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In order to move silently, I take off my stilettos before moving into motion down the flight of marble stairs leading to the vault in the basement. I’m nervous until I get to the first guard checkpoint. The door is still ajar, and as expected, the two guards who were there to stop intruders are sleeping soundly on the floor behind the counter, courtesy of the strong drugs they’d ingested much earlier.
Every inch of the building’s blueprint is etched in my brain—just one of the many precautions I take for every job. It takes less than a minute to weave through the corridors and to the locked cage—the same cage from where Mia had already acquired the priceless painting that she’s smuggled upstairs and into the catering van.
A thrill of excitement washes over me as I pull a pen and notecard from my jeweled clutch along with the thin latex glove, I slip my fingertips into.
Knowing time is of the essence, and acting outside my normal, I make my message short and sweet, careful to leave no fingerprints or DNA behind before placing the card discreetly in front of the already empty glass case where the priceless artwork had once been.
What I would give to be here to see his face when he finds his treasure gone and my calling card in its place. But staying any longer would be reckless, and despite what Mia says, I’m too smart to let Atlas Giannopoulos throw me off my game. I’d rather just beat him at it instead.
Chapter Three
ATLAS
There was a day when I used to get nervous before a job. I’d have to focus on not showing sweat bead my forehead or stain the pits of my shirt. Stealing art was not something that came easy simply because my father was the best in the business, and I grew up being groomed in it. Sure, I was given the tools, trained in the skills required, but you have to earn the balls of steel it takes to pull off being an art thief on your own. Years of sweaty palms, pissing your pants, and holding back bile as you constantly come close to having your future detonate in front of you comes with this profession. Your hands can’t shake, your knees can’t buckle, and you sure as hell can’t shit yourself when something doesn’t go as planned. Regardless of what the movies show, being a thief is more about courage than it is cunning.
But now… I can do a job like this blindfolded. It’s an easy one. Almost a cakewalk. Museums foolishly think that by having the priceless work hidden away and protected rather than in plain sight will deter people like me. On the contrary, it makes it easy to stay in the shadows and act in stealth mode.
Easy. Tonight is going to be easy.
My father would lecture me right now and tell me I was being cocky. Spouting how cocky leads to prison. But I don’t see confidence as cocky. I see it as knowing I am damn good at what I do. So good that I plan to have this painting in my hands and be back at my hotel, The Whitney, sipping a nice bourbon within the hour.
This isn’t the first time I’ve stolen from this location, so I know exactly where to go and what to do, but as I approach the first crucial area in the hallway, I can sense something is off.
Glancing up at the cameras, I know I’m not being seen. I can feel it. I walk a little further, almost knowing what I’m going to see when I turn the corner.
There’s no patrol. They aren’t on break, and there is no guard change as I have their schedule memorized. No…something is off.
I walk a little further and see a man down on the ground, knocked out.
Motherfucker…
I don’t know why I keep walking. I already know what I’m going to see when I enter the room.
Someone has gotten here before me.
As if in a trance, I still approach the cage meant to protect the painting just so I can stare at the empty space in disbelief.
Who could have done this? How? When?
Fuck, I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be distracted by Valentina. I should have kept my head in the game rather than jousting with the beautiful vixen. We probably looked the fools to the thief who took the opportunity while we were going head-to-head to swoop in here and steal it from the both of us.
Noticing a small envelope on the ground where the painting should be, I examine it closer and see the letter A written in perfect cursive on it. Picking it up, slicing it open with my leather-gloved finger, I pull out a card stock that reads:
Luckily this painting won’t go up in flames now.
