The city lights twinkling through the windows begin moving as the jet starts to taxi. My pulse speeds up with each second the plane moves toward the runway.
“This is insane. I don’t have anything with me.” When Atlas ignores me, busy putting on his own seatbelt right next to me I add, “I can’t leave the country. I don’t even have a passport.”
It’s Atlas’s father who answers me. “A passport is easily solved. I’ll text my team in London. They’ll have a passport waiting for you when we touch down.”
So, he is not only a master thief but a document forger as well? I’m just relieved Atlas’s father isn’t currently treating me like gum on the bottom of his shoe like normal.
I replay his words. Touch down. On foreign soil. Hell, I’ve barely left the Northeast. If it wasn’t on my path between Boston and NYC, I’d never been there, unless I count the one quick roundtrip flight down to Miami for the mob family I’d been working for at the time. I’d never even left the Miami airport. I’d met my contact outside security long enough to get a backpack full of something important enough to my then boss that he’d send me to retrieve it. I’d been smart enough not to look inside the bag. I’d been so afraid of being stopped by the TSA agents I hadn’t even been able to enjoy my first and only airplane ride.
So, despite the insanity of us taking off into the early evening sky over the majestic city, I can’t help but feel a surge of excitement as the plane’s engines roar and we take flight. I’m grateful Atlas plunked me down close enough to a window I can watch the skyline already getting smaller in the distance with each moment that passes.
It’s mesmerizing to see the Empire State Building dwarfed, so much so I’d almost forgotten who is next to me until I feel Atlas reaching into my lap to take my hand into his own, twisting our fingers together. Yanking my hand back, I glance at his father to make sure he hasn’t noticed the gesture. I’m grateful the older man is still looking down at the phone in his hand, giving me the chance to shoot Atlas a dirty look.
It’s bad enough that we’ve been acting like fuck-buddies while at The Whitney, in the privacy of his room or the boardroom, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to give his father another reason to disapprove of me.
“Valentina,” Atlas growls a warning as he forcibly takes my hand in his own.
This time, his father glances up from his lap and our eyes meet. I see the quick flicker of his eyes down to where my fingers are intertwined with his son’s. I wait to see his face register his renowned fury, but it never comes. Instead, he silently returns his attention to his own lap and the cell phone there.
By the time the world below is obscured by clouds, my excitement is deserting me, leaving behind anxiety. I find myself biting my tongue to keep from shouting at Atlas that he’s totally screwed up my life with this little stunt. I don’t have the time, or the money, to be gallivanting off to Europe, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to have that discussion in front of his father.
Without warning, Atlas pushes to his feet, releasing my hand back to my lap before asking, “You hungry?”
Glancing up at him towering over me, I ask a snarky, “Even if I am, what are you going to do about it? I don’t see a buffet table.”
The grin that lights up his face feels predatory. “You’d be surprised. We may have had to take off in a rush, but I know Dex keeps the plane fully stocked for emergency trips exactly like this. I’ll find us something.”
He takes off walking behind the loveseat I’m on so I can no longer see him, but I can hear what sounds like drawers opening and closing and dishes clinking against each other.
I dare a peek at his father across from me who also looks surprised that his son is up preparing to serve us. We share a glance that feels oddly conspiratorial with the same astonishment I’m feeling.
“Here we go,” Atlas says much too cheerily, holding out a glass of white wine in my direction. As soon as I take it, he carries a second glass to his father before disappearing behind me again.
I sip my wine quietly in part to give myself something to do other than worry about being under Sebastian Rossi’s scrutiny. I mean, if his son is a renowned art thief, the elder is damn-near royalty in my business. Hell, he’s probably forgotten more about art than I’ve ever learned. It is fucking intimidating to be in his presence, making it impossible to think of even one topic we could discuss while Atlas has deserted us.