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The lock gave with a click, and Angelo pushed open one of the doors with a little flourish. Marc shook his head with a little sniff, still showing all signs that he was feeling threatened by Angelo’s flirty ways. Royce was looking forward to showing the man exactly how little he had to worry about when it came to Angelo.
Marc took the lead, entering the house. He pulled a small flashlight from a pocket in the bag strap slung across his chest. The bright, narrow beam of light slashed across the room, running over widely spaced furniture. The room was sparsely decorated, allowing them to safely cross without worrying about bumping into anything. Marc turned off the light again and started across the room. The rubber soles of his shoes made only the tiniest of squeaks.
Grabbing his gun from the small of his back, Royce followed behind Marc, ready to step in if he suddenly found himself faced with more security than they were expecting. Angelo closed the door and caught up with them as they reached a doorway leading into a hall. The entire house was silent. There was some faint light coming from the far end of the hall, but it was likely just a light the owner left on, so he could see enough to move around the house.
His heart pounded frantically in his chest, but his fears were all centered on Marc. He was young, had established a great life for himself. He didn’t deserve to go to jail or get shot just because he was helping Royce out of a bad spot. Royce’s life had largely been a series of bad decisions. The only good thing he could claim was accepting Rowe’s job offer.
Looking over at Marc, Royce was impressed with his squared shoulders and the steadiness of his hand as he flicked the flashlight on very briefly to check the hallway before choosing to go right. Whatever fears he might have had about breaking into the house were now gone, or at the very least, packed away so that he could do this job.
Marc led the way down one hallway and then another. He’d pause here and there before making a decision. He never made a noise or looked over his shoulder at Royce for advice. After a couple of minutes, they’d made their way to the main foyer and a wide, white marble and gilt staircase that wrapped up to the second floor. There were more windows, letting in light from the front of the house, revealing hints of detailed frescos on the walls and marble accents that were likely centuries old. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture or other paintings in the house, but Royce was willing to bet the old man was spending his wealth to keep up the massive structure and protect its unique history.
At the top of the stairs, Marc stopped, his entire body frozen as he looked one way and then the other. He shifted, moving toward the right and then he stopped, looking left. Royce listened to his breathing start to speed up. He didn’t remember. He wasn’t sure which way to go. Reaching out, he put a hand on Marc’s shoulder and squeezed. Tense muscles under his fingers slowly relaxed, and Marc gave a curt nod before heading to his left.
They moved slower now, halting with every creak of the floor or sigh of the old house settling in place. Minutes ticked by before Marc finally breathed a sigh of relief as he motioned for them to follow him into a room off the main hall. Marc and Royce flicked on their flashlights. The bright lights splashed over tall shelves covered in books. A large leather sofa was in one corner and a pair of leather wingback chairs was in another. A massive globe sat in the middle of the room with shining gold accents and a heavy wood stand.
But it was the painting over the fireplace that had his attention. It looked like something from one of the impressionists. Lots of soft colors.
“That’s the painting you were looking for, right?” he whispered.
“Nope.”
“What? Are you shitting me?” Royce demanded in a harsh whisper. He hurried across the room. “Is there another library?”
“Right library. Wrong painting.”
Royce watched him. Despite it being the wrong painting, Marc didn’t sound concerned. He walked over to the globe in the center of the room.
“Can we just take that one? It looks famous,” Angelo said.
“It’s a fake.”
“How do you know? There’s not enough light.”
“It’s Apples and Oranges by Paul Cézanne. The real one is on display at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris.” Standing in front of the globe, Marc turned it slowly round and round, looking for something with his flashlight clenched between his teeth. Royce joined him as he stopped on Europe. He gave Royce a little wink as he placed his thumb over Poland and pushed.
