Chapter 34 Reckoning
Reckoning
Lucia hadn’t wanted Francesca to come—not because she doubted her ability. Francesca was better in the field than she was, but her emotions around Varnelli were volatile, and that often meant risky calls. Not that she’d phrased it that way.
“Don’t you trust us to handle this?” Lucia had asked, almost cringing because, hello? They’d lost the Madonna right after stealing it.
“It’s not about that, and you know it. I need to be there.” And that had been it. Once Francesca made up her mind, you’d have better luck shattering granite with your bare hands.
The warehouse sat at the edge of the industrial district, squatting low and wide against the skyline. Even from inside the van, the air smelled of hot asphalt and motor oil, cicadas sawing endlessly in the background.
The area didn’t have too much traffic. Most of the buildings around were either vacant or reduced to low-volume storage. The perfect place to disappear something valuable.
A car honked when Jules braked late at a three-way stop.
“Watch where you’re going!” Skye snapped. “You trying to kill us before we even make it there?”
“Sorry,” Jules muttered. “Total brain fart. Maybe too much caffeine.”
Lucia pressed her forehead against the window. Her jaw ached from clenching. As if their nerves weren’t frayed enough.
Ten minutes later, they rolled into a narrow service lane. They killed the lights, piled out, and followed Francesca’s silent lead. Gravel slid and clicked beneath their soles, uneven and treacherous, until they reached the concrete apron behind the warehouse.
The building loomed above, a dull-gray monolith humming with the low thrum of AC units. Rust streaked the loading bay doors. Somewhere inside, a fan squeaked on its bearings—rhythmic, like a metronome in the dark.
Francesca’s expression was carved in stone as she strode toward the keypad.
The loading bay was their best shot—security had been rerouted to cover the main office entrance, probably because of the incoming shipment expected at the end of the week.
Lucia’s fingers shook as she typed the six-digit code into the pad. Each beep seemed loud enough to echo.
…Seven. Nine. Three.
A soft click. The lock disengaged.
She let out a slow breath as the door inched open, hinges whining faintly, and they slipped inside.
The air changed immediately—stale, humid, heavy with the scent of dust, cardboard, and something chemical. Their footsteps whispered across concrete as they followed the memorized path, corridors yawning dark on either side.
Lucia and Skye instinctively flanked Francesca, the unspoken pact to guard her more binding than anything else.
Every vent hummed like a hidden voice. Every shadow looked like it wanted to move.
Skye froze at the corner, hand raised. They stilled, statues sweating bullets in the airless heat.
Somewhere ahead: a crack, a door closing.
“The guard near the front entrance went to the bathroom. He’s back in his office now,” Jules whispered through the comms. Her voice, tinny in Lucia’s ear, barely steadied her nerves.
Skye gestured them forward. They crept down the corridor, past another keypad. The display glowed faintly in the dark. Skye typed the code—one click, then a low creak that made Lucia’s stomach flip.
They waited—thirty slow heartbeats—before slipping into the climate-controlled storage room. The air there was cooler, almost sharp with refrigerant. The rows of crates stretched like sentinels in ordered lines.
No one spoke. They flicked on penlights and got to work, cracking lids, rifling through packing straw and inventory slips.
Wood rasped. Paper crackled. Every sound seemed too loud.
Ten minutes later, Lucia’s pulse was pounding in her throat. Empty crates, wrong crates, all wrong.
No Madonna.
Her stomach sank. Had it already been moved?
“Skye, check out the other section across the hall,” Francesca murmured.
Skye nodded and vanished through the door.
Minutes stretched, thin and taut. Then: voices, faint but approaching.
They killed their lights. The room dropped into total blackness.
“Shit, you guys need to hide. Varnelli got inside.” Jules’s whisper crackled sharp in her ears. “I don’t know how or why. Didn’t even see her coming, but she’s heading right for the storage room.”
“I told you your girlfriend has loose lips!” Skye hissed into the comms.
“Shut it,” Lucia growled, heart hammering like faulty wire sparking against metal.
“Hush,” Francesca snapped, already melting into shadow.
Lucia tried to flatten herself against the wall, breath shallow, sweat prickling down her spine.
The door swung wide.
Overhead fluorescents blazed to life with a sharp buzz.
And there she was. Valentina Varnelli.
She didn’t hurry. She strolled in, heels clicking on the concrete, one manicured finger brushing a shelf as if this were her private gallery.
Tall and poised, with pale skin and a sweep of long blonde hair, she moved with an elegance that belied the steel in her spine.
She paused to wipe imaginary dust from her fingers, her smirk sharp enough to cut glass.
“You’ve always been so predictable, Francesca.”
“Where is she?” Francesca said, her voice low and taut as she stepped out of the shadows.
“She’s gone.”
A muscle jumped in Francesca’s jaw. “Gone?” Her fingers flexed at her sides, like they were reaching for something to break.
“It’s almost tragic that you still think you’ll ever get her back. I simply wanted to see how far you’d come, and whether you’re still foolish enough to think you could win.”
Francesca took a step closer.
“I wouldn’t if I were you. I’m armed.”
“So am I, yet neither of us is drawing any weapons.”
Varnelli smiled. “Perhaps we know our methods of destruction aren’t physical.”
Francesca’s lips thinned. “My methods of destruction? That’s rich.”
Varnelli’s gaze shot to Lucia. “You’re not needed here, forger. Leave us.”
Lucia flinched, hands clenching as she looked at Francesca.
“I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“Aww. The undeserved loyalty you garner… It’s almost tragic.” She canted her head. “How do you do that?”
“Lucy, go.”
Lucia hesitated, her gaze shifting from Francesca to Varnelli and back before she headed outside.
“Switching you to a private channel,” Jules murmured in Lucia’s ear. “Francesca and Skye can’t hear me now. Don’t go to Skye—she’s fine. I told her to stay put. Hide behind that crate. I’ll feed you the audio from Francesca’s gear.”
From her angle outside the storage room, Lucia couldn’t see the door—just flickers of shadow as her earpiece crackled.
“I’m surprised you showed up alone. Your arrogance is usually not that delusional,” Francesca said.
“I’m not. The guards wanted to storm in here, but I sent them to watch the exits. Wouldn’t want anyone to leave before we’re ready.”
“Ready for what? What did you do with my Madonna?”
A burst of static made Lucia miss the beginning of the next sentence.
“…all you ever cared about.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Francesca asked. “You’re the one who ruined everything.”
Varnelli laughed, but it wasn’t mocking or nonchalant. It sounded hollow. Pained. “I suppose rewriting history isn’t something just nations excel at.”
“Cut to the chase, Val. What do you want?”
“What I’ve always wanted, Fran.”
Silence.
Lucia dug her nails into her palms.
“And that’s what?”
“Leaving your heart as shattered as you’ve left mine.”
Lucia stifled a gasp.
“You did this to yourself! The risks you took… You were reckless, and we’ve had this discussion before. You chose your own path.”
“No, Francesca. You left me. And so I took the only thing that ever meant something to you.”
“Do you think it was easy to walk away and give up…” Francesca’s voice broke. “God, Val. Why was that your solution? You know exactly what the Madonna means to me.”
Quiet—to the point where Lucia was about to tap her earpiece when Valentina said, “I shouldn’t have been the only one left bleeding.”
Lucia could hear the rattle of Francesca’s breathing.
“Did it make you happy?”
“No, but it was something.”
“And now? Did you…destroy it?”
“What? No. Of course not.” Varnelli sighed. “I really hate you.”
A soft chuckle spilled from Francesca. “I gathered. I never did.”
Could have fooled me.
“Yes, well, you had no reason to hate me.” Varnelli sniffed. “That said, I never hated what we had. I suppose I wanted to see…”
“What?”
A beat of silence, then shuffling, creaking sounds. A metallic click. The sound of something being set down. Then a knock, followed by a gasp and the sound of a door unlatching somewhere behind the storage shelves.
Footsteps fading into silence.
Lucia’s entire frame stiffened, ready to pounce and dart back into the storage room.
A choked noise, too broken to interpret. Was that crying?
Lucia burst into the room. “Are you all right?” She froze at the sight that greeted her, speechless, unable to react to Jules’s frantic questions.
The door swung open, and Skye ran inside.
“What is…” She careened to a halt. “Is that—wait, what the fuck?”
In front of them stood Francesca, crying, holding the Madonna in her hands with no sign of Varnelli.
“What happened?” Lucia asked.
Francesca raised her head. “We have to go.”
“Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” Jules almost shouted.
“We’re all good. Got it. We’re coming back,” Lucia said.
They headed out of the room and retraced their steps.
The warehouse had fallen completely silent, and they made it to their van without any incident.
“Oh my God. I can’t believe we made it!”
“Not without help,” Skye said, eyeing Francesca in the passenger seat. “What happened in there?”
Lucia bit her lower lip. She wasn’t going to say anything. While she had so many questions, she’d rather bite her tongue off. She’d never heard Francesca sound as broken as she did during that exchange with Varnelli.
“Valentina decided to see reason and return the Madonna.”
“She’s Valentina now?” A beat. “Just like that?” Skye asked.
Francesca exhaled. “Let’s just say some debts can’t be collected. Only settled.” Her tone permitted no further questions, so Lucia kicked Skye’s foot when she opened her mouth again.
Skye glared at her, mouthing, What?
Lucia shook her head.
“It really doesn’t matter,” Jules said, shifting in her seat. “We got her! And there are no goons with guns taking her from us, and we’re scot-free on the way home. We should celebrate. Francesca, do you still have—”
“Watch out!” Francesca shouted.
Tires screeched.
Lucia had just enough time to see Jules’s eyes widen in the rearview mirror—then the world tilted.
Not like this.
The near-miss from earlier flashed through her mind, and she braced her body for impact.
A sharp bang of metal on metal cut the air.
Everything seemed to slow down. The screams around her blurred into a hollow echo, like she was underwater. Jules’s gear flew into the air, a burner phone spinning free of its bag in slow motion.
The van tilted, then flipped, landing hard on its side.
Glass shattered, and Lucia’s seatbelt bit into her ribs as the impact knocked the air from her lungs.
Then everything went black.