mr. Diamond,” a voice purred from the shadows of the leather sofa. “You’re holding that painting like it’s a woman you’re about to disappoint.”

“The original deal,” she continued, pouring herself a glass of the owner’s Macallan 30, “was for you to steal this painting and deliver it to a dead drop. But I had a secondary objective. A test.” But he’d noticed it the moment he lifted it off the wall

“What kind of test?”