Mafia Puppet: A French Mafia Romance

by Bella King

  I put my coat on, acting like I’m getting ready to leave, but I have one more pitstop before I walk out of those heavy wooden doors onto the street. I need to take down the Red Door and bring it with me.

  The air in the gallery is thick with my intentions, and I feel like every step I take is being watched. In truth, it is, but only because there are so many cameras in the gallery.

  However, the cameras will only see me take the painting and leave with it. They won’t ever know what happens after that. If I get in trouble, it won’t be because I gave it to a notorious mafia boss and made off with a small fortune.

  My shoes echo through the empty gallery as I slowly creep into the room that holds the Red Door. It’s as though I don’t want anyone to hear me and pop out of the shadows, but I know nobody is left in the building. I had Pierre outside, counting the occupants as they left.

  Every few steps, I stop to look around the gallery, terrified that someone might still be inside. It’s an unreasonable fear, but one that I can’t shake. Either this plan goes perfectly, or it comes apart in my hands like wet paper. There’s no middle ground.

  When I finally reach the painting in question, so much time has elapsed that I can no longer delay what I’m about to do. I have to take down the painting, wrap it, and get out of the gallery before Pierre gets impatient and comes in after me.

  I look up at the Red Door, admiring the stark contrast of the fluffy meadow against the detailed red wood grain. It’s a shame that we’ll have to destroy this painting to get the number code out of it, but perhaps there’s a way for me to restore it afterward and keep it as a souvenir.

  I step up to the painting, reaching my hands to either side of the frame and testing its attachment to the wall. It should only be hanging by a few hooks, but if there’s also an alarm rigged to it, then I’m about to find out.

  I close my eyes, bracing myself for the shrill scream of a half-million euro painting being stolen, but nothing comes as I unhook it from the wall. The only sound that I hear is that of my heart drumming like a coked-up jazz percussionist.

  My hands clench the sides of the painting as I haul it away from the wall toward my office, where I can wrap it up. The last thing I want is for someone to see the painting and recognize it.

  The wall where the painting once was is a barren white, a distinct square of purity left in the yellowing paint of the gallery. It’s been there for so long that it’s preserved the original color of the wall. It’s funny to think that when the painting was put up, I was only eighteen years old and stuck in the legal system after the police raid on my father’s estate.

  It’s been so long since I managed to get out of the mafia, and the removal of the painting signifies my arrival back into it. The purity of the white wall is exposed and will no longer be hidden from the harshness of the elements.

  I carry the painting under my arm, rushing into my office to find something to wrap it in. My steps are quick now, a growing urgency due to the time I’ve wasted so far. Now that the painting is in my hands, I’m no longer innocent. I have no excuses for what I’m doing if I’m caught.

  I set the painting down on my desk as gently as I can in such a hurry and jump up to raid the boxes of supplies that Charles left for me. I’ve barely used any of them, but I’m certain there was something I could use to wrap and protect this painting.

  My hand knocks things around in several cardboard boxes before I’m able to locate a single roll of plastic wrap. I was hoping for bubble wrap or some type of felt that could dampen the bumpy ride ahead of us, but I’ll take what I can get.

  I should’ve been more prepared, but isn’t that how life always is?

  I return to the painting, admiring it one last time before I wrap it up in as much plastic wrap as I have so that I can run out of the gallery with it. The thin, stretchy plastic wrap squeaks against the frame of the painting as I roll it around, but after a minute, I reach the end and tear it off the cardboard roll.

  Tossing the empty roll over my shoulder, I waste no time carrying my newly wrapped present out the door before anyone returns for a forgotten set of keys. My alliance is with Pierre, as crazy as that sounds, and I need to get this out to him.

  A smile stretches over my face as I approach the double doors in the front of the gallery. It’s been so long since I’ve done anything even remotely illegal, and the thrill is something I miss dearly. I didn’t realize it until now, but I need that thrill to feel alive. It’s like I’ve been sleeping in a coffin all this time, only to finally rise up and find that it’s spring outside.

  Pierre has awoken something in me, something that I wasn’t even sure existed until last night. The feelings I had and the sensations my body experienced when he thrust inside of me told me all I needed to know about who I was. What man could do that to me but a mafia man?

  There’s a reason I haven’t been able to date anyone all of these years. How many university students and art scholars are tattooed from neck to foot, will fuck you like a beast, and have millions sitting around in a safe in the Paris catacombs?

  I reckon zero, and that’s why I wasn’t satisfied with any of them.

  As much as it scares me that I’m falling for a mafia boss, it’s also fitting, and I should’ve known I wouldn’t be happy with anyone else. Maybe it’s a fling, and maybe the money and sex are all there is to it, but I’m willing to take the leap for a chance at something special.

  Life doesn’t have to be boring, and I don’t have to fall in love with some middle-class conformist. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, and I wish I could be one, but that’s not my calling. I can see that now.

  Pierre was right about me. He was right about everything.

  Chapter 32

  Pierre

  I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, glancing up at the King-Smith Gallery every few seconds to check if Shaye has left yet. It’s been an entire thirty minutes since she texted me that she was ready to follow through with the plan, so why the hell hasn’t she come out yet.

  I’m minutes away from going in there and finding out what she’s up to. What if she’s decided to try to strip the paint from the Red Door herself. I told her the safe was in the catacombs, but I didn’t tell her exactly where. She wouldn’t be able to get to it before I did.

  Besides, if she tried to remove the paint with anything other than the exact paint remover I bought for it, she’d likely destroy the code permanently. I’d be angrier about that than her trying to steal the contents of my safe. It would nullify all of my hard work and ruin everything between us.

  I take a long, deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. I can’t allow myself to get worked up about this and make the wrong move. Once I set foot into that gallery, it’s game over. I have to trust Shaye on this one, but I’ve never trusted anyone before. It’s not that easy.

  I check my phone again, but there aren’t any new messages. We agreed on radio silence until she left the building. The only thing keeping me from panicking is that I haven’t seen the red and blue flashing lights of police cars, and I haven’t heard any alarms coming from the gallery.

  My head snaps up again when I see the door to the gallery open. Shaye’s tan coat appears, followed by a large, thin object wrapped in so many layers of plastic wrap that I can’t even see through it.

  But I know what it is.

  It’s the Red Door painting.

  I lean over to the passenger’s side of the car, opening the door and waving for Shaye to join me. She quickens her pace when she sees me, hauling the painting under her arm while taking brisk, determined steps to my car. She’s just as eager as I am to get to the safe.

  “What took you so long?” I ask as Shaye slides into the passenger’s seat.

  She twists around, sliding the painting into the back seat, then turns back around to face me. “I had to wrap it.”

  “Wrapping something doesn’t take half an hour,” I say, putting the car into gear and pulling out onto the road
.

  “Well, I’m slow,” she says, clearly reluctant to explain it further.

  I’m not concerned about the delay because we have the painting.

  “Are you sure it’s the right one?” I ask, my paranoia creeping up on me faster than I can stop it. “You got the Red Door, right?”

  “No, Pierre. I took a totally different one,” she replies, her voice dripping with so much sarcasm that I could drown in it. “Of course I got the Red Door. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “No,” I reply. “But I don’t want to have to do this more than once. No mistakes.”

  “I haven’t made a single mistake,” she replies, unbuttoning her coat. “Now, it’s your turn not to fuck up.”

  “I won’t,” I promise, my eyes focused so hard on the road that the blood vessels in them strain. “We’re getting that money.”

  “When was the last time you checked the safe?” she asks.

  I laugh. “Ten years.”

  “What?!”

  “Yes, I’ve been in jail, Shaye. It’s not like I could go visit it every couple of months.”

  “You could’ve at least checked it before I stole a fucking half-million euro painting,” she says loudly.

  “Don’t bother me,” I grumble. “We’re not done yet.”

  She scoffs, slumping down in her seat and crossing her arms. “And just where in the catacombs is this thing?”

  “Deep,” I reply, glancing over at her. A thin smile spreads across my lips, and I can’t resist a joke. “Almost as deep as I was inside you last night.”

  Shaye narrows her eyes at me. “Very funny.”

  “It is funny because it’s true,” I reply, turning my attention back to the road.

  “Well, if you ever want that again, you’re going to hold up your end of the deal,” she says sharply.

  “You still don’t trust me?”

  “No.”

  I laugh. “That’s the mafia in you speaking. You were always a mafia girl. I knew it.”

  She doesn’t say anything in response because she knows that I’m right. She would’ve potentially lived the rest of her life in a civilian lie, all because of one bad experience in the mafia.

  Granted, having your family killed in front of your eyes is extremely traumatizing, but most people I know in the mafia lean into crime after something like that, not slink away from it. Shaye is different, but not as different as she wants to believe.

  I still like her, though, and I like her an awful lot.

  “You want to go to dinner or something after this?” I ask, pulling the car around a corner and driving toward the only unguarded entrance to the catacombs that I know.

  “Dinner?” she asks. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Sort of,” I say, “But do you?”

  “I want my money.”

  “After that.”

  Silence.

  “Really,” I say, trying to sound earnest. “I’d like to take you to dinner.”

  “You’re so dumb,” she says, but I can tell that she’s smiling by the sound of her voice.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  More silence.

  “Yes?” I ask, placing my hand on her thigh.

  “I was thinking about it,” she fusses. “But yes, we’ll go to dinner if you manage to pull this shit off.”

  “We are going to pull it off,” I say, slowing down the car. “Because we’ve arrived at our destination.

  Chapter 33

  Shaye

  We’re sitting in an empty parking lot beside a crumbling brick building that looks like it was built centuries ago. I’d date it back to the 1700s, when the catacombs were first starting to be filled with the remains brought in from cemeteries.

  “Where are we?” I ask, trying to figure out if we’re really at some secret catacomb entrance or if Pierre brought me out here to dump my body and take the painting for himself. I don’t believe he’d do that after all that we’ve been through together, but you never know. I just hope that he’s a better man than that.

  Pierre pulls up beside the building and stops the car. “We’re right outside the only entrance to the catacombs that isn’t guarded.”

  “Why isn’t it guarded?” I ask.

  “Because,” he says, opening his door. “Nobody knows about it but me.”

  I jump out of the car with him, pulling the painting from the back seat and placing it under my arm. I want to be the one to carry it in.

  Pierre walks to the back of the car, opening the trunk and pulling out a bucket of what appears to be paint thinner. I don’t recognize the brand, but I assume it’s the kind that wouldn’t damage the plastic underneath.

  “Surely, someone would know about this place,” I say.

  “Nope,” he replies cheerfully, slamming the trunk shut. “Because I’m the one who made it. Ten years ago, I broke into the catacombs by tracing the route underground, all the way here. Then, I dug through the floor and broke into a small tunnel, tucked away from the main section where the tourists go.”

  “All this for a safe?”

  “You have no idea how much money is in that thing,” he says with a wicked grin. “Now, let’s go.”

  I take a moment to admire Pierre’s confidence and the way his stubbled chin scratches against the collar of his wool coat as he turns his head. He’s a handsome man, and I was surprised by his dinner proposal. Maybe this means more than just sex will happen between us.

  Butterflies jump in my stomach, but I tell myself it’s just about the money. I’m excited, and this is the most fun I’ve had in ages, even if it is dangerous. I just like that I can do this with someone.

  I follow after Pierre, having trouble keeping up with his brisk pace with the painting under my arm. After readjusting it a dozen or so times, I finally give in and tell Pierre to slow down.

  He turns his head, smiling back at me like this a game to him. “You weren’t this slow last night,” he says, the memories of our sins sparkling in his eyes under the setting sun.

  “Haha,” a reply sarcastically. “I wasn’t carrying a gigantic painting last night either.”

  “No,” he says, rubbing his chin. “But you were carrying me.”

  “More like being crushed by you,” I grumble.

  His dark eyebrows arch back in offense. “Shaye, if I wanted to crush you, I would have, and you wouldn’t be here to complain about it.”

  I squint at him. “You were heavy.”

  “All muscle.”

  “Mostly,” I say, sliding past him and stepping through the crumbled doorway of the abandoned building.

  “Mostly?” Pierre asks, coming up beside me.

  “That’s normal,” I say, looking around the empty room. “It isn’t healthy to be all muscle.”

  “I have zero percent body fat,” he announces proudly – a claim that can’t possibly be true. He’d be dead if that were the case.

  I look at him with half-closed eyelids. “Don’t exaggerate.”

  “Close to zero, anyway,” he says.

  I shake my head, turning my attention back to the disappointing architecture inside of the old building. I was expecting something a little grander for eighteenth-century construction, but I guess there’s a reason why this place isn’t in use.

  I don’t have much time to look around before Pierre pulls me into the dark, vacant archway to the left of me, but there wasn’t much to see anyway.

  “The entrance is pretty small, but you’ll be able to fit in easily. Myself, however, I am concerned about,” Pierre says as he pulls a flashlight from his pocket.

  “Weren’t you just telling me that you had zero percent body fat?” I ask.

  He clicks the flashlight on, pointing it toward a small hole in the floor. “Yes, and a whole lot more muscle than when I went to prison ten years ago.”

  I can’t argue with that, but the fact stands that the hole appears to be too small for someone of Pierre’s size.

  “We’re going to have
to make it bigger,” Pierre says, flashing his light toward me.

  “How?” I ask.

  “I have tools,” he replies, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a toilet paper roll with a string coming out of the top.

  I look toward it, squinting my eyes as I study the shape. When I realize what it is, I gasp. “Pierre, are those explosives?”

  He grins, and I can see his teeth shining in the dark. “Yes, and they should be enough to blast the floor out a little more so that I can get through.”

  I look around at the brittle brick walls. “Um, and you think that this place isn’t going to collapse from that?”

  He shrugs. “Probably not.”

  “Probably?”

  “Shaye, you have to take risks sometimes. You’re not really going to get anywhere in life by playing it safe.”

  “I’ve gotten pretty far that way,” I counter.

  “You fell into the hands of a mafia boss. I wouldn’t call that getting very far,” he says.

  “And that was your fault,” I reply, but I know there’s no point in arguing with him. Pierre gets his way, no matter what. That much has become obvious after he managed to convince me to steal a painting for him.

  I grip it in my hands, feeling the plastic wrap as it’s become sticky with my sweat. I still can’t believe that he made me do this, and I can’t believe that I let him.

  “Okay, so if you’re scared of the building collapsing, I suggest you wait outside,” Pierre says, already pushing me out of the archway into the main room.

  I stumble back, then dig my feet into the floor to stay put as he tries to push me further away. “Hey, I’m not going to let you blow yourself up in here.”

  “I’ll join you in a second, but I’ll be running, so wait outside.”

  “What if someone hears it?” I ask.