EMMA

"Come on, Emma. You know you can't resist a good art heist," said Eric, a mischievous grin on his face. "Plus, you've always loved Van Gogh."

Well, he wasn't wrong. But what he was asking me to do went against the plan I had set my mind to after a very long debate with the angel and devil on my shoulders.

I sighed, glancing to my left, where the little devil was practically lounging, smirking like he knew he was about to win.

After all, I did love Van Gogh...

Everything started on a moonless night in a high-security museum in Europe when two world-class thieves targeted the same pigeon-blood ruby at the same time. And instead of fighting over it, they decided to share it. And voilà, it was love at first sight—or first heist, for that matter. And from then on, they became the best partners in crime—literally and figuratively.

That was how my parents met. My dad proposed to my mother on a trip to the French Riviera with an 18th-century diamond ring that once belonged to Marie Antoinette.

Their crime spree continued until my mother found out she was pregnant with Eric. They tried to settle down. Tried being the operative word.

My parents were never meant for nine-to-five lives, and eventually, they returned to their old ways.

Eric and I grew up in a world of forged passports, go bags, and whispered plans at the kitchen table. Our parents tried to shield us from the life, give us as much normalcy as they could. But with two very sneaky kids poking their noses into everything, they realized it was impossible.

And besides, some things just run in our blood...

Eric and I were often mistaken for twins. We were close in age and looked so much alike, with our deep blue eyes and dark brown hair.

But most people never came close enough to find out how deep our differences ran.

Eric's eyes carried the warm sunlit currents of our mother's ocean blues, while mine were sharp, electric, and outlined with a black tint. My father used to say they looked like a wolf's—beautiful and dangerous.

Even our personalities were complete opposites. Eric was always a methodical, a planner who could hack into secure systems before he could learn to tie his own shoes.

Meanwhile, I thrived in chaos, always thinking on my feet, making decisions in the heat of the moment, and sweet-talking my way out of tight corners.

But together? We were a force.

When we were kids, we hacked into the database of a massive toy store and redirected shipments to foster homes across the country just before Christmas.

Sometimes, I wondered if we were on Santa's nice list that year... or his most wanted one.

Eric was also my best friend. Growing up homeschooled and always on the move, he was the only constant in my life. And so disappointing him was never something I wanted to do...

"Why even think about it?" Eric asked, a little crease forming between his eyebrows. "You know, Mom and Dad tried, and it never worked out for them. That life isn't for us, Emma."

I was beginning to regret telling him about my plan to quit the life of crime—or at least try. "Don't you feel tired, Eric? This life is a marathon, not a sprint, and you know it." I met his gaze. "One mistake, and it's game over."

He arched an eyebrow. "When did you start talking like an old lady?"

"Eric..."

"Emma. Let's be frank here for a minute. I know you better than anyone. You've always been a daredevil. You live for the thrill, for pulling off the impossible." He crossed his arms, an all-knowing look in his blue eyes. "Do you really think you can give that up and live as a muzzled wolf that tries to play nice with golden retrievers and German shepherds?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it, finding no arguments to fore back. The only thing I hated about Eric was how much he could read me, like an open book.

And he was right. I lived for the challenge, the adrenaline, the game, and running the perfect con. It was never about money; it was about winning.

But I was also tired. Tired of living a life full of lies and deception. Tired of constantly looking over my shoulder. Tired of never slowing down long enough to share my life with anyone. And, of course, tired of wondering if every job would be the one that landed me behind bars.

People liked to say that it was never too late to change. I hoped they were right. Yet, deep down, I knew that just like most things in life, it was easier said than done.

I also knew very well that our life was a rush, an addiction. Some people in our circle liked to think they would stop and settle down eventually after pulling the score of a lifetime. But there was always a bigger score, a wealthier mark. It was a cycle that had no end.

But, just like Eric said, I lived for pulling off the impossible, and I was determined to break that cycle.

Yet again, I really did love Van Gogh...

"Fine," I finally said, having made up my mind. "We'll do this. One last job. After that, I'll try... I'll see if I can live a normal life."

Eric grinned. "Deal."

I couldn't help but chuckle at his enthusiasm. "I haven't seen you this excited in a while."

"That's because it's going to be brilliant. I've been sitting on this plan for a few months, perfecting every detail."

I leaned forward and rested my chin on my palm. "Spill the beans."

He reached for his laptop and opened the lid. The screen turned on, revealing a video of an art gallery.

I watched for a bit, and then my eyes widened when I realized it wasn't just a video—it was a live feed.

"Is that what I think it is?"

He nodded, a proud smirk on his face.

I felt a tentative smile playing on my lips as everything started to sink in. "You hacked into the Met's security system?"

His from-ear-to-ear grin and high chin gave me all the confirmation I needed.

"Is that the modern and contemporary art wing?"

"Yes," he answered while typing something on the laptop.

The screen changed, showing a smaller gallery with many empty frames lined on its walls.

"This will be our target location," Eric said.

I raised an eyebrow. "This as in what?"

"This is gallery 999. A few days before New Year's Eve, a private VIP exhibition of some of Van Gogh's rare paintings will take place in this very room.

"Of course, nobody is supposed to know about this because only a few of New York's jet-set society are invited. But it's the managers' fault for using emails to discuss such top-secret events."

"Wow," was all I managed to say.

"Wow, indeed." He chuckled. "Anyway, no journalists or media coverage will be permitted at the event. Also, the museum will close its door to visitors that day because, apparently, they will be doing a security check and upgrade." He used his fingers to quote the last part.

I whistled. "So it's basically going to be an under-the-table Met Gala?"

"Exactly. But they only invited the city's biggest whales instead of celebrities."

"You've really done your homework."

"This is not all of it," he said with a lopsided smile. "I have access to the list of the handpicked staff that will be allowed on the ground that day, and I can easily add one of your aliases to it."

I smiled. Eric had planned everything to a T. "You definitely piqued my interest. But the million-dollar question remains, what's our target?"

He typed something else on his laptop. I waited impatiently until the Corridor in the Asylum painting by Van Gogh popped up on the screen.

I studied the colorful oil painting in awe. I knew it had a morbid history. Van Gogh painted it when he was being treated in an asylum for depression and other mental disorders, a few months near the end of his life. He then sent this unusually large and colorful painting to his brother, Theo, to give him a picture of his surroundings.

If I had to name one thing that fascinated me the most—well, other than pulling off insane heists and cons—my answer would easily be art.

When we were kids, Eric dedicated his time to solving mathematical equations and learning how to code, while I would immerse myself in art books, exploring various techniques, and refining my brushstrokes.

"Do you want to guess how much this painting is worth on the black market?"

Eric's question brought me back to reality. I thought about it, trying to estimate the painting's worth.

One thing I knew for sure was that the painting wasn't one of Vincent's most famous works. In fact, only a true art connoisseur would know its great value and the hidden melancholic meaning behind its colorful palette.

"Couple million?" I shrugged.

"Four. Million. Dollars."

Looking at the painting again, I felt a buzz of electricity running through my body and brain. It was the calling card of a new adventure, and I had a feeling that my newly found prick of conscience wasn't yet strong enough to stand against it.

Eric's phone buzzed, pulling us both out of the moment. Eric glanced at the screen.

"Okay, that's my cue," he said, rising from his seat. He then turned his head and looked at me with a softer look. "No one's forcing you into this, Emma. It's your choice and I'll support you, whatever you decide."

His words brought a smile to my face. Eric used to get bothered when someone mistook us for being twins—because he always loved to brag about being older. But moments like these made me grateful for our special bond.

Eric was the hand I knew would always pick me up if life pushed me to the ground.

"Where are you going?" I asked, the smile still playing on my lips.

"A date."

I rolled my eyes. "Eric, you don't do dates. You only do one-night stands, so at least be honest with the poor woman and don't give her false hope."

"We'll see about that," he said, smiling mischievously. "Nate is already late for his date." He winked at me.

I sighed. As much as I loved my brother, he had his share of flaws.

After Eric left, I wandered to the wine rack and started looking around, searching for a good bottle to be my companion for the night.

I grinned when I found a bottle of Château Margaux. Eric would probably kill me for opening it without him, but that was future Emma's problem.

Glass in hand, I stepped onto the porch, smiling as I breathed in the refreshingly crisp air and caught a whiff of the scent of fall swirling in the breeze.

The Manhattan skyline stretched before me, a sea of glittering lights against a sky turning shades of orange and gold.

New York was where I was born. And it was the only place in the world that felt like home. Besides, there was something magical about New York City.

It was chaotic, relentless, and beautiful. A city that made perfect sense and no sense at all at the same time.

Eric and I had recently decided to settle in New York for a while. After all, it was always the perfect place for everything—criminal plans included.

We rented a penthouse in the heart of the Upper West Side because I wanted to enjoy the million-dollar-worth view of Manhattan's skyline every day—and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Most people came to New York to reinvent themselves. Others came to disappear into the concrete jungle, blending into the relentless stream of purpose until they became almost invisible. I considered myself a little bit of both.

Taking a sip of my wine, I glanced at the cluster of people hurrying in the streets. From this height, they looked to me like scattered dots. I couldn't see their faces or hear their voices, but I could imagine them. Lovers arguing over dinner plans, tourists craning their necks to take in the skyline, someone clutching a briefcase as if it held the secrets to the universe.

And I couldn't help but wonder about their motives and purposes.

How many of them were straight arrows, living life by the book? And how many didn't even acknowledge the presence of the book? Those who went through life on their own terms, not giving a damn about who they stepped on while on their way to their goals.

But things weren’t that simple, were they?

Real life doesn’t have terms such as villains and heroes, for we all are somewhere in between. In part, we are all soldiers with inner demons to fight. Some manage to conquer them, while others spend their whole lives trying…

Thinking about that, I couldn't help but wonder if I was armored enough to fight my own war and if life would be generous enough to consider me worthy of a second chance.

One last heist. Then, I would find out...

I tried taking another sip of my glass but was disappointed to find that I had emptied it. Sighing, I went back into the apartment to pour myself another one, hoping it would help ease the heavy feeling in my chest.

A feeling that kept reminding me of another truth about life. It was rarely predictable and was never supposed to be easy.