Page 99 of The One-Night Heist

Bob huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Well, Giancarlo, you are certainly your mother’s son.”

Giano hissed in a breath and tightened his grip, making my heart pang. “Yes,” he replied, and I could practically hear his mask sliding into place. “My mother taught me everything I know.”

Oh, baby.

Forgetting we had an audience, I reached up and squeezed his hand. “It’s okay, Moneybags. The big, scary attorney army will take everyone for all they’re worth.”

This time, Bob released a full-bodied laugh, along with an approving nod, just as Franz’s phone rang.

Right on schedule.

“H-hello? Yes, Mr. Samuel, I’m with Mr. Lux…” Franz paused for what felt like a full minute until the voice on the other end—his boss at Sotheby’s New York—stopped speaking. Then, after another long moment of absolute silence he added, “Y-yes, I’ll tell him.”

We all waited expectantly for Daddy Pinstripes to catch his breath after what was surely groundbreaking news.

I guess we didn’t tell them everything…

“Your entire art collection has been found, Giano.” Franz’s gaze darted to me before landing on his equally surprised family. “In Stanley Monmouth's summer home on Long Island.”

GASP!

Of course, I had to throw one last wrench into the plan. What with all these new developments—with how Giano’s enemies were now my enemies—I couldn’t stick with the art showing up again just anywhere.

It pays to have friends in low places.

“Well, that’s convenient,” Bob Decatur shot me a wink. “How kind of everyone to deliver such a tidy collection of incontrovertible proof.”

One of us, one of us!

“Indeed,” Giano replied, taking his seat again but keeping my hand clasped with his, out in the open on the boardroom table for all to see. “Now let’s take these rich assholes for everything they’re worth.”

Epilogue

Giancarlo - Two Months Later

“Well… Here we are. Welcome to paradise…”

The sarcasm was dripping from Rowen’s voice, but I still grinned like a fool as I gazed around the space, finally getting my coveted glimpse at the “shitty little Chinatown apartment” of the man I loved.

Even if I haven’t told him I love him yet.

Even if most of what there is to see here is now in boxes.

So much had happened since our meeting with Bob Decatur and his attorney army in Florence—including my defamation lawsuit and the ongoing trial of Divani and Monmouth—I’d barely had time to take a breath. Yet, by some miracle, I had managed to convince Rowen to move in with me and leave this apartment behind.

Even more miraculous, he finally invited me over—even if only for his last night on the premises.

“Kitchen. Living room.” Rowen dismissively waved a hand around the shoebox-sized space we’d walked into. “Down the hall is the bathroom and bedroom. That’s it really⁠—”

“The bedroom where Poppy #5 is hanging over your pillow?” I interrupted, setting down the not “Original Ray’s” pizza box on the crowded kitchen table.

He cocked his head, observing me silently for a moment before shoving the two “brown-bagged” 40-ounce beers onto the table next to the pizza.

“How rude of me to not complete the grand tour,” he purred, grabbing my tie and leading me down the hallway. “Especially with how long it’s been since you’ve seen your silly flower painting.”

Rowen was teasing me, of course. First, I’d finally gotten him to admit he liked the painting and, second, I’d “seen” Poppy #5 almost every night that we slept apart the past couple months—since he greatly enjoyed sending me photographic evidence of his stolen prize.

And occasional video evidence as well.