Mafia Puppet: A French Mafia Romance

by Bella King

  This person is much smaller, but they hurry along as though their only purpose was to serve the owner of the gallery. I know in an instant that this is a rule-follower, a loyalist, and a puppet that would be as stiff as the crossed wood above it. Manipulating them would be like trying to mold a statue from the smoke of my cigarette.

  My lips curl in distaste. I hate rule followers.

  The employee slips into the gallery through the tall entrance, disappearing behind the doors and sweeping past the window. I’ll have to watch out for that guy.

  I slump back down in my seat, finishing off the second half of my coffee in a single gulp. I doubt there are more than a handful of people working at the King-Smith Gallery, and so far, things aren’t in my favor. I’ll need lady luck in the car with me this morning, but I swore off pussy until I got my hands on that painting.

  I might need to rethink my strategy.

  But like the brightness of the sun, a slow-moving figure catches my eye just as I’m about to reconsider my approach to this mission. It’s a young woman, curvy, with blonde hair and a nervous stride. She’s walking toward the gallery with her hands clasped together in front of her.

  I lean forward in my seat, studying her face as she brushes a few strands from her cheek. The paper cup that once held my coffee rolls out of my hand, falling into the foot space and leaking a single drop of black liquid onto the floormat.

  I feel heat in my face for the first time in a decade, hot blood rushing up to my cheeks as my heart doubles its tempo. She’s perfect, not only because she looks like she would break the instant I tried to bend her, but also because…

  I know who she is.

  But what the fuck is she doing all the way in France? Perhaps I’m mistaken about her identity. The last time I saw her was right before I was swept away to prison. She was eighteen at the time.

  I doubt she remembers me. I was in a crowd of people at her father’s estate, meeting with a few individuals who would later turn out to be informants for the French police. Things went south quickly after that, but the image of the single blonde girl among the hordes of suited men wouldn’t leave my memory.

  And now she’s here, or at least, she appears to be. I’ll have to hear her voice to know for certain. If she’s an American, then I’ve just struck the jackpot of all jackpots. She’s the perfect puppet, a woman with more skeletons in her closet than bones in her body.

  As it turns out, lady luck is on my side after all, and an attractive young woman is just what I need to make my wildest dreams come true.

  Chapter 7

  Shaye

  The door to the King-Smith Gallery is heavy, but I manage to swing it far enough open so that I can slip inside. The scent of old paint, wood, and the indescribable smell of expensive things drift into my nose immediately upon entry. I’ve arrived at work.

  Nobody is waiting for me in the lobby, but I have a card to get through the security gate into the main part of the museum. I take it from my pocket, the echo of my heels masking my nervousness with professional confidence as I approach the gate.

  I slide the card across the sensor, and the thick glass panels open to let me through. I’ve made it this far, so I must be in the right place, but I’m always nervous about showing up to the wrong job. It’s happened before.

  I unbutton my coat, letting it hang loosely over my shoulders as I walk down the hall toward another set of heavy wooden doors. Everything in this city is built to last and weighs ten times more than everything in the United States. I’m sure I’ll gain strength just from everyday living.

  As I arrive at the door, it swings open for me, and a tall man with a serious expression steps through. His shoulders are pulled back as though they were bound behind him with a rubber strap, and his eyebrows form together in the middle of his head, a decorative splash of gray above his dark eyes.

  “Miss Dawn, I presume,” he says in a thick French accent.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, holding out my hand.

  He doesn’t accept it. “Come with me. We have too many new arrivals for us to bother with a proper tour just yet. Perhaps tomorrow, I will be able to show you around.”

  I nod, surprised by his promptness but also not altogether too taken aback. I had art teachers with a similar snippiness about them, and collectors tend to be an odd bunch.

  “My name is Charles King-Smith, but you can just call me by my first name,” he explains, stepping back through the doorway and turning around.

  I follow him closely, trying to keep up with his brisk pace without spraining both my ankles. The floor is as slick as buttered glass, and I’m beginning to think I should ditch the heels altogether. A marble floor and wet bricks predict injuries if I don’t switch up my shoe game.

  It’s a pity, though. I like high heels a lot. They give me confidence.

  “I apologize for dragging you in here on such short notice,” Charles explains, “But we received a sizable donation of some very unique pieces that we need an appraisal for. We get them pretty often, but not usually all at once like this.”

  “Someone donated their entire collection?” I ask.

  “His wife donated his collection after he put a bullet in own his head,” Charles replies, coming to a stop and twirling around. “I seem to recall him selling us some paintings some ten odd years back, but his wife wouldn’t take money for them this time around. She just wanted them gone.”

  “Oh,” I reply, not knowing anything else to say.

  “Yes, but one man’s tragedy is another’s art. The world keeps turning regardless, and these paintings must be priced and sold. There’s no room for them here,” he continues, reaching to the door behind him.

  “Well, you have the right person for the job,” I say, trying to muster up some cheerful words in light of the gloomy news.

  A smile flickers across Charles’ grim face. “I certainly hope so. We’ve been in grave need of a professional for a while now.”

  “I won’t let this gallery down,” I say, confident in my ability to do good work. It’s my passion, and there isn’t a day I haven’t spent dedicated to the craft. I love art, and older paintings are my favorite. They capture the energy of a time before cameras and film, a time otherwise restricted to written words.

  I like the splash of color that paintings cast across history.

  Charles purses his thin lips, but I can see the approval on his face. He needs someone like me here, and I’m certain that I’ll benefit the gallery. It’s a nice place from what I’ve seen, and I’m excited to start work.

  “Scan your card here, please,” Charles says as his hand rests against the door handle. “We must check that it works.”

  I lean down, pulling the card from my pocket again and pressing it lightly against the sensor. It beeps softly, and the lock on the door slides open with a thick clack.

  “Welcome to your new workspace,” Charles says, pushing open the door and ushering me in with his veiny hand.

  I step into a well-lit room, one without windows, and only one other door on the opposite wall. A long table, already scattered with ancient paintings, sits along the wall on the right side. Against the other wall are shelves full of supplies – brushes, microscopes, paper, and other items that I would need for work.

  “Mind the crates,” Charles says, stepping into the room after me. “There are more paintings here once you’re finished with the ones I’ve laid out.”

  “And people just donate all of these?” I ask, scanning the room full of extraordinary art.

  “Most of them I purchased at auctions, but some are from private sellers. Only the most recent shipment was donated. I want you to check whether they’re legitimate and price them in the range of a hundred thousand to a million. Anything that falls out of that range won’t be kept here, and anything under ten-thousand you’re welcome to take home. We don’t get many of those, however.”

  I nod along to Charles, but I barely hear the words that leave his mouth. I’m enthralled by the
prospect of how I’ll be spending my time from now on. This is all like a dream, so far from the past life I used to live.

  It’s all so much calmer.

  Charles slowly walks around the room, waving at the paintings and supplies as he continues explaining what I’ll be doing today. “Research them, identify them, and make a list on a sheet of paper with the names and prices. If you can’t find any online, please set them aside for later, and you can come back to them. No rush, but please don’t stay after ten. Nothing good happens after dark around here.”

  I nod. I know all about the nightlife, and it’s not something I wish to return to. There are too many people who would love to get their hands on a woman like me late at night. I’ve seen plenty and brushed shoulders with terrible fates in the past.

  I’m a different woman now, more knowledgeable and mature, and I won’t let myself fall victim to the late nights and morbid allure of what’s lurking out there.

  “The coffee machine is in the break room, which is through that door,” Charles says, waving a hand at the only other door in the room. “And there’s a bathroom connected to it as well, but you’d probably prefer the one that the guests use since it’s better maintained. Nobody uses the one in here unless they really need their privacy.”

  I step toward the long table to my right, running my fingers across the dusty wood. “I take it not many people occupy this room.”

  “Oh, not many at all,” he replies, walking back toward the door. “I was doing some work here for a while, but I’m not entirely qualified. I ended up underpricing a painting and losing a sizable chunk of money on it.”

  I suck air in through my teeth. “Hopefully, not too much.”

  “If you consider three million small,” he says with a guilty shrug.

  I feel a pang of sorrow for his lost profit before remembering that he’s the owner of the gallery. This man is rolling in cash like nobody else. He could be the king of Paris.

  “Well,” he says, turning to the door. “I’ll best be going before the guests start to arrive. There’s no password to the laptop on the desk, and it should already be connected to the Wi-Fi.”

  I smile. “Thank you, sir.”

  “If you need anything, you know my email. I tend to check it pretty often,” he says, holding up his phone before slipping out the door.

  I stand for a moment, listening to his footsteps briskly walk away. Here I am, and the entire art world is at my fingertips. I’m already excited about what I’m going to find in the pile of priceless paintings on the table.

  Chapter 8

  Pierre

  Shaye Dawn. That was her name.

  I click through a few profiles online to find a picture of her beautiful face staring back at me, smiling like she won the damn lottery. She’s awfully happy for a woman whose parents were mowed down by bullets, but then again, that was a while back, not long after I landed my ass in prison.

  I click on her profile and start scrolling through pictures. She’s grown into quite the attractive woman, with blonde hair flowing over her shoulders like silk. Her body is plump like a peach, ready to be picked and enjoyed by whoever is good enough for a woman like that.

  I’m sure she could have any man she wanted, but I don’t see any pictures of other men. There are a dozen or so images on her profile, but nothing past three years ago, and absolutely none with other people. Perhaps she’s an introvert, but I think it’s because she’s hiding from her past.

  Her criminal records come up clean, which is surprising.

  I return to her profile, finding a picture of her in a small black dress. It creeps up her thighs as though it longs to show her perfect flower to the world, but alas, it’s only a picture. It doesn’t move, nor will it give me any more pleasure than what my eyes can take in.

  I click through to the next one, going through them one by one and reading the short descriptions beside them. She keeps things short and sweet online, and there really isn’t much there, aside from her pictures and a few complaints about university classes.

  She hasn’t even posted pictures of herself in Paris yet, something every girl does when they arrive. I can only assume that she just got here and that her visit to the King-Smith Gallery is a new job. That’s the only explanation I can come up with, but it fits with how she was walking. She’s not comfortable here yet, but she’ll grow into the vibes that Paris provides.

  So, with no friends yet, nobody looking out for her, and a whole heaping pile of past events to hold against her, I have the key to unlocking the gallery and reclaiming the Red Door. I estimate two weeks, but it could even be sooner.

  I grit my teeth, the closest thing to a smile that I know, and shut my laptop. I’ve been sitting in my car with it for the past two hours, trying desperately to find Shaye online. It took me ages to remember her first name. I only heard it once or twice, and there aren’t any articles online mentioning her. They only ever talk about her father.

  I’m sure she lives close since she didn’t arrive in a car. Tonight, I’ll be confirming her identity in person, and tomorrow, I’ll be following her home.

  I light up a cigarette and switch from my laptop to the newspaper I bought this morning, scanning the headlines for anything interesting. I want to check out a few places here, get to know the local nightlife in the meantime. I can’t just sulk in my car all day.

  I flip to the back pages after reading some boring political headlines, thumbing through the ads for strip clubs and neon-lit bars around the city. There are plenty of them, but I can usually tell where the thugs and mafia folk hang out. I’d like to dip my toes in before I snatch my painting, maybe meet a few people I can hire later on.

  A knock on my window jolts me out of my thoughtful state. My head swivels to look who knocked, and my heart leaps from my chest as I realize who it is.

  A cop.

  A roll down my window, taking a drag of my cigarette and glaring at him. “Hey, what’s the deal?” I ask, one hand dangling down toward the handgun I have tucked beside the seat and the door.

  “No parking her past eleven, buddy,” the officer says loudly. “Move it, or you’ll get towed.”

  “I’m not parked,” I reply, nodding toward the lit dashboard. “The car is running.”

  “You’re in park, so you’re parked,” he replies. “No messing around. Get out, or get towed.”

  I roll my eyes, jamming my palm into the shifter and putting the car into drive. “Go fuck yourself,” I mutter, pulling out the second the cop steps back from my car.

  I shouldn’t take such an attitude because one of these uniformed thugs could decide to pull my records and log me as trouble. I don’t want anyone to be able to trace me back to the gallery once I pull off this heist. I’m uninterested in going back to jail.

  But I was born with an attitude so sharp that my own mother disowned me at the age of eleven, and I’ve belonged to the underworld ever since. I don’t mesh well with law-abiding citizens, and I certainly don’t mix with the people who put men like me in handcuffs.

  I pull around the gallery, scanning the parking lot in the back for new or rented cars. There aren’t any, which confirms my suspicion that Shaye came here on foot. I just hope she doesn’t go back with a taxi. It’ll be harder to follow her.

  But that’s a task for tomorrow night. On this particular evening, I’m going to have a ‘chance’ meeting with her when she leaves work, and that’s when the fun begins.

  That’s when I begin to attach the strings to her hands and feet, and in just a few days, she’ll be dancing to my ominous song, obeying my every whim and fancy. I can’t think of a greater prize than having Shaye do my dirty work.

  I do a U-turn in the parking lot and head to the city center. I’m going to treat myself to a nice big lunch, a fresh cut, and a shower at the local gym. I have a big night ahead of me.

  Chapter 9

  Shaye

  I brush a coating of dust off the poorly maintained painting sitting in front
of me on the table. With my brush, I clean up the frame of the painting, too, gazing at the scene it depicts. The style is familiar, but I can’t place the artist. I’m probably going to have to search it up online.

  I can tell most of these paintings are from amateur collectors. They tend to have more money than taste, and they never maintain their paintings properly. You can’t just hang up a million euro classic in your office and call it a day. The paint is too old to handle that kind of abuse.

  I don’t do restorations, but I assume Charles wants me to take note of whether they need them before they’re sold. I’ll ask him later, but for now, I’ll mark this down on the list as one of them.

  There’s no clock in the room, and I don’t tend to check my phone when I’m working. I never have notifications on it anyway. It’s not like I have anyone checking up on me. I’m an independent woman, whether I like it or not. I don’t have a single soul looking out for me.

  But even when I did, it felt like I didn’t. Even with the wealth that my family enjoyed, life wasn’t as easy as people would imagine it to be. Wealth doesn’t bring with it the guarantee of safety or love. Those are separate things.

  I study the painting, lightly running my gloved fingers over the scene of a father holding hands with his daughter. It’s a scene that’s escaped me in my own life, much like many other things have. I was never normal, nor will I ever be, as much as I try. I’ve come to accept it for the most part.

  The painting is legitimate, and so is my hunger. I ate lunch today, but I seem to have forgotten about dinner, and my stomach is growling like it’s long overdue.

  I pull my phone out of my back pocket and check the time.

  Ten?!

  Jesus, I was here all day, and I didn’t realize the time was moving so quickly. It always does when I’m immersed in a project, but we really hit warp speed with it today. I’m shocked.