Dangerous Notes (Dark Pen)

WTF

I lean in closer, trying to make sense of what I see and only then do I see a card buried, just a corner sticking out from under the castle.

My fingers tremble as I pull the paper loose, shaking off the errant sand. Is it possible Frank Angelino heard about the planned robbery in his casino? This felt a bit like the warning of a mob boss—a Twilight Zone version of waking up with a horse head in my bed.

But the second I unfold the paper, my trepidation and grief are gone—replaced by raw fury.

Atlas’s messy handwriting is scrolled across the card.

V—

Shame you weren’t home when I came to call. Took a few souvenirs to remember you by. The Seurat will look good above the fireplace at my home in Greece.

It’s time for you to head back to Boston and leave the real jobs to the professionals. As an incentive, I seem to remember you loving to go to that nice little beach north of the city. Hope you have fun thinking of me when you’re building a sandcastle next time you’re there.

A—

As far as I’m concerned, that A stands for asshole, not Atlas.

“You sonofabitch,” I announce to my empty apartment.

Collapsing back to sit on the tiled floor, I give myself a moment to appreciate just how fucked up this little game is getting between myself and Atlas. While I won’t truly relax until I have my precious painting back home where it belongs, I do release a sigh of relief that at least I know where it is and even more important, I know I’ll get it back.

It’s weird. Atlas is many things. He’s an asshole, entitled and egotistical, a thief with questionable morals. But with a rare clarity, I’m certain this stunt of his is just the next step in this strange tango we’ve been dancing around each other for the last ten years. Only the tempo of the music is speeding up now, and the games we are both playing are getting more dangerous.

Leaving his note behind in his own handwriting was risky, but then again, it’s no different than I’d done leaving the note at the gallery a few weeks ago or him when he beat me to the tiara. They were all very dangerous notes. The kind that could get either of us killed, or at least fitted for an orange jumpsuit, if found by the wrong person.

I reach into my purse lying next to me on the floor, coming out with my cell phone. His contact information is pulled up and I’m one click away from phoning him when I cancel out of the call.

This isn’t the kind of discussion I can have over the phone, and anyway, what the hell am I going to say? It’s not like he’s going to hurry back over with my paintings just because I ask nicely.

No. This situation will require a personal visit, which is probably exactly what he had in mind in the first place. This is just his way to get me back in his room…in his bed. Which let’s be real, while it was the hottest sex of my entire life, it doesn’t matter. I’m going in stronger this time. I’ll let my Glock do the talking for me.

This time, he didn’t just fuck with my livelihood, he came into my personal space—took my prized possession.

And then I remembered. He left me a sandbox. A fucking sandbox.

How the fuck am I going to get rid of all of this sand? I can see a dozen trips to the garbage chute with bags full of sand in my future.

But that can wait. I push to my feet, anxious to have my Seurat back in my possession. I’m still wearing the Halston pantsuit I’d worn to my business meeting. It’s tempting to change, but I don’t want to waste the time.

Chapter Twelve

VALENTINA

Minutes later I’m downstairs hopping into a NYC taxi for the ten-minute ride to The Whitney. I pull my Mont Blanc pen from my purse before I exit the cab.

The lobby is crowded with an evening rush of guests, but I brush by them on my way to the elevator. It galls me that I literally spend a thousand dollars a month just for the privilege of carrying the special pen that is really just a key to the dirty and dangerous secrets of The Whitney. I may have never spent a night under her roof, but my key gives me access to The Rooftop—a private and secure location to hold business meetings.

I hold my breath as I insert my key and press the four-digit code I’d seen Atlas press the last time we went to his room since there is no thirteen button to press. Only those with the code and a Mont Blanc pen can make the elevator stop on the mysterious thirteen floor and I am not sure how often the code is changed.