22

Casimir

"You're prepared to meet our terms?"

Enzo Valenti has a face that's hard to forget, as much as I might like to. Bold features and a heavy brow that might almost be striking, if they weren't perpetually twisted into a sneer.

Some cousin of some mobster with actual clout in the city, he's been trying to make himself a name through wheeling and dealing in art and antiquities, which puts him in my path more often than I would prefer.

Facing him now, though, outside some nondescript warehouse in an industrial area of the city not all that far from where I run my own operation, I could almost convince myself I'm glad to see his ugly mug. If it means I'm about to be in possession of the painting I've been chasing for the better part of the last decade, I'd give him a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek.

"Of course," I assure him, and Enzo just grunts.

He crosses his arms over his chest and seems like he's about to say something else—to issue more demands or conditions, most likely—when the sound of a vehicle approaching cuts him short.

"Who the fuck is that?" He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, but I raise a hand in warning before he can draw a weapon.

"They're with me."

He drops his hand, but the harsh frown on his face doesn't bode particularly well for the potential of future violence as the van pulls up and cuts its ignition.

"They're here for the painting," I explain, tone low and placating as the crew climbs out.

Serra steps around from the driver's side and speaks to the other two—humans, the both of them, who certainly have as much invested in this deal going through as I do.

"They're going to help with transport and ensure it gets where it's going in one piece."

Enzo eyes the trio suspiciously. "I trust they'll keep their mouths shut, if they know what's good for them?"

"The soul of discretion, all three of them," I assure him, and at his blank look, elaborate. "Yes, Enzo. They'll keep their mouths shut."

Enzo just grunts again, eying Serra suspiciously as she steps forward to join us. The others stay back, as Serra and I discussed in the short time we had to plan this all out. They'll stay with the van until the deal's officially done, with keys in hand in case anything goes south.

"The money's been wired," she says, just as calm and collected as I am. "You can have your people confirm."

"They will. Or the deal's off."

"I'd expect nothing less," I intone, and am answered by another grunt as Enzo juts his chin toward the warehouse door, silently ordering us to follow.

Inside, the space is lit by a single hanging bulb near the entrance. The rest of the warehouse is lost to the gloom, and Enzo points to the concrete floor beneath our feet.

"Stay here. Don't look at anything. Don't touch anything. I'll be back when we know you paid up."

He leaves, disappearing into a small, walled-off space that must be some sort of office.

Serra and I loiter just inside the door, both with our best affectations of cool collectedness, but taking mind of every sound, every detail we can make out in the dim light.

A short while later, an unfamiliar figure emerges from the office.

Clad all in black and wearing sunglasses, he stands with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes entirely obscured, and doesn't say a word or give any sign he's noticed us there at all.

Well, almost.

I'd have missed it if I weren't on such high alert, but when he inclines his head slightly in our direction, Serra lets out a small huff of breath. Something that might be a laugh, or maybe a bit of incredulity at the whole bizarre situation we've found ourselves in, but when she inclines her head in return, a thought clicks into place.

"Lovelace?" I mutter.

Serra gives me a small nod and answers under her breath. "Remember my hot date a couple weeks back? The one you oh so kindly interrupted to have me help you find Ophelia? It was supposed to be with him."

It's my turn to let out a short, muted laugh. "You'll have to tell me later how that all came to pass. And remind me, what exactly is—"

"Basilisk. So, you know, watch your eyes if he takes the glasses off."

"Noted."

For the first time since we stepped into the warehouse, a shot of unease moves through me. Lovelace has given no indication he's about to whip off the glasses and petrify us, but it adds another layer of threat to the situation I'm not entirely comfortable with.

Though, with the way Serra's turned her gaze back to him, her mouth tilting up at the corners and some unspoken message passing between them, perhaps I don't have to worry. Lovelace shifts where he's standing, and the faintest hint of a blush creeps up his cheeks.

A few moments later, the office door bangs open and Enzo steps out with two more of his lackeys behind him.

"It's done," he proclaims, like he had anything at all to do with it. "Let's get the damned thing out of here."

Serra speaks up from beside me. "Alright if I have my crew come in and move it?"

"We'll meet them outside."

Enzo snaps his fingers, and the lackeys retreat into the office, only to reappear a few moments later wheeling out a cart with a sheet-draped canvas sitting atop it. They head for the door, but I hold up a hand.

"Wait. I'd like to take a look at it first."

"Fine," Enzo allows. "Hurry the fuck up, though."

Serra and I both cross the room, and as we approach the painting, I see her shoot a glance toward Lovelace out of the corner of my eye. He nods nearly imperceptibly, and some of the tension I'd been holding in my jaw and shoulders releases.

With careful, reverent hands, I pull back the corner of the sheet and peer down at the canvas. Beside me, Serra's breath catches in her throat. Her eyes are wide when they meet mine, but she recovers in a couple of seconds and steps back, nodding to the lackeys pushing the cart.

We all step outside, and the process is simple enough from there.

Our crew loads it into the back of the van, then they both climb inside and drive off without a word. From here on out, we won't be seeing them again—for the best, all things considered.

Enzo's lackeys go next, followed by Lovelace after he and Serra share one last charged look.

"Fine doing business with you," Enzo says. "Now get the fuck off my property."

Happy enough to do as he asks, Serra and I leave the warehouse behind, keeping our eyes and ears alert as we walk briskly to where I'm parked a couple of blocks away.

My entire being vibrates with each step.

Triumph, sharp and satisfied, courses through every inch of me. There will still be one final confirmation sent when the painting makes it to its destination, and I'll be watching the news like a hawk in the next couple of weeks for any word of it, but my part is done.

A sliver of light in all the darkness, something I might hang my hat on and point to like a north star proving I'm capable of some small bit of good, after all.

Rounding a corner and heading down another quiet, dimly lit street, I check my phone, which has been silenced for the past hour at least as I made my way here and kept my entire focus on the task at hand.

Looking to see if I've missed anything, I freeze in the middle of the sidewalk, dread seeping through my veins.

Ophelia called five times and must have left a voicemail on the last attempt, but it's the most recent message—a text, sent almost an hour ago—that has my feet moving again and all that dread hardening into fury.

Philippe called. Not sure how he got my number, but he wants to meet. Can't reach you, and he wants to talk NOW. Headed to the Raven.

"Cas," Serra calls, voice full of the same breathless, triumphant high I was feeling just a moment ago. "That was fucking wild, huh? I can't believe we actually got it. I mean, what are the odds that—"

Her words cut off abruptly when I break into a sprint, heading down a side street to the car.

"What's going on?" she asks, running after me.

"Get in."

I barely have time to bark the order before I'm sliding into the driver's seat, but she follows it without question, climbing in the other side and slamming the door shut behind her as we speed off into the night.