Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
You can thank me for that later.
~V
Valentina Key.
A note.
A dangerous note.
She has no idea just how dangerous.
How in the hell did she beat me to the painting?
I don’t know if I should scream, punch a wall, or laugh out loud.
I underestimated her, that much is for sure. And without knowing exactly what she did to achieve this, I know I’m not safe standing here any longer. I have no idea how long she disabled the cameras, and I don’t know how long the guards are going to be unconscious. I need to get the hell out of here and then process how this woman bested me.
Walking briskly—I never run unless being chased—to my getaway car I know is waiting for me in the back alley, I try to take deep breaths to compose myself. The night just went from a charming evening of banter to a woman fucking up my job and costing me an ungodly amount of money.
As I slide into the backseat of the black sedan, I’m greeted with, “What the fuck is going on? Where’s the painting?”
My father has been waiting for me. He’s been out of the game for a while—at least the actual art thievery part—but whenever he’s with me, he wants to have a little hand in the actual stealing. Even if it’s simply being there at the end to see a plan come to fruition. I’m sure it must be hard to give up the adrenaline he’s thrived on for so many years. And he truly was the best at what he did, so I don’t blame him for almost micromanaging me when he can. It’s annoying as fuck. But what is even more aggravating is knowing that the other reason he feels the need to be present is he’s micromanaging his bastard son who will never quite be good enough. Sure, he eventually handed me—his illegitimate son—the business, but the illegal business. All the legit businesses went to his other sons who bear the same last name as him in Rome. Me? I’m the secret. I’m the son lurking in the shadows. I’m here to steal, to trick, to dance a tango with the dark side. I’m not a fool, and I’m not blind. I see it for what it is.
“Someone got there before I did,” I say between clenched teeth. I lean forward to the driver and tell him, “Take us to The Whitney.”
“What do you mean someone got there before us? Who?”
For a split second, I consider not telling him. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m embarrassed it is Valentina who stole the painting, or if it’s because I feel the need to protect her from my father’s wrath. But I also know my father has the means to find out who did it with time, so I might as well be blunt and forthcoming.
“Valentina Key,” I finally say, staring ahead so I don’t have to see the look of rage and disappointment on his face.
“Who?” He pauses as he tries to locate the name in his memory Rolodex. “That chick from Boston? That hot piece of ass?”
“She’s come a long way since the chick from Boston,” I say, feeling the need to point out the fact she isn’t some street hustler anymore. I’m not sure if I’m defending her or defending myself. “She has some good jobs under her belt. Her reputation is growing.”
“Are you saying an amateur little girl was able to pull off a heist, and she was able to do it before you? Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Do you see me with the painting?” I stare out the window at the passing scenery, wishing The Whitney was closer so I can escape this conversation with dear old dad.
“Do you know how this is going to make us look to the buyer?” His voice raises as the reality of us sitting in the car empty handed sets in. “I had to stroke the prick to make up for his other paintings being destroyed in that fire. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve had to work in repairing relationships you fucked up?”
“I didn’t start the fire,” I say under my breath as I try to douse the inferno of rage bubbling inside of me.
“There are no excuses in this business,” my father snaps. “You know this.”
I decide to shut my mouth in fear of what I’ll say next. No matter how much this man infuriates me at times, he’s still my father. He’s blood, and a man I do respect even though at times it’s fair to say I don’t like him. There are times I resent him for not being there during my childhood. And there are times I flat out hate him for how he has a way of making me feel less.
“Do I have to start handling the jobs myself again? I didn’t think I’d have to come out of retirement to clean up your messes.”