Page 38 of The One-Night Heist

While waiting to be approved for van access, I’d hit up an old friend who owned a promotional products company and owed me a favor. He took barely any convincing, and within a day I had a set of magnetic car signs and embroidered coveralls with the same logo of the plant company I’d hitched a ride in the service elevator with the night of Giano’s art viewing party.

Sorry, guys.

Hopefully no one on staff is hiding stolen art in their homes!

Once I reached the van, I unlocked the back and climbed in, awkwardly contorting my body around the flatbed cart full of large, leafy floor plants to wiggle into the coveralls and work gloves. Clambering into the front, I zig-zagged for several blocks before parking on a desolate strip I knew had no cameras, so I could swap out the plates and attach the magnetic signs to the sides of the van. Then, I was on my way again.

I couldn’t deny the raw exhilaration racing through my system as I drove uptown to Giano’s building. Exactly how I’d managed to survive the past few years without this gloriously free feeling was beyond me, but as soon as I pulled up to the curb by the service entrance, that old familiar calm washed over me.

It’s showtime.

After unloading the cart and locking up the van, I used the keycard I’d swiped from the real floral delivery crew to access the back entrance and service elevator. It was tempting to obstruct the cameras inside the car, or disable them altogether, but that sort of visual glitch would bring more attention from building security than if I just played it straight, so I kept my head tilted down, allowing the brim of my hat to cover my face. Most elevators didn’t keep a permanent log of stops made—especially in an old building like this—but in case keycard access meant building security got the historical data, I pressed a few extra buttons upon entry and exit to throw ‘em off the scent.

Let the Wentworths take the heat.

Unfortunately for everyone I was indirectly roping into this heist, I’d called the floral design company from a burner phone a few days ago, pretending to be a member of Mr. Wentworth’s staff, checking that the usual Friday delivery was still on the books.

These delivery guys should really stop spilling customer information to randos in service elevators…

While Giano had promised he’d trip the breaker on his own security system, I still kept my face angled away from the camera pointed toward his staff entrance as I entered the code he’d reluctantly given me on the keypad. Once inside, I fiddled with a light switch, sighing in relief when the apartment remained dark.

Let’s get to work.

Even though a strip of handy emergency lighting edged the hallway floor, I pulled a headlamp out of my pocket and situated it above the brim of my beanie before carefully wheeling the cart down the hallway and into the main living area. Parking in front of the wall of soon-to-be stolen art, I then—carefully, since I wasn’t a total monster—cut the canvases out of their frames with my shiny new utility knife, because taking the time to remove them properly would imply I knew I had the time.

Which then implicates all the rich assholes at the gala with him!

After slotting the canvases into the large portfolio case I’d hidden between the plants on the cart, I rearranged said plants and roughed ‘em up a little, to give the illusion I’d swapped them out with old ones in the apartment.

The rich and their vanities.

As tempting as it was to head upstairs to the third floor and follow my nose to Giano’s bedroom, I finished the job and headed out, whistling Claire de Lune as I loaded up the van and leisurely drove away. Once I was safely parked on another overgrown block, I swapped out the plates again, removed the signs, and busted out a couple cans of Rust-Oleum Peel Coat to temporarily tag the van until the white paint was nearly unrecognizable under the graffiti.

Not bad for being so out of practice.

After bagging up the signs, hat, gloves, and coveralls and tossing them in a nearby dumpster, I texted Giano with a string of suggestive emojis ending with a thumbs up and a green check mark. For no reason aside from insanity and leftover adrenaline, I then sat in the driver's seat and waited for his reply. When he left me on read, I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat with a huff and peeled off.

Get a hold of yourself, Rowen.

Moneybags is out on the town today—for charity.

Gross.

After stashing the van in a trusted Brooklyn garage, I hopped on the train back to the City, eager to shake off the extra energy of a successful job with a reward of carbs, cheese, and beer. This came in the form of two thick Sicilian slices and an order of garlic knots from Not Original Ray’s Pizzeria, along with a three-pack of Modelo Especial from the bodega below my apartment.

A king’s feast.

As usual, the spread tasted even better on the fire escape, with my bird’s-eye view of the extremely noisy, slightly smelly street, five stories below, which got me thinking about my future plans.

Could I really leave all this behind?

For as long as I could remember, this lone wolf had an endgame goal of finding a way out of here, even if anything beyond a simple escape seemed like a pipe dream to someone like me. Traveling for pleasure was unthinkable—an unattainable fantasy I would never have enough money to achieve.

It looks pretty attainable now…

The idea that I would soon have enough cash to go anywhere in the world, possibly for the rest of my life, was not as freeing as I thought it would be. In fact, it felt weirdly paralyzing.

I wouldn’t even know where to start.