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)
“It’s just a painting. You and I both know that there are plenty more.”
“The buyer wanted that one.”
“And since when do we cater to the buyers?” I take a deep breath and release it almost in a sigh. “There are plenty of buyers. You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing.”
“Nothing?” I can see in the corner of my eye that my father’s face is red, spittle is shooting from his mouth, and he’s seconds from approaching a stroke level of anger. “We literally have powerful men out there who are asking for our heads to be delivered to them on a silver platter.”
I shrug with a smirk. “Won’t be the first time or the last.”
“I’m so happy that you’re finding this amusing. Be sure to tell me what color lining you want for your goddamn coffin.” He jabs his finger on my thigh for emphasis. “You go and steal that painting from that Valentina girl. Get it back however you need to.”
I shake my head. “She can keep it. I’ve moved on already.”
“Well, I haven’t!”
I take a calming breath. “I’ll handle it. I’m soothing the waters with all the clients, and tonight is just a gnat in the plan. It’s nothing. No big deal.”
Yes, Valentina Key is just a gnat.
Or is she?
She most certainly proved she’s worthy of an art thief title. The ordinary criminal couldn’t have pulled off what she did tonight. I have to give her that. I also have to give her credit she managed doing it before me. I wasn’t racing to the finish because I didn’t realize I had a worthy opponent.
But clearly, I did.
It’s a mistake I won’t make again.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mumbles to himself as we pull up at The Whitney. “Fix it, son. Fix it, or I’m stepping in to fix it for you. You’ve fucked up enough as of late. I’m sick of it. Don’t let the legacy I’ve spent my entire life building go up in flames like you allowed all those paintings to do.”
Without saying another word, I hand a wad of cash to the driver who is opening my door and storm past the bellman. I consider going to The Rooftop for a drink, but I figure my father has the same idea, and I don’t want to spend another second with him and his lecture. The fact of the matter is I do need to lick my wounds, and I need to do it in private. Seeing Valentina’s perfect penmanship on that note taunting me is going to haunt my dreams tonight. She was the better man—or woman, and it burns me alive knowing it.
I enter the elevator without my father who is luckily trailing behind and speaking with someone in the lobby. I use my exclusive pen given to me that is required to utilize the thirteenth floor that is for the darker guests to reside at in privacy. The pen is the only way to reach the secret floor, and I’m fortunate to have the ability to go repair my ego away from watchful eyes. As the elevator moves, I stare up at the ceiling as I try to compose myself further. I want to rage. I want to shout profanities. But I also know those are the actions of a newbie. I’m Atlas Giannopoulos, and I’m above behavior like this. I need to regroup, plan, and execute. I need to not be reactionary.
I know this, and yet, all I can think about right now is throwing Valentina up against the wall and putting my hand at her throat as I constrict the air from her perfect little body. I want to punish her in the most wicked of ways so she’ll learn never to mess with me again. I want to make her beg and scream out my name for mercy as I fuck her like an animal in heat—rough, unforgiving. I want to make her crawl on her knees, humiliate her like she did to me tonight. I want to watch her dark eyes stare up at me as she processes the fact I am in control.
Me. Not her.
I want to make her pay. Her penance for tonight being her body.
Chapter Four
VALENTINA
I hate to wear the Prada gown again so soon, but it can’t be helped. Playing the role of a billionaire heiress is expensive and while I may have mastered the attitude, making sure every inch of my appearance can pass the socialite scrutiny test is still proving difficult.
The splash of knock-off perfume I dab on as I look at my reflection in the mirror is a great example. I find most people’s sense of smell isn’t as distinguishing as their ability to spot a fake designer dress or bag. As hard as I try, it still bugs me as I glance around my elegantly appointed apartment, my focus always lingers on the items I know aren’t real.