The safe my father was after three years ago is hidden behind a painting in the second-floor study. At the time, I didn’t think the hiding spot was very original, but now I just found it convenient.
The main hallway curved past the balcony and led to the west wing. Off to the right was another short hallway that led to the study. The doors were locked when I twisted the doorknob, so I fished the torque and tension wrench from my back pocket and knelt. After much poking and prodding, I felt the pins give.
My watch went off again and the end of another seven minutes broke through my victory.
Shit.
The doors to the study matched the front doors but weren’t as heavy. When I walked through them, I was half expecting the ghost of Arturo Knight to be waiting on the other side, but all I found was a massive desk in front of oversized windows. Parallel to the desk was a brown leather couch that spanned the length of the desk. On the left wall, a bookcase was built into the length of the wall, and on the opposite wall were paintings decorating the space.
Thinking I’d miscounted, I counted the frames again and found six, perfectly spaced paintings. Daddy had said there would only be five. The paintings were large and probably weighed at least half my body weight.
I slumped against the door.
My father had been right.
I had no skill to move on a job like this without a plan. Naively, I’d given myself ten minutes to get in and out. Thirty minutes had gone by, and I was no closer to getting in that safe than I was when I started.
I straightened from the door and moved until I was standing in front of the first painting of a man I didn’t recognize. The hook holding up the painting was too high for me to reach. I moved to the second and then the third and so on until I came to the fifth painting. The familiar features of a man I hadn’t seen in years were captured with skillful accuracy.
Arturo Knight.
A chill passed through me at the same time the watch beeped again. I reset it and frantically searched for leverage and found a single seat chair decorating the corner to my right. The elegantly carved legs and back and a decorated cushion of the chair weren’t meant to be besmirched as a ladder, but it would have to do. I dragged it to the painting of my dead godfather and planted my dirty, torn chucks on the cushion. Stretching to the tips of my toes, my fingers were able to reach the top of the frame where the hook sunk in.
Lifting the heavy painting was harder than I originally judged but with a grunt and sheer will power, I removed it.
Holding it, however, while I stared at the empty space was impossible. The painting slipped from my fingers and crashed to the wooden floor.
There was no safe.
Or at least there had been.
I ran shaking fingers over the obvious patch in the wall in disbelief. It had been my only chance. Leaning forward, I touched my sweaty forehead to the lump in the wall and rolled my head back and forth.
Three years…
I waited too long.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d stayed in that position until my watch beeped again. Slowly, I lifted my head from the wall and stepped down.
I should have left. Instead, I reset my watch and then stared down at the painting of my godfather. The piece didn’t seem to suffer any trauma from the fall.
Art stared back at me with an expression carved in stone. He might have been a ruthless criminal, but he had always been good to me. After five generations of bandits, it ended with him.
“It’s all over, godfather.”
His dark brown eyes stared back at me almost as if he were challenging my claim. I suppose a man like him would defy anything that wasn’t to his liking.
Just like your son.
His son .
Arturo Knight was as powerful as he was dangerous but his son…
My legs trembled.
…his son was a dark replica of the man my father murdered.
Their legacy wouldn’t have died with Arturo.
Angel would never let it.
“Oh, God.” My gaze was pulled away from the painting until it found another. The last one in succession.
The sixth .
The floodgates opened.
So many memories I couldn’t keep suppressed any longer drowned me. The same man trapped in the painting stood between those gates with his arms outstretched and his strong hands holding them open.
Keeping them open.
My body jerked, and I found myself clutching the back of the chair and dragging it over.
It had to be.
I launched myself on top of the chair, and with strength I hadn’t possessed before, I lifted the painting. Staring back at me was black metal about a foot wide and high. A keypad was centered to the right of the handle.
After setting the painting down and recalling the combination from memory, I said a quick prayer for it to work. I reopened my eyes and positioned my index to key in the first number.
That’s when I heard it.
The faraway sound of a door closing.
I was no longer in this house alone. Art may have been dead, but Angel was not, and the reality of how much trouble I was in slammed against my chest from the inside.
It was too late to pretend I wasn’t here.