Page 103 of The One-Night Heist

With Stanley Monmouth and Abraham Divani taking the fall for my stolen art, their shares in Luxford Holdings were now up for grabs. I informed the remaining shareholders that our days of ruthless corporate maneuvering were over, and they could either stand with me or be bought out and removed from the board altogether.

The subtext being: Anyone who stayed and stood against me would be made an example of.

Unsurprisingly, most shareholders chose the buyout—to slink away quietly—but some stayed, and I’d since filled quite a few vacancies with more community-minded individuals.

Some with sizable collateral of their own.

One of the new players had taken on a mostly honorary role after seeing me on the news and learning of St. Anthony’s plight. Mrs. Robert A. Winchester had stepped in at the eleventh hour to purchase the orphanage outright and save it from foreclosure, which meant my entire scheme with Rowen—from the heist to the misadventures that followed—had been for nothing.

I still wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Because of my manners, I insisted on shouldering at least some of the financial burden, but old Mrs. Winchester had simply patted my arm and remained firm in her generous offer.

“Robert left me more money than I know what to do with, dear, especially with the time I have left. Why don’t you take the money from the Sotheby’s auction and start a new art collection? Select pieces that better reflect what you and your red-headed sweetheart find beautiful. Mr. Quincy of Fire Island, correct? Such a handsome and polite young man…”

I’d been too stunned to speak in that moment—and didn't know where to start on her impression of Rowen—but as Mrs. Winchester continued, she proved how astute she was. “Oh, you think you’re the first man in our social circle to have a lavender wife, Giancarlo? Pshhh…”

With that, she’d tottered away, leaving me with a valuable art collection I no longer needed to sell.

Along with a trust fund I can now do with as I please.

Even though my family name had come out miraculously unscathed after the high-society “scandal,” I was no longer content to see Mother’s art disappear behind the closed doors of another Upper East Side residence. In honor of Mrs. Winchester’s generosity, and my late father’s egalitarian dreams, I donated the entire collection to St. Anthony’s—as enrichment for the children—and then told Rowen we were going shopping.

His favorite thing.

“I think we need to fly your private plane back to Rome, Moneybags,” Rowen mumbled around a folded slice of pepperoni, briefly peering through the fire escape bars as someone loudly honked on the street below. “Get you a Bond villain watch of your own. It’s fancier.”

“My Calatrava is fine,” I assured him, grabbing another addicting garlic knot from the tinfoil “plate” we’d precariously created. “I don’t care about provenance or price tag. I just like beautiful things.”

Like you.

When Rowen simply pressed his lips together, allergic to compliments as always, I strategically switched gears. “Besides, I’d much rather continue art shopping for the apartment.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but then changed his mind. “Sooo… back to Florence then? Get some inspiration from the Uffizi?”

“And visit your brother?” I teased, suspecting he’d wished he’d gotten more time with Mick before the proverbial shit hit the fan.

“Maybe we should bring your ‘brother’ with us,” he countered with a smirk before stealing a garlic knot of his own. “Play a little matchmaker?”

I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. While Franz and I had come to an understanding about my role in the heist since returning to New York, he hadn’t brought up Rowen’s foster brother—aside from occasionally grumbling about his missing favorite fedora—and I’d left him alone on the subject. Involving him in our quest for new art had given him something else to focus on, but he still seemed uncharacteristically distracted, as if his mind were elsewhere.

Perhaps I should send Franz on his own vacation to Florence…

Purely to broker art, of course.

My phone buzzed in the pocket of the stolen Luxford Hotel bathrobe Rowen had given me to wear, to “stay cozy” while we enjoyed our feast. When I glanced at the screen, I saw it was Ana sending me photos of her and her new girlfriend traveling around Morocco during one of her rare breaks from modeling.

Since now my ex-lavender wife is free to be herself.

After the dust had settled on the art heist situation, Ana and I had worked with my PR company to officially end our secretly fake relationship. As far as the public knew, we’d split on good terms, and while there was a brief parasocial outcry, the lack of drama between us meant most bystanders quickly moved on to more salacious waters.

I was acutely aware that this left me free to be myself as well, and I intended to do exactly that—with Rowen by my side. Since he’d left the FBI Art Crime Team to be my new consultant on the philanthropic arm of Luxford Holdings, it wasn’t newsworthy that we often appeared in public together, but I wanted the world to know about us.

One thing at a time, Giano…

I turned the phone in Rowen’s direction so he could see the photos Ana had sent. She’d come to visit a couple of times since we’d returned to New York, and the two had grown unsurprisingly close.

Thanks to extremely similar personality traits…