The One-Night Heist (Stolen Art, Stolen Hearts #1)

Chapter 1

One

Giancarlo

Taking a leisurely sip of my afternoon espresso, I trailed my gaze over the lush, floral foreground of the canvas, allowing the familiar buzz of possessiveness to wash over me.

Mine.

The painting I was admiring—Poppy #5—was a substantially smaller version of Gustav Klimt’s Flowering Poppies, currently hanging in the Belvedere in Vienna, and was presumably created by the artist as a study for the masterpiece.

Poppy #5 might have been small in size, but the rich tapestry of color created a dense, textured foreground that dominated the canvas, with a horizon line positioned so close to the top edge, one couldn’t help but become immersed in the scene.

The effect was hypnotic, and although this would be considered a modest piece to most, I could still recall the first time I’d laid eyes on it.

It had been a warm summer’s day on the south-facing terrace of the Upper East Side apartment I now stood in. I was eight years old at the time, stretched out on a beach towel while the sun steadily turned my skin a toasted brown, reading my vintage Carmen Sandiego “You Are the Detective” books.

The Twin Towers were visible and my father was still alive. Both would be gone by the end of the year, but my life was about to change in a completely different way.

“Darling, look, a Klimt!” Mother had exclaimed from where she reclined on a chaise nearby, shaded beneath a large umbrella and perusing the lots up for auction in her newest Sotheby’s catalogue—deciding on her next conquest.

I squinted at where she’d half-turned the auction catalogue my way, her perfectly manicured fingernail tapping on the glossy page, glimpsing something orange.

Something dangerously tempting…

“Oh, never mind.” She’d frowned, abruptly withdrawing her hand as if stung. “Those dimensions won’t work for the sunroom.”

Usually, I was able to mumble enough of a response to mimic vague interest and return to my fictional adventures, but this time, I felt compelled by a force greater than myself to take a closer look at what had caught her attention in the first place.

Terrified she might turn the page, I’d hurriedly stood and approached her chair, my breath lodging in my throat once I could examine the catalogue over her shoulder. All my brain could register at first was wild, riotous color, but I remembered being mesmerized.

Entranced.

Up until that point in my sheltered life, I’d wanted for nothing, but at that moment, I’d needed something with a longing so acute, it was painful.

All Mother had seen was a simple pastoral scene too small to compliment her decor, but to me, this chance Sotheby’s listing was a revelation, a fixation that almost felt illicit.

An awakening.

“That one,” I’d growled, my voice taking on an oddly deep and threatening edge neither of us had ever heard from me before. “I want that one for… for my collection.”

Something just for me.

Mother had peered at me over her jewel-encrusted Chopard sunglasses, incredulous at first, then smugly triumphant. “Very well,” she’d purred, satisfied in her belief my training had sunk in. “It’s never too early to start investing, is it darling?”

Because that’s all art ever was to her.

All anything ever was.

Back in the present, I blew out a slow, steadying breath before reminding myself Mother was dead, and I was the sole heir to her estate.

Time to cash out the “investments.”

Complicated memories aside, the impressive collection I was currently having appraised proved what a savvy art hound Mother had been. She’d had an eye for aesthetics and a nose for provenance, even if her purchases were more about invoking the illusion of fulfillment rather than the emotion itself.

While she possessed a sixth sense for which art would elevate her home—her image—in the eyes of visitors, it was all smoke and mirrors.

As far as I knew, Mother had never formed an attachment to a work of art the way I had with Poppy #5.

This was unsurprising, considering how cold and distant she was, but what I felt for my most precious possession went beyond love—how I assumed love must feel, at least—creating a bond that ventured into covetous territory.

All mine.

I took another sip while simultaneously drinking in my miniature Garden of Eden.

Aside from the delicate size, what I coveted most about Poppy #5 was how the colors differed from Klimt’s final piece.

Where the headlining flowers in Flowering Poppies were unmistakably red, the poppies in my painting were swaths of brilliant orange slicing through the green field like a knife.

This effect was clearly caused by rays of late afternoon sun, but I liked to pretend it was actual flames igniting the flowers one by one.

Leaving nothing but ash behind.

“You do realize you’ll be left with nothing but bare walls once this collection sells at auction, right?”

“I do,” I replied. “And I have no intention of filling the empty space for a while.”

The blessed empty space.

Franz chuckled as he entered my study, and I tore my focus away from my miniature masterpiece long enough to meet the gaze of my family’s longtime appraiser—and my closest friend.

He had an iPad tucked under one arm, a fedora perched on his head, and his wool suit was crisp enough to forgive the pinstripes.

It’s part of his signature style, after all.

Leonardo Franzini was in his mid-forties and had been a part of my life since I was a teenager—twenty years ago at this point—ever since he’d taken over my family’s inventory and appraisals from his predecessor in the Sotheby’s Valuations Department and become a surrogate older brother to me.

Mother tried to flirt with him at first, as she’d done with most men who drifted too close to her orbit—although his conventional attractiveness surely hadn’t hurt.

The son of a prominent gallery owner and a famous art model, Franz had a natural poise I dreamed of possessing, even if his light complexion, sandy brown hair, and pale blue eyes were in sharp contrast to my southern Italian heritage.

His self-confidence was another trait I had learned to emulate over the years, after witnessing him consistently shut down Mother’s advances in charming ways that never seemed to offend her easily offended sensibilities.

Most importantly, his expertise spoke for itself, and after he outbid one of Mother’s rivals for a Picasso on her behalf, Franz was officially seen as someone worthy of her respect.

Another acquisition for her investment portfolio.

“Understood.” Franz nodded, forever ready to support me.

“Angelica was also particular with her acquisitions, so there’s no rush for you to build your own collection.

” He cocked his head and eyed me curiously.

“I must admit, though, I’m surprised you want to part with the pieces I've brokered for you over the years.”

I shrugged and returned my attention to the only painting that mattered. “Let’s call it a fresh start.”

“A fresh start would be good for you,” he murmured absently before clearing his throat. “Will this piece be included?”

It took my brain a moment to realize he was referring to Poppy #5.

My masterpiece.

“Absolutely not!” I barked, harsher than I intended, but the idea of being separated from the only painting—the only possession—I cared about in this entire estate felt like a personal affront.

This one stays.

Thanks to our long history, and that he was accustomed to dealing with far more volatile clients than me, Franz barely reacted to my outburst.

“As you wish, Giano,” he replied—the only person aside from my childhood nanny who’d ever been allowed to call me that. “I will say that Poppies #1-4 are either in private collections or lost to the wind, so you’d be surprised how much this little beauty could command on the block.”

No.

“I’m not doing this for the money,” I growled, although that wasn’t entirely true.

But no one needs to know that.

The imperious glare I gave him would have made Mother proud, but true to form, Franz was unruffled.

“Suit yourself. Give me a few days to research the current market values and consult with some colleagues. Then I’ll send along the suggested starting bids and estimated hammer prices by the end of the week. Caprese?”

Caprese.

The sigh I released was half-exasperated, half-fond. By slipping that purposeful mispronunciation of capisci into the conversation—a private joke between us—he’d lessened the tension I hadn’t otherwise been able to shake.

“Capisco,” I replied correctly, offering a strained smile as I did. “And forgive me for raising my voice. Settling Mother’s estate has been… challenging.”

Franz grinned and squeezed my shoulder. “Understood. Hey, what do you say you let me get you out of the house tonight? There’s an industry event at The Skyline… You might even have fun!”

A reflexive “no” was on the tip of my tongue, but then my mother’s voice echoed in my head, reminding me of the importance of keeping up appearances—especially among potential buyers.

Just until the estate is finalized.

And then…

That was the biggest question of all—what I would do with myself once everything was settled. With Mother gone, and my father long dead before her, I would no longer need to concern myself with anyone else’s interests but my own. I would be free to do whatever I wanted.

The possibilities were terrifying.

“Yes,” I spoke before I could change my mind. “I would be happy to join you tonight.”

Happy wasn’t the most accurate word, but I knew it was what this man wanted for me more than anything.

Franz’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his ridiculous fedora. “You will? Okay… well, I’m headed there right after I finish up here, and since you’re already in your Sunday best…”

I rolled my eyes, even if I couldn’t argue with his assessment. The suit I wore was an ink blue ZEGNA in Trofeo wool, paired with a black button-down Armani shirt, no tie.

Casual dress.