Page 46 of Seven
Fucking motherfucker fuck.
Was there someone waiting on the other side of the door? Or did Viper handle the variable?
I couldn't wait any longer. I yanked the vault's door open, ready either to put down anyone that was in my way or lie through my teeth depending on what the situation required.
The corridor was empty.
My earpiece crackled with static and I heard Viper's voice.
"Knock, knock. Anyone there? Boss?"
"I'm good," I hissed out and darted to the utility closet.
The real painting was now stuffed back behind the tiles and I'd have to come back for it tomorrow, posing as law enforcement. Taking it out right now was too risky because of Viper's decoy. Every security guard was on high alert.
"I take it the operation was a success?" Viper asked, sounding extra chipper.
"So far so good. I'm out for now."
"Cool, cool."
I turned off the mic as I passed through the kitchen, dumped the gloves in the trash, and returned to the ballroom.
Nobody noticed I'd gone.
Target was still in the middle, telling a joke to a pack of investors. I drifted closer, eavesdropped without listening. His laugh was the same—sharp, high, calculated to land in the softest parts of the crowd.
Soon the painting would appear. The crowd would gasp. Castellano would smile his frozen smile. And nobody, not even the target, would know the difference…at first.
Things went as planned.
At eight sharp, the lights dimmed, and the guests funneled in from the main room to the gallery.
The target stood next to the display. The painting was still covered by a heavy black cloth. He waited until the last guest had filtered in, then cleared his throat and raised his voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he started, elongating the vowels. "This evening is about more than just beauty. It's about preserving our heritage—the efforts of visionaries who transformed our perspective on the world and on ourselves."
The speech was practiced, just long enough to keep you from checking your phone, just short enough to make you feel clever for listening.
Then he talked about Picasso's genius, the tragedy of lost art, theheroicmeasures taken to bring this masterpiece into the light. To his right, Castellano stood with his arms folded, eyes fixed on the painting, jaw set.
I watched from my spot near the exit, arms crossed, head tilted a little, enough not to be caught on camera. And even then, the beard made a good camouflage, made me older than I was. The room was a low-key warzone—everybody buzzing, every eye hungry.
When target reached the climax, he didn't even pause for applause. He nodded to the curator, who stepped forward and drew the black cloth aside.
The painting glowed, all blue and green and wild energy. The crowd gasped, exactly like they were supposed to. Even Castellano's mask slipped for a second, and he let himself look impressed.
Photographers swarmed. Phones rose. For ten seconds, nothing else existed but that rectangle of color.
Castellano stepped up, nodding at the target, then leaned close to inspect the canvas. He was no amateur—his father had run a gallery in Milan, and he'd spent his life sniffing out fakes. He tilted his head, blinkedtwice, then reached out and hovered a hand a centimeter from the brushwork.
His lips moved.
He checked the corners. The edges. The signature.
I saw the moment he noticed.
He looked at the target, then at the painting, then back at the target. The silence crackled.
