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“Case is closed,” he said into his mic. “Heading out.”

Novak stood still for a moment. Then he unclipped the painting from the wall, removed the fake from its padded case, and hung the forgery in its place. The swap took ninety seconds. grand theft

The canvas was twenty-seven inches wide, thirty-three inches tall, and worth more than the lives of the men carrying it. Viktor Nazarov knew this because he had calculated the exchange rate that morning. The painting—a long-lost Caravaggio titled The Cardsharps —had last been seen in a private collection in Palermo in 1969. Now it sat in a climate-controlled vault beneath the Palazzo Doria, wrapped in acid-free paper like a sleeping god. “Case is closed,” he said into his mic

“New glasses,” Novak said. His Italian was flawless, his voice modulated to match Fontana’s recordings. “And less sleep. The Duchessa’s collection keeps me up at night.” The swap took ninety seconds