EMMA

With an intent look, Professor Singh, the head of the Department of Education at the Museum of Modern Art, leaned closer. "Ms. Lawrence, a cornerstone of public engagement, is understanding how art affects people. In your view, what impact does art have on museum visitors?

I took a moment to think of an intricate answer. My gaze traveled to the opposite wall, past my interviewer. There were a few replicas of famous paintings hanging on the wall. There was Degas' The Ballet Class, Rembrandt's The Night Watch, Vermeer's Girl With a Pearl Earring, and then Raphael's Saint George and the Dragon. Each painting represented different techniques and eras and told its own story, a tapestry of human emotion and history.

But I couldn't look away from one painting: Saint George and the Dragon. The scene was a chaotic ballet of opposites. Saint George, in shining armor, looked determined as he skillfully wielded his lance. Below him, the dragon, a mythical creature of evil, writhed in fury. Its scales were a deep, iridescent green and its eyes burned with primal hatred.

Good versus evil. Such a simplistic narrative. I almost scoffed at it.

Yet, after everything that went down last week and knowing someone died because of a chain reaction I caused, I couldn't help but see myself in the dragon.

My life had been a series of cunning maneuvers, deception, and artful lies. Every con I pulled, every identity I adopted, and every life I manipulated added another scale to my metaphorical armor. I was the dragon, fierce, relentless, perhaps even remorseless, embodying the very essence of evil.

But who was my Saint George?

Naturally, my thoughts drifted to Jake. He possessed a fierce determination, much like the valiant knight depicted in the painting, to rid the world of the looming evil. In his eyes, I—or rather, the thief of the Met—was the monstrous entity that needed to be defeated, for I represented all that was corrupt and tainted. Jake saw me as the ultimate foe, the epitome of all that was wrong in the world.

And perhaps there was some truth to that. Maybe this was who I was. Chaos in its human form, leaving a wake of destruction behind me. Maybe there was nothing to be proud of in being the great Laverna, after all. Her legacy was all about lies and manipulation, bringing nothing but pain to those unfortunate enough to be her marks.

Just a few days ago, I got a call for an interview for my dream job—an associate educator for public engagement at the MoMA. I was over the moon at first, thinking that the life I had always wanted was finally within reach.

But then a little voice in my head started to doubt everything and told me that maybe I didn't deserve to be happy, that good things weren't meant for me, and that my past mistakes were too much to overcome. And even though the voice was so feeble, I could still hear it in my head, loud and clear.

Still, there were other voices in my head as well. Voices that told me that I was never the kind of person to just give up and let go of everything. I still had plenty of fight left in me. And as long as that fire was burning within me, I should never stop my pursuit of happiness, safety, and maybe even a sense of normalcy.

After all, the dragon in the painting was not yet dead. It was writhing, clawing, refusing to be subdued.

I finally looked down and met Professor Singh's gaze, forcing a smile. "Art, Professor, is like a time capsule. It doesn't just capture a moment in history, but also the emotions, anxieties, and triumphs of a specific era. Just look at that," I said, gesturing toward the Saint George replica.

"Raphael's Saint George and the Dragon. It's not just a knight slaying a beast, is it? It's a story painted on canvas. A story that reflects the very anxieties of the Renaissance itself."

I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a lower register. "Fear of the unknown lurked everywhere back then. New ideas clashed with old beliefs. The dragon? It could represent that—the untamed, the chaotic, the unexplainable. And St. George? He's the hero bringing order and faith into the mix."

As I sat there, my mind drifted back to how I had initially viewed the painting. Clearing my throat, I continued, "But that's the beauty of art, Professor. It doesn't have just one meaning. The dragon could symbolize pure evil for some, while for others, it might represent rebellion or a challenge to authority."

Leaning back in my chair, I finally felt like I had regained my confidence. "An educator's job isn't to tell people what to think, but to help them uncover the layers of meaning. To guide them in making their own connections and seeing how a painting from centuries ago can still resonate with their own experiences. That, Professor, is the magic of art."

Professor Singh chuckled, a warm sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Ms. Lawrence, your resume is impressive, I must say. But your passion for art is what truly shines through." He gestured toward the Saint George replica behind him. "And your analysis of Raphael's work? Right on point."

I smiled and let out a small sigh of relief.

"We here at MoMA," Professor Singh continued, his voice lowering slightly, "appreciate educators who can ignite curiosity rather than impose interpretations. You seem to have a talent for that."

He closed the file containing my resume and stood up, prompting me to do the same. Extending his hand for a handshake, I placed mine in his.

His grip was firm as he said, "You can expect to hear from us in a few days, Ms. Lawrence. I have a feeling it will be good news."

I thanked him, and as I exited the conference room, I couldn't resist glancing back at the painting. The dragon still appeared fierce, but there was a hint of something different in his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, the line between hero and villain wasn't so clear after all. And perhaps the fight for redemption was a far more complex story than just a simple slaying.

Leaving the museum and entering Midtown Manhattan, one thing was certain—I wasn't one to go down without a fight.

And now it was time for the dragon to show its teeth.

***

The bitter steam from the over-roasted coffee clawed at my nostrils, a far cry from the ethnically sourced, single-origin brew I usually favored. But today, aesthetics have taken a backseat to functionality.

I sat at a worn plastic table outside a dingy bodega, facing the massive Vitale Corporation building. Sipping the tepid coffee, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the towering structure.

Vitale had his fingers in many pies—real estate, shipping, logistics, and hospitality—from hotels to cruise lines. But of course, that was all just a front. What was really going on was a criminal empire engaged in an endless web of illicit activities—arms trading, illegal trafficking, counterfeiting, and even cold-blooded murder.

So, of course, his corporation was a symbol of shady dealings, a skyscraper that loomed over the city like a thief eyeing the crown jewels.

The building's mirrored exterior reflected the chaos of Manhattan, distorting the city's image into a twisted version of itself. I could almost see faces in the reflections—the faces of the countless people who had suffered at the hands of Vitale.

With a grimace, I tossed the half-empty coffee into a nearby trash can and pulled out a mirror from my purse. Gone was the professional attire I wore at the MoMA. Now, I was Clara Baldwin, a clueless heiress and soon-to-be bride, decked out in over-the-top wealth.

My face was caked in makeup, my hair hidden under a wig of long blonde curls. A bright pink designer dress, two sizes too small, clung to my body, and a ridiculously large diamond sparkled on my finger.

Each element of my disguise screamed "money," the kind that usually didn't come from honest work.

Straightening my shoulders, I took a deep breath and put on a fake smile. "Baldwin. Clara Baldwin," I practiced under my breath, the name dripping effortlessly with saccharine sweetness.

Feeling satisfied with my appearance, I closed the mirror and shoved it back into my purse before glancing at the fancy headquarters. It was time to get this show started.

I crossed the street in a few quick steps, well, as quick as my fancy heels allowed. After taking another deep breath, I finally pushed through the automatic glass doors and entered the air-conditioned lobby of the Vitale Corporation.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting a sparkly light on the marble floors. A bunch of people in suits buzzed around me, their hurried energy a stark contrast to my exaggeratedly slow sashay.

At the reception desk, a young woman greeted me. I said hello and told her my name.

"Oh, Ms. Baldwin," she said with a smile, "Mr. Davis is waiting for you. He's excited to help you find your dream house." She called for someone to escort me to the floor where Mr. Davis, the real estate agent I had set up a meeting with, was waiting for me.

I followed the person through the bustling lobby to the elevator, feeling a mix of excitement and anticipation.

As we reached the designated floor, the escort motioned for me to enter a spacious conference room. The room was adorned with large windows that flooded the space with natural light, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere.

Mr. Davis stood up and greeted me with a handshake and a smile. "Ms. Baldwin, it's great to finally meet you in person," he said, sounding professional and friendly at the same time.

I flashed a smile as I shook Mr. Davis's hand and as I prepared to sit across from him, I purposefully stumbled, making it seem like one of my heels had failed me. Mr. Davis, completely unsuspecting, quickly came to my aid, preventing me from falling. Little did he know, I seized the opportunity to swipe his staff elevator card from him.

"Oops, sorry about that, Mr. Davis," I said, pretending to be embarrassed. "Today is a big day, and I'm feeling a bit nervous."

Mr. Davis brushed off my apology and pulled out a chair for me. "No need to be nervous, Ms. Baldwin," he said. "Finding your dream home should be exciting, not stressful. Think of me as your fairy godfather, here to make your real estate dreams come true."

I cringed a little at his comment, but forced a chuckle. "Oh, please, call me Clara. And I knew from our first phone call that you'd be a huge help. Especially since my fiancé, Daniel, couldn't make it. He's always busy with his investments. But I wouldn't have it any other way. A successful fiancé is a very attractive fiancé, wouldn't you agree?"

Mr. Davis chuckled, a sound that resembled gravel crunching underfoot. "Absolutely, Clara! Absolutely. Now, let's find the perfect place for you. We have some amazing penthouses overlooking Central Park, a huge estate in Long Island with its own vineyard..."

As expected, the tour was a whirlwind of luxury. I oohed and ached with practiced excitement at all the right moments.

Mr. Davis was all smiles when the slideshow stopped on a fancy townhouse with brick walls that just so happened to be located on the renowned Cornelia Street in Manhattan's Greenwich Village.

"This one, Clara, was once rented by a very famous singer. Taylor Swift, I believe?"

I couldn't help but wink playfully. "All Too Well-maintained, don't you think?"

Mr. Davis looked confused for a moment before forcing a chuckle. "Indeed, indeed. A very... well-maintained property."

I mentally rolled my eyes and decided I'd had enough of the tour. Plus, my time was running out.

Putting on a pained expression, I muttered, "Oh dear." I clutched my stomach dramatically. "Please forgive me, Mr. Davis. But I have a touch of IBS. Would you mind if I excused myself to the restroom? These designer dresses, you know, leave little room for...digestive freedom."

Mr. Davis, ever the gentleman, paled slightly. "Oh, of course, Clara! No worries at all. The restrooms are down the hall on the left."

I gave a weak smile. "Thank you. I won't be long."

The bathroom break was, of course, nothing but a ruse. The real action was about to happen one floor above—in Sav Vitale's office.

After exiting the conference room, a quick glance confirmed that Mr. Davis was now glued to his phone and was still blissfully unaware of the empty keycard case nestled in his pocket.

So, I quickly walked in the opposite direction of the bathrooms and headed to the staff elevator, my mind racing with the blueprints I had spent the past few days memorizing.

Every step was a calculated risk. I lowered my head, and the blonde curls from the wig created a veil of anonymity. Yet, still, security cameras were everywhere, watching my every move. So, I navigated a mental map, staying in the camera's blind spots whenever possible.

After reaching the elevator, I wasted no time swiping Mr. Davis' card, and the stolen keycard's "open sesame" click filled me with a rush of adrenaline.

The doors of the staff elevator hissed open. With my heart racing against my chest, I quietly entered and pressed the button for the top floor.

Leaning against the wall, I anxiously waited as the elevator ascended. Strategically placed cameras with their lenses pointed outwards monitored my every move. I kept my head down, taking advantage of the long blonde wig that conveniently shielded most of my face.

As the top floor chimed, the doors smoothly slid open, revealing a quiet corridor. Stepping out of the elevator, I swiftly put on a pair of latex gloves, scanning left and right to ensure no guards were in sight.

I had been informed by my sources that Vitale's office would be unoccupied, as he was currently on a business trip overseas. Plus, I strategically chose this time, knowing that the guards would be changing shifts. I was also equipped with a small electronic device known as The Gremlin, which was invented by Eric a long time ago but had never been put to use before.

The Gremlin was a frequency jammer designed to disrupt specific frequencies commonly used in wireless security systems. With any luck, if I positioned it strategically near Vitale's office door, it might create an opening for me to pick the lock without triggering any alarms—or so I hoped.

Activating the device, I said a silent prayer, hoping that Eric's voodoo-like skills would come to my rescue, even though he was in a different part of the world.

Ensuring I remained out of the CCTV cameras' view, I cautiously made my way to Vitale's office. And thankfully, with no guards in sight, I reached my destination without incident.

Securing the Gremlin at the door of Vitale's office, I wasted no time getting down to business. Leveraging my honed lock-picking skills acquired through countless cons, I effortlessly bypassed the lock with skilled precision.

Then slowly, I pushed the door open, relieved when no alarms went off thanks to Eric's handiwork.

Stepping inside, I was immediately engulfed by an aura of opulent extravagance. The air was heavy with the scent of polished mahogany and expensive cologne, while floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city. The polished marble floor gleamed under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers that dripped with enough brilliance to rival a royal ballroom.

And I couldn't help but notice a huge oil painting on the distant wall. It portrayed a scene that seemed historically inaccurate, featuring a partially dressed woman kneeling before a nobleman adorned with jewels. I rolled my eyes. It was obvious that Vitale's attempt to seem culturally sophisticated had failed miserably, making him look tacky and over-the-top instead.

Next, my gaze landed on the huge mahogany desk in the center of the room. It was covered in gold-plated trinkets that looked more like medieval torture devices than office supplies.

Everything in the office was a perfect testament to Sav Vitale's ill-gotten wealth, a display of his preference for flash over substance and his misguided belief that money could buy taste, if not class.

I knew I didn't have any more time to waste thinking about Vitale's lack of style, for I was desperate to find something, anything, that could be used against him.

I began searching every corner of the office and rummaging through his desk and drawers, but I couldn't find anything incriminating.

Frustration threatened to set in, but then I remembered that Vitale was no amateur. He wouldn't leave anything of value lying around. There had to be a safe somewhere, but where?

My eyes were immediately drawn to the massive painting. Without hesitation, I rushed toward it. Despite its weight, I managed to remove it from the wall, and Voila. Vitale's safe was, indeed, hidden behind it.

My heart sank. This safe was no ordinary one. It was constructed from reinforced titanium and happened to be one of the most advanced models currently available on the market. Attempting to crack it with the tools I had on hand in such a short amount of time was simply out of the question.

Also, glancing at my watch only confirmed my worst fear—time was running out. The guards could return at any moment.

Frustration boiled inside me as I cursed my reckless and impulsive decision to come here unprepared. But there was no time to cry over spilled milk.

With no time to waste, I quickly retrieved the Gremlin and stuffed it back into my purse. Just as I was about to make my escape, a muffled sound from the hallway made my blood run cold—the guards were approaching.

Without hesitation, I sprinted toward the emergency stairs, the descent a blur of pounding feet and frantic prayers. By the time I reached the ground floor, I was breathless and disheveled.

I took a moment to compose myself before returning to the conference room where Mr. Davis was still waiting for me.

"Ms. Baldwin, are you feeling alright? You appear to be a bit... under the weather."

I forced a smile onto my face and replied, "Oh, Mr. Davis, I apologize for this inconvenience. This...IBS...it's a real beast sometimes. I believe some fresh air would do me good. Let's reschedule for another day when I am feeling better. My fiancé will be with me then, and we can finalize everything together."

The agent's face relaxed with relief. "Of course, Clara! Take all the time you need. Just let me know when you're ready to continue."

I managed another smile, though frustration still churned inside me. Just before I left, I smoothly returned his card to him while saying goodbye and shaking his hand.

Outside the headquarters, I collapsed onto a bench, my head swirling as the cacophony of both my thoughts and the city's noise filled my ears like a dull roar.

Defeat lingered in my mouth like ash. With a sigh, I made a decision to set aside my pride.

Taking out my phone, I sent a text to Eric.

"I need your help."