Chapter Text
June 11th
They met at some luxurious classy restaurant. Andres was there seducing Vitoria Pereira — the owner of an independent art gallery, which recently opened an exhibition of one of the thirty-four paintings attributed to Vermeer with a value estimated at 250 million dollars. Promising.
Tatiana was there — a professional pianist, making his evening livelier with skillful accords, and while on short breaks at the bar stealing watches and rings from unsuspecting patrons. Andres noticed her three days ago when he first spent his lonely evening in El Picaporte. She was bold and defiant, the fire in her eyes shining as brightly as her hair. He finally decided to present her the offer today. After three days of silent observations, he knew that Tatiana — he heard her introduce herself to a kind old man sitting next to him — was exactly who he needed for this heist. He caught her right when she was exiting through the main doors, hand on her elbow, bringing her closer for the private talk.
They were alone on the street, it was drizzling and the hat Andres was wearing was not a big help.
“Well hello, young lady”. He said, holding her elbow firmly.
“I will scream and the porter right outside those doors will be the last thing you see before he knocks you out”.
“Hush, hush, I,” he gestures to emphasize his point. “have a business proposal”.
“Huh?” her expression changes immediately and she no longer looks as hostile as she did before. “What do you mean by that?”
With a smirk never leaving his face he loosens his hold on her elbow and dives for the front pocket of her jacket. “I just find fashion amusing nowadays. Why wear something with pockets as big as these? It makes it easier for me to steal everything back”, he retreats his hand, with two pairs of watches in his knuckles, white gold and diamonds shining in the dim light of street lamps. “Those poor old gentlemen”.
“I will scream in approximately five seconds. One”.
Andres finds it amusing. The nerve of this lady!
“Two”.
“Three”.
He chuckles. “Okay-okay, spitfire. I need a partner in crime. You ever heard of the Pereira’s independent art gallery?”
“The one in Chamberí?”
“A-ha”
“They are extremely mediocre. Some schlimazel artists from the nineties praising themselves as if they are gods when in reality their works aren’t even worth a penny”.
“Don’t be so harsh. They have a very interesting exhibition until the end of June. There will be Vermeer”.
“Don’t tell me you want to steal Vermeer. ‘The Concert’ right? It will be incredibly hard”, she muses.
“And profitable. It is worth more than 200 million dollars. Are you in?” This is the moment of truth — he either found a very promising, skillful partner with quick hands, wit and charm, or his biggest regret this week.
“So, you want to get into the gallery, somehow get rid of 10 to 15 guards, steal Vermeer without tripping the alarm, and escape? Do you know that the police will be on their way the second we step in the gallery? Also, what do we do if we get out? Go home as if nothing happened?”
“I have about three backup plans in case anything goes wrong”.
“And what? I am just supposed to believe you? Some random man I met five minutes ago? And trust you to not leave me behind in the gallery?”
“Well, you see I am also trusting you to not hand me over to the police. I can’t do this alone and the reward will be worth it. 50/50, how does this sound?”
“I am in”. She nods, closely following his facial expressions, and then pushes the hem of his jacket open to sneak a business card in his inner pocket.
She was his first spark.
***
His second spark was Martin, who lived in the flat just opposite of his.
They met in the main hallway of the apartment building, Andres colliding with Martin who was collecting his mail from the metallic post boxes engraved with the numbers of the flats. He seemed to be distressed, frantic even, gripping the white austere envelope — with a military seal and words in an unknown language — fingertips turning yellowish-white because of the force of his hold.
They didn’t talk that day — it was 9th of June — Andres was hurrying to visit his brother and his family in Toledo for their little anniversary. Sergio was a lucky bastard who managed to, once again, forge his documents to buy one of the mansions and was now living there with his disgustingly sweet little family consisting of him, his fiancé Raquel — an ex-police officer — her baby daughter Paula and her mother. He hated that woman — she was perceptive, quick-witted, and always seemed to know what exactly to say to get on Andres’ nerves.
He spent an hour driving to their new house, stopping on some dingy gas station in the middle of nowhere to buy the worst shot of espresso he ever drank. The worker inside the little shop skeptically stared at him — dressed in one of his red velvet jackets, cream shirt, and a hat — then looked over at his Pegaso parked outside and stiffened, murmuring something about Italian mafia being a pain in the ass.
When Andres arrived at the mansion he was surprised. It looked absolutely stunning and regal. The grounds surrounding it were perfect for hunting or for keeping a small vineyard. Which of course Sergio was doing with his stupid apple cider project. No matter how genius he was with all his heist ideas, sometimes his little brother was a bit too dumb.
He drives through the toreutic steel gates and parks close to the house. Presses his hand on the wheel to beep and announce his presence. The door of the house opens and Raquel steps outside, holding a baby Paula in her hands. He greets her while bending over the side of the car to get the presents out. They enter the house and he leaves the boxes on the small coffee table in the living room, Raquel asking him to help her carry the food to the outside table.
When they are outside, he sees Sergio talking with Raquel’s mother while sipping on his god-awful cider. The smile on his face becomes even wider when they finally hug after not seeing each other for months.
“Hermanito”, he proclaims, tightly clutching his little brother in his arms. “I missed you”.
“I missed you too, Andres. How are things with Violet?”
Andres pauses, teeth clenching. “We parted. She turned out to be good for nothing. How is your little family doing?”
“We are well”. Sergio smiles, taking Paula from Raquel’s hands. “Paula, did you miss your Tio Andres?”
The child is not particularly interested in Sergio’s question, choosing instead to drool on her fingers. Raquel chuckles and invites them to the table.
They laugh, eat, and chat. Not for long, however.
He excuses himself from the table in the middle of the second dish and slips into the bathroom.
His hands started shaking so much that he started splashing the soup everywhere with his spoon. And all those pitying looks from everyone… So he went inside, grabbed his meds, and disappeared into the bathroom. He splashed some water on his face, hands clutching the ceramic sides of the sink, looking at himself in the mirror.
The syringe pierces his skin easily, the acidic burn constant and familiar. He also swallows his pills — a new medicine that he got prescribed a few days ago. The pills go down easily, water from the sink — tastes a bit metallic — soothes his throat.
Andres returns to the table, and they finish lunch never stopping talking, Sergio trying to fill the uncomfortable silence with his ramblings about characteristics of a perfect apple cider.
Much later, when they are sitting by the fire in the living room, slowly sipping red wine from crystal glasses, Andres drops his first bomb.
“I’m planning on a new heist. Pereira gallery in Chamberí, 15th of June — last day of the Vermeer exhibition. 250 million dollars for ‘The Concert’”
“What? You are not going to share anything else?” Sergio looks stunned, opening and closing his mouth.
“Hermanito, I am sure you are going to hear everything from the news. Besides I am not going to be alone, I found someone”.