Chapter 33
Gray
A hard, full week had gone by since we’d returned to New York.
Nash and I made it a priority to change locations nightly, staying on the move as we strategized.
The last thing I wanted was to get caught.
I didn’t want to end up responsible for whatever might happen to Nash on top of everything else. Betty would never forgive me.
David reached out today after several days of silence.
When I asked if he’d found Betty’s father, he was evasive.
I could only hope he’d finished his task, but if so, then where was Mr. Beaumont?
Maybe David had him somewhere safe, but more likely he was holding him as collateral.
It wouldn’t surprise me—it was still the mafia we were dealing with here—but some confirmation would be nice.
And what happened to Matteo? When I asked that question, I was met with silence. I’m not sure I wanted to know that answer, anyway.
Without knowing how safe we were, I remained cautious, and Nash agreed. Until this resolved for good and we had the facts, we couldn’t let our guard down. Having come this far, I wasn’t about to die right at the end.
We stood staring up at the looming columns of the museum. Nash was in a pantsuit and a chestnut brown wig, and I was in a pair of slacks, a shirt, and a fake mustache.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
Nash nodded once, hands in his pockets.
Our sole aim for this visit was to observe the staff and the security’s movements, a preliminary walkthrough to make sure things were as the plan stipulated.
We entered the museum. With casual ease, we made a show of exploring the rooms like tourists and gathering additional intel we may have overlooked.
In our bid to look natural, it became somewhat of a game: Nash practicing his terrible Italian and pointing at the worst art pieces imaginable, and me correcting his Italian and calling him rude Italian names in response.
All in all, I think we actually had a good time together, and dare I say, we were bonding. It was a bro date, so to speak.
After ensuring our plans, we found our biggest hurdle was hoping Nash wouldn’t get recognized.
Most museums in New York knew Nash well because of his career and the family business, Beaumont Antiquities.
Even disguised, some of the staff gave him lingering looks of recognition before shaking it off.
This made his role tricky but pivotal. He understood the museum better than anyone, which was immensely useful.
We could exploit his insider access to bypass security, but it added a layer of difficulty.
Being springtime, the room with the Rembrandt, and the entire museum, was quite crowded with families on spring break. I saw this as a good thing. The crowd made it harder for the security to track any one person. It would be easy to get lost in the masses if anything went sideways.
We avoided lingering too long near the Rembrandt; which wasn’t difficult for me. In fact, seeing the painting made me feel sick. It was too stark a reminder of this entire ordeal and all the suffering I’d endured and the people I’d lost.
Walking out a few hours later, we had a clear understanding of how the heist would go. Tomorrow would be our best chance of making it happen. With crowds peaking on a Saturday, our intention was to execute a simple snatch-and-grab while disguised as museum staff.
Too obvious? Maybe, but sometimes the obvious was the least expected. With every staff member spread thin, no one would notice a few unfamiliar faces. It wasn’t uncommon to pull in holiday staff for weekends like this one.
Naturally, there were cameras to be dealt with, but I hadn’t found a suitable workaround to shut them off.
In the end, I was willing to take the risk of being seen.
I’d done it last fall when I stole the PERLs from Beaumont’s auction floor, and even with Ethan recognizing me, no action was taken.
Ethan would know what I was doing and why I was doing it if he recognized me this time.
As long as his mafia case was solved, I think he’d look the other way on this one yet again.
The next biggest obstacle was the wired alarm system attached to the art itself.
Each piece, I was told, was anchored to the wall by a tripwire.
If removed, the alarms would sound and the doors would lock down.
Nash assured me he had a way around this, some tool he could get his hands on that would ‘unlock’ the art.
Once unlocked, the plan was to break the artwork from the cumbersome frame and leave with the panel.
If only Rembrandt had painted on flexible fabric canvas, then we could roll it up. Instead, the artwork was on a solid wooden panel. Luckily, it was only 10x16 inches, small enough to conceal under a coat or tuck into a backpack, both of which I’d have on me.
That night, we gathered our remaining supplies and set up camp on the roof of the Beaumont Antiquities building.
Nash assured me it was a secure spot. It was close to the museum and private, Nash being one of the few that possessed a key to access the roof, plus the building had a locker room and showers.
It was ideal. I had to admit. Being able to use the facilities was a welcome relief after days without them. I showered and cleaned up properly for the first time in days. It felt good to get the grime of the city off my skin.
Drying my hair with a towel in the steamy locker room, I couldn’t stop worrying about Betty.
How angry had she been when she woke to find me gone, and what did it mean for our relationship?
Guilt ate at me for leaving her when I’d explicitly promised not to lie to her ever again, after agreeing we were a team.
Had I broken the new, tender threads holding us together?
I’d been driven by old fears. I couldn’t lose her, not when she was my universe. If someone had to take the risk, it would be me. I was the one who got her into this, so the danger was mine to face.
The next morning, Nash and I quietly left the rooftop before the rush of workers arrived.
We changed into casual clothes: jeans, shirts, and plain coats.
I put on my signature mustache, different from the one I wore yesterday.
This was the long one with playfully curled ends that Betty had a particular love for.
I shaved the rest of my face, which was a rarity for me, so it really stood out today.
Nash raised an eyebrow when he saw me. “I thought the goal was to blend in here?”
I gave him a half-grin. “Sometimes standing out is the best way to hide.”
He shook his head at me.
Our backpack contained vacuum-sealed museum staff uniforms hidden in the lining, along with additional facial disguises should we feel the need to use them in the case of a great escape.
We filled the visible sections of the bag with common tourist items like umbrellas, maps, and guidebooks—anything to help us get through security checks without arousing suspicion.
Arriving at the museum, the line to get in was long, as expected, but without incident. Once through the entrance, we casually explored a few rooms until we found a less-trafficked restroom where we could change.
Dressed and ready, we staggered our exits ten minutes apart. Nash went first. I waited at the mirror, fiddling with the earpiece and my name tag.
Nash’s job was to be the lookout. It was the safest role for him.
If someone recognized him, it wouldn’t raise any alarms, and he could play it off as though they’d brought him in as a trusted person to help control the holiday crowds.
He would be my spare set of eyes on the floor, guiding me through the masses.
Earpiece in, I checked the radio connection with Nash. “You there?” I whispered.
“In the Baroque wing,” he replied cooly. “It’s quiet in here at the moment.”
I slung the backpack over my shoulder and left the restroom, strolling from room to room in that direction. I took it slow and easy, attempting to appear casual, even going so far as to offer patrons a few pertinent facts about the art where I could.
“Stop showing off,” Nash teased over the earpiece while I was mid-lecture with a lovely older couple over a Matisse.
I stepped away from them, whispering, “Afraid I know more about art than you do?”
Nash scoffed.
“Are you nervous the mighty art specialist is being outdone by the mafia baby?” I asked.
His deep chuckle reverberated in my earpiece. “You can’t out-bullshit a bullshitter, mafia baby.”
I grinned. “Ah, but I am an expert bullshitter—maybe even better than you.”
With my hands clasped gently behind my back, I rounded the corner, approaching the Baroque wing where the Rembrandt was housed.
I felt my heart rate pick up, the intoxicating adrenaline flooding my limbs with electric energy.
This was it. I tapped my thumbs, my fingertips hot with anticipation and the need to steal, but a loud shattering sound interrupted me.
I halted.
Spinning slowly, my ears perked up. “Nash? What the fuck was that?” I whisper-hissed.
There was static on his end, then a cursed, “Shit.”
“Nash?” I asked again.
Screams erupted, then more crashing and commotion, louder now.
I ducked on instinct, only spinning when I heard fast and heavy footsteps approaching.
Behind me, a large security officer jogged in my direction, his eyes wide and fixed on mine.
His hand went to the weapon on his belt and he gripped it.
My throat tightened. Fuck. This was it; it was over. How had they found out about us so quickly?
The now pent-up adrenaline narrowed to a pinpoint, and I was ready to explode into action, but I couldn’t decide whether to run or keep up the ruse. Would this security guard shoot me? Or was there a way I could grab the weapon from him?