It was Sunday, just after midnight. Dmitry sat in the dark, waiting until the security guard finished his rounds. The glow of Vanya’s cigarette throbbed from across the room. Couldn’t his cousin go one hour without smoking? There would be a pile of spent cigarette butts waiting for him on the office floor in the morning.
“When do we snag them pictures?” Vanya tapped a cigarette out of his pack and flipped it into his mouth.
“Not until we’re sure of the guard’s routine.” Dmitry took a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.
“What about them cameras?” The unlit cigarette bobbed up and down.
“That’s where you come in. When the guard is out on his next rounds, you’ll hack the surveillance system to play a loop of the empty galleries.”
“Nice. What about alarms?” He played with his lighter.
“They’re installing them on Tuesday.” Dmitry headed for the office door. “The heist is Monday night.”
“Tomorrow?” Vanya stopped clicking his lighter and stared.
“That’s what Sergei says.” Dmitry sighed. “He’s joining us.”
Vanya smirked. “I still can’t believe he’s alive after all these years.” He chuckled. “He always did have a way of turning up like a bad benny.”
“Bad penny,” Dmitry said, absentmindedly. He remembered the time Sergei had tied him to a tree on top of an ant nest. Just thinking about it made his skin crawl. Sergei thrived on violence and devoured other people’s fear. He’d always been a sadist.
“Sly always did like to get his hands dirty.” Vanya fiddled with his lighter.
“Filthy, more like,” Dmitry said under his breath. He couldn’t believe that dirty blyad had the nerve to come to his house, sit at his kitchen table, and threaten his wife and daughter. He balled his fingers into fists and swore to protect his family, with his life if necessary. He only hoped his plan worked. If it didn’t, he wouldn’t live to get a second chance.
The seconds stretched into minutes. Dmitry checked his watch. Another ten minutes and the guard should be back at his desk. It seemed like hours.
Vanya dropped a cigarette butt on the floor and ground it out under his Italian lace-up. He tapped another out of the pack and flipped it into his mouth. The click of his titanium lighter broke the silence.
Dmitry closed his eyes, waiting. How did I get myself into this situation? The smell of Vanya’s smoke was getting under his skin.
“Put that out,” he whispered.
“Sure thing, boss.” Vanya crushed the cig with his heel. “Still I can’t believe. Sly shows up here and takes over Bratva without even me knowing it. Guess I’ve been slacking off.”
“Shhh!” Dmitry held his finger to his lips.
“I heard someone new come in a couple weeks ago and busted up some of the vory.” Vanya chuckled. “But I’d never guessed in a million years it was old Sly.”
“Be quiet!” Dmitry stage-whispered. Two more minutes until the guard finished his rounds. “Let’s go.” Dmitry came around his desk and walked on the balls of his feet to his office door. He slowly opened it, peeked out, and gestured to Vanya.
Vanya was right behind him as he crept down the hallway. Dmitry stopped behind a pillar, poked his head around it, and peered down into the gallery. From his vantage on the second-floor balcony, he could see down into the first-floor galleries. The one security guard on duty would be back at his desk, keeping an eye on the security camera footage.
“You take the hallway on that side of the pillar.” Dmitry pointed. “And I’ll take this side.”
“Right, boss.” When Vanya flashed him a smile, his gold grill reflected the dim lights of the Center.
“Watch out for the security guard. If you see him, duck back behind the pillar.” Dmitry couldn’t believe he was casing the place. If he got caught, he’d lose more than his job.
“You got it.” Vanya was clearly enjoying this. Even as a kid, he couldn’t stay out of trouble. Dmitry thought of the time when seven-year-old Vanya snuck into the pantry and ate all of the jam tarts. Cook had made them for a large dinner party Dmitry’s mother was having for the city fathers. Vanya was sick all night, and Dmitry’s mother had to serve Guriev porridge to the politicians in his father’s pocket.
The sound of footfalls from the gallery below put Dmitry on high alert. He pressed himself up against the pillar. The guard had already made his rounds. Why was he in the galleries again now? He glanced at his watch and made a mental note of the time: twelve thirty. Blyad! He must have miscalculated the guard’s schedule. He gritted his teeth.
The guard was whistling as he strolled through the galleries. Dmitry shut his eyes and trained his ears on the shrill melody. He knew the museum’s layout so well that he could see a mental blueprint of its galleries. He traced the guard’s path through the museum in his mind.
Dmitry heard the footfalls on the stairs. He moved around the pillar and crawled down the hallway to where his cousin was stationed. He tapped Vanya on the shoulder.
Vanya jumped and pulled a gun out from under his linen jacket. “Don’t sneak up, boss. You scared me out of my tits!”
“Wits.” Dmitry should have known better than to ask his trigger-happy cousin for help. He hoped Vanya didn’t accidently shoot someone. “We’d better get back to my office. Come on.”
With Vanya hot on his heels, Dmitry slid down the hallway and ducked back into his office, locking the door. He pressed himself up against the wall on one side of the door and motioned for Vanya to do the same on the other side. Breathless, they listened to the footfalls approaching from the hall. Dmitry had messed up before the heist even started. Now, he was about to get caught casing his own place of employment.
His heart was racing. Hiding in the shadows with a pistol-wielding thug brought it all back—the trauma of Moscow. He thought he’d escaped the family business when he’d boarded that train to Riga, twenty-three years ago. But he was wrong. Deep down, he knew he’d never escape. His bloodstained past would haunt him for the rest of his life. Even if he did this “one thing,” Sergei wouldn’t disappear forever . . . not unless Dmitry killed him. Stealing the paintings was just a bid for time.
Vanya clicked his lighter.
“Put that away,” Dmitry hissed. He strained to hear any sounds coming from the hallway. All he heard was the hum of the air conditioner. The guard must have gone back downstairs.
“Dude’s gone,” Vanya said, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lip. He flipped the lid on his lighter and lit his cigarette.
“Really, do you need to smoke?”
A hurt look crossed Vanya’s face. He took a drag, then pinched the end of the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and slid it back into the pack. “What’s Sly want with them pictures?” he asked.
“Those paintings are worth millions. The Kandinsky alone is valued at over thirty million.” He tugged at his shirt collar.
Vanya whistled through his teeth. “Who’d pay millions for blobs of paint?”
Dmitry shook his head and shrugged. His cousin didn’t appreciate art. Neither had Dmitry’s father. For Anton, art was merely an investment in prestige, a way to impress Moscow’s high society.
“Why don’t you sell your paintings for millions, boss?”
“Because I’m not Kandinsky.” He scowled at his cousin.
“But your pictures look just like his.” Vanya was hopping from foot to foot. The wiry thug never could hold still.
“That’s because they’re copies, like the rest of my life.”
“Lolita’s an original and prettier than any picture.” His cousin grinned.
Lolita. A clamp tightened around Dmitry’s heart. He was doing his brother’s bidding to protect Lolita. But with Sergei in town—with Sergei anywhere—his daughter would never be safe.