Chapter One
ATLAS
“Ashes to ashes.”
The voice behind me is sultry, rich, deep, and familiar. It wraps around my spine as I refuse to give her the satisfaction of turning to face her head on.
“Don’t even think of burning this painting too. It’s mine.” Valentina Key nearly purrs as she walks up beside me and stares at the same priceless painting I’m casing at The Met Cloisters in Manhattan.
“Valentina,” is all I say, acknowledging her presence. I can be civil. I’m always a gentleman, even to women like her.
“Please tell me you are merely here for pleasure and not business. It would be a shame to embarrass you as I steal this painting from underneath your nose. You’ve been through enough since the fire. You really should consider retirement after such a debacle.”
The paintings and sculptures brought in from Florence, Italy for tonight’s event are from the Romanesque period. Collectors, spectators, and historians from all around the world are gathered tonight to appreciate the artwork which is most certainly not for sale. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible to end up in my possession by the end of the night. I have my eye set on one in particular that once hung in the Pisa Cathedral and is rumored to be a favorite of the Pope. I also know I already have a buyer who’d love to pay top dollar for the piece, but it seems I’m not the only one here tonight with the same idea.
Valentina lifts her flute of champagne and sips, and in the corner of my eye I can see she’s wearing a low-cut black dress. The fabric hugs every sensual curve of her body. It’s a tool of hers I’ll never have—she can nearly hypnotize with the sexual energy she exudes. Valentina Key is lethal with one look. She can seduce, capture, and debilitate her opponents with a glance from her intoxicating eyes, a lick of her plump lips, and a toss of her dark hair. I’ve seen her in action and there isn’t a man in this room who could resist her.
Except me.
I’ve been trained exactly how to avoid the Medusa curse. She knows she can’t turn me to stone.
And she hates it.
“This painting is out of your league, Valentina. I know you think you can play with the big boys, but this is beyond you,” I say as I scan the corners of the room with a subtle flick of my eyes to gauge the level of security used tonight for the museum.
“Says the man who has a target on his head for igniting millions, if not billions, of dollars in art.”
“This is a museum, Valentina. Not some small gallery in SoHo. You don’t know the first thing about a heist of this level. I don’t think you’d do well in jail. Better yet, go back to Boston where you belong. You were an excellent low-level hustler. No need to play dress up and pretend to be someone you aren’t.”
If I had a knife in my hand and stabbed her gut, I’d get the same flicker of pain in her eyes I see now. I know she hates her past. I know she hates where she came from. I know it and love throwing it in her face.
This classy as fuck woman standing in front of me wasn’t always such a stunning masterpiece. She was brought up on the streets of Boston by an alcoholic father and three deadbeat thugs for brothers. It’s amazing she hasn’t ended up in the state pen considering the jobs she did all in the name of family, and even more amazing she’s here in Manhattan now and considers herself my competition. And I would never tell her this… but Valentina definitely could give me a run for my money.