Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

VIVIAN

A fter rushing home, I stopped short of my apartment door.

There was music playing.

I didn't leave any music on.

My hand shook as I carefully tested the doorknob. Locked.

My hand continued to shake so badly that I dropped my keys on the floor.

I stopped to listen.

Would the metal clang make the music stop?

No.

Knowing I couldn't exactly call the cops and tell them I'm scared of my stereo, I picked up my keys and entered.

Nothing looked disturbed.

The song playing had a pleasant, lilting harmony that was vaguely familiar.

As I carefully searched in each room, under the sofa, and behind the shower curtain, I continued to listen.

The same song played repeatedly.

Then it clicked. It was the Mona Lisa song. The one sung by Nat King Cole, except this version was in a foreign language.

It was in Russian.

With my hand curled into a fist, I slammed it against the stereo button, turning it off.

Opening the fridge, I reached for the bottle of wine from a few nights earlier. Twisting off the cap, I drank straight from it.

As I leaned against my kitchen counter, I considered the options.

Either this was the mysterious Russian retrieval specialist sending me a message that he was watching and impatiently waiting.

Or…

It was Var fucking with me.

He had been out of the office for close to two hours today.

While I thought it was giving me time to search his office, what if he had been here in my apartment doing the same thing at the same time?

At that thought, I turned and rummaged through my new Gucci purse. Once I found my keys, I examined them for any signs of… well, I wasn't really sure what the signs were for copying a key.

Clay from a secret key mold like in the movies?

Oil from the hardware machine that copies keys?

Metal shavings?

Nothing.

If it was the mystery Russian dude sending me the message, I needed a Plan B.

And if Var was on to me, then it was highly unlikely I would ever find the other five paintings. He clearly would hide them somewhere other than his office, where I was free to snoop.

My only option was to possibly create one more Mona Lisa fake to appease the Russian.

Taking another slug of my wine, I walked into the bedroom. After checking under the bed and in the closet again, just in case, I changed into an old man's shirt and yoga pants.

Putting my hair up in a scrunchie, I moved into the second bedroom, my art studio.

I placed the poplar plank canvas on the easel.

I only had one left and maybe enough paint to finish another Mona Lisa.

In order to create the impression of a hazy, seamless transition from dark to light with no visible brushstrokes like da Vinci, I'd have to use impossibly thin layers of oil paint and let it fully dry between layers.

The sfumato process could take weeks, even months. Rushing through the delicate process would make it more obvious it was a fraud, not the real deal, but perhaps it would be enough to get me out of trouble.

It would have to. It wasn't like I had many options at this point.

Since I would have to mix the powder lead white pigment with oil, I raised the bedroom window to be on the safe side. After using my glass muller to mix the pigments, I carefully applied the primer to the plank to fill in the cracks and create a smooth surface.

As I was doing so, the window slipped and slammed closed.

The sudden loud bang had me jumping a foot into the air.

Taking another swig of wine, I tried to focus again.

Again, the window fell, scaring the crap out of me.

Just as I was wedging a paint stick between the window and the sill to keep it open, my phone rang.

It was Michelle. "Come meet us!" she shouted over the loud music.

I sighed. "I'm already in for the night."

"Don't be a loser! Come out for a drink. We're at that new place in Fulton Market. The one with the blue-cheese-stuffed olive dirty martinis."

I looked at the drying primer. It wasn't like I could do much else with it.

Although I should start on the small Degas that was just ordered through my secret Etsy account.

Apparently, a woman was about to lose her beloved painting of two ballet dancers to a cheating husband in a divorce. So she reached out to me for a convincing copy to trick her asshole future ex-husband. It was a quick job that would get me twenty-five thousand.

But I did love a good martini.

"You came! Everyone, Vivian is here!"

Michelle launched herself at me. With her arms around my neck, she hugged me close. "Where have you been, bitch? I've missed you."

I leaned my head against her shoulder as I wrapped my arm around her waist. "I know! I'm sorry. I've just been really busy at work."

Stacey groaned. "That woman is the worst! You need to talk to her about work/life balance. Although I will say you look fabulous. Is that Gucci?" she asked as she took my new ivory purse from me for a closer look.

I tightly closed my lips and nodded as guilt tore at my gut like acid. All my friends thought I worked for an awful interior designer, named Regina George, hand drawing and water coloring her sketch ideas for clients.

It was a miracle none of them had figured out that was the name of the bitch from Mean Girls .

Not that I thought they would judge me.

Through my work as a forger, I'd actually helped lots of people.

My current project was not the first divorced woman I'd helped.

I'd also helped several Jewish families recover priceless, sentimental family heirlooms. Strictly speaking, my work helped these families commit grand larceny as they hired thieves on the dark web to steal the original and sub it out with my work, hoping the theft would never be discovered. But didn't the ends justify the means?

The problem was that my work required discretion and the utmost secrecy.

Not things my friends were known for.

Plus, there was the potential for danger. As I was now learning all too well.

"I'm almost done with a big project and then things should calm down soon."

Yup. All I needed to do was to outsmart the Russian Mafia, continue to hide my involvement in the disappearance of a hated dictator, and somehow convince a mysterious Russian retrieval specialist to take a half-assed, amateurish, rush job forgery of his employer's Mona Lisa, instead of the five expertly crafted frauds I'd taken six months to paint.

Easy, breezy, fucking lemon squeezy.

Before a complete panic attack at my situation could take hold, I called out over the music, "I need a martini."

Michelle stretched out her arm and gestured toward the bar. "The bar is three deep. It's going to take forever. Here, puff on this." She handed me a vape.

I scrunched my nose. "Is this the same stuff as last time? That got me super high."

"That was Jenny Kush. This one is different," she yelled into my ear, then giggled as she handed me her bright purple vape pen.

"Okay, but only a quick hit."

She shrugged. "You didn't drive, did you?"

"Hell, no, parking is impossible in this neighborhood."

"Then who cares. You look tense. You've been working too hard. Have some fun!"

I coughed as the vape burned my lungs. I hated the coughing part. Probably why I didn't smoke that often. And gummies were too unreliable. Sometimes I'd feel nothing. Then the next time I'd take the exact same style gummy and see dancing rainbow bears and singing teakettles.

I handed the pen back to her as I covered my mouth and coughed again. "Urgh. Only the one hit. I'll stick to my martinis."

Michelle threw her arms up in the air and laughed. "Oh, my God! I love this song! Hurry up. Let's dance before you start to see bobble-head Martians."

"What?"

She grabbed my hand and led me onto the dance floor, tossing over her shoulder, "The weed is called Alien Mint. They say it's so out of this world, you'll have full conversations with little green men."

"Michelle, you suck," I giggled as we made our way to the dance floor.

Fortunately, there were no little green men.

Unfortunately, there were plenty of annoying Neanderthals.

As I tried to dance with my girlfriends, one man after another sidled up behind me, bumping and grinding. So gross.

After brushing off yet another pair of sweaty hands on my hips, I gestured to Michelle and Stacey. "I'm getting a drink."

They nodded and gave me a thumbs up.

Thank God, I'd taken a small enough hit that all I had was a mild, but still fun, buzz. Since it was already wearing off, I figured it was safe to now have my preferred party favor, an extra filthy dirty martini with blue cheese olives.

As I crossed from the dance floor toward the bar in front of the high-backed velvet lounge tables, an arm wrapped around my waist and yanked me down onto a lap.

"What the fuck?" I called out.

Some douchebag with more gel in his hair than sense licked his lips. "How about a private dance?"

Gross.

"Get off me."

"Hey, don't be like that, babe."

"I'm not your babe, now get your hands off me or?—"

He laughed as he tightened his grasp around my waist. "Or what?"

"Or you die," growled a voice behind me.

Uh oh.