Page 1 of The One-Night Heist

One

Giancarlo

Taking a leisurely sip of my afternoon espresso, I trailed my gaze over the lush, floral foreground of the canvas, allowing the familiar buzz of possessiveness to wash over me.

Mine.

The painting I was admiring—Poppy #5—was a substantially smaller version of Gustav Klimt’s Flowering Poppies, currently hanging in the Belvedere in Vienna, and was presumably created by the artist as a study for the masterpiece.

Poppy #5 might have been small in size, but the rich tapestry of color created a dense, textured foreground that dominated the canvas, with a horizon line positioned so close to the top edge, one couldn’t help but become immersed in the scene. The effect was hypnotic, and although this would be considered a modest piece to most, I could still recall the first time I’d laid eyes on it.

It had been a warm summer’s day on the south-facing terrace of the Upper East Side apartment I now stood in. I was eight years old at the time, stretched out on a beach towel while the sun steadily turned my skin a toasted brown, reading my vintage Carmen Sandiego “You Are the Detective” books.

The Twin Towers were visible and my father was still alive. Both would be gone by the end of the year, but my life was about to change in a completely different way.

“Darling, look, a Klimt!” Mother had exclaimed from where she reclined on a chaise nearby, shaded beneath a large umbrella and perusing the lots up for auction in her newest Sotheby’s catalogue—deciding on her next conquest.

I squinted at where she’d half-turned the auction catalogue my way, her perfectly manicured fingernail tapping on the glossy page, glimpsing something orange.

Something dangerously tempting…

“Oh, never mind.” She’d frowned, abruptly withdrawing her hand as if stung. “Those dimensions won’t work for the sunroom.”

Usually, I was able to mumble enough of a response to mimic vague interest and return to my fictional adventures, but this time, I felt compelled by a force greater than myself to take a closer look at what had caught her attention in the first place.

Terrified she might turn the page, I’d hurriedly stood and approached her chair, my breath lodging in my throat once I could examine the catalogue over her shoulder. All my brain could register at first was wild, riotous color, but I remembered being mesmerized.

Entranced.

Up until that point in my sheltered life, I’d wanted for nothing, but at that moment, I’d needed something with a longing so acute, it was painful. All Mother had seen was a simple pastoral scene too small to compliment her decor, but to me, this chance Sotheby’s listing was a revelation, a fixation that almost felt illicit.

An awakening.

“That one,” I’d growled, my voice taking on an oddly deep and threatening edge neither of us had ever heard from me before. “I want that one for… for my collection.”

Something just for me.

Mother had peered at me over her jewel-encrusted Chopard sunglasses, incredulous at first, then smugly triumphant. “Very well,” she’d purred, satisfied in her belief my training had sunk in. “It’s never too early to start investing, is it darling?”

Because that’s all art ever was to her.

All anything ever was.

Back in the present, I blew out a slow, steadying breath before reminding myself Mother was dead, and I was the sole heir to her estate.

Time to cash out the “investments.”

Complicated memories aside, the impressive collection I was currently having appraised proved what a savvy art hound Mother had been. She’d had an eye for aesthetics and a nose for provenance, even if her purchases were more about invoking the illusion of fulfillment rather than the emotion itself.

While she possessed a sixth sense for which art would elevate her home—her image—in the eyes of visitors, it was all smoke and mirrors. As far as I knew, Mother had never formed an attachment to a work of art the way I had with Poppy #5. This was unsurprising, considering how cold and distant she was, but what I felt for my most precious possession went beyond love—how I assumed love must feel, at least—creating a bond that ventured into covetous territory.

All mine.

I took another sip while simultaneously drinking in my miniature Garden of Eden. Aside from the delicate size, what I coveted most about Poppy #5 was how the colors differed from Klimt’s final piece. Where the headlining flowers in Flowering Poppies were unmistakably red, the poppies in my painting were swaths of brilliant orange slicing through the green field like a knife. This effect was clearly caused by rays of late afternoon sun, but I liked to pretend it was actual flames igniting the flowers one by one.

Leaving nothing but ash behind.

“You do realize you’ll be left with nothing but bare walls once this collection sells at auction, right?”