The Art if Mafia

Abigail adjusted the electric fan on her desk, sighing as she looked out the open window on the second floor of the Siezend Contemporary Art Gallery. Prague was beautiful this time of the year, but the heat made it difficult for anyone to admire.

It was currently 40 degrees outside. It was hot enough for Abigail to feel like her skin was about to fall off.

The phone rang. It was Miss Greenfield. She wanted to confirm her appointment for today and wanted to let her know that she was almost at the gallery. Sighing again, Abigail rushed her iced tea and headed downstairs to welcome Miss Greenfield at the entrance of the art gallery.

She collected her bag, a sign of respect, and they headed back upstairs to her office and had their seats.

Abigail handed Miss Greenfield a file she had been working on for the past few weeks

"Here is the collection of artworks available that I think you would like," she said to her. She fiddled with her fingers nervously as she watched the woman go through the pages. She had put a lot of effort into it.

Miss Greenfield flipped to the pages, her eyes scanning the contents rapidly.

"Oh, wow, I love all of them, Abigail, you have outdone yourself once again." She said

Abigail felt relieved but unfulfilled. It was good that Miss Greenfield was satisfied, but she felt like she could do more. Do better.

If she were a curator, she would get to pick the painting the gallery would buy. Unlike now, where she only got to select what customers would buy from what was available in the gallery but try as she may, her boss didn't seem to trust her.

Miss Greenfield finished selecting the artworks she wanted soon after and after signing some papers, she left the office with a promise to invite Abigail for some tea later.

Abigail walked over to her desk, powering her laptop back on and pulling up the Alley-wall website to browse their paintings collections. She was searching for artworks from the Adelina Greens collection, a collection her boss adored.

She had only one goal, to locate an elusive gem from the Adelina Greens collection, a collection that her boss was fascinated with.

Flora Bell, the gallery's director and head curator simply adored the collection. And for that reason, the gallery currently has two artworks from the collection displayed on the walls of the gallery. There was even a third one in her home.

Abigail had tried and failed several times to acquire additional artwork from the collection. She believed, naively, that if she were able to secure another piece, maybe then her boss would finally entrust her with the task of curating artwork for the gallery. It was supposed to be a golden ticket to winning the attention and favour of her boss.

Additionally, with Mrs. Weller, the Assistant Curator, leaving soon, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her. If she played her cards right, she might just be able to take Mrs. Weller's position.

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On the opposite side of the city, Drake leaned against his car, savoring the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting from a paper cup he held in his hands. Nothign like freshly brewed coffe.

His eyes scanned the crowded sidewalk as he waited patiently for his friend, Ryan.

After what felt like forever, Ryan emerged from the nearby coffee shop, cradling a iced tea in his hands. He couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at Drake's choice of beverage, a hot cup of coffee on such a sweltering day. "I can't believe you're drinking coffee in this heat," he remarked with a bemused grin.

Drake took a long sip from his cup before responding, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I need the energy," he said cryptically, leaving Ryan intrigued.

Ryan's curiosity got the better of him as he leaned in, his voice laced with excitement. "The businessman? What did he say?"

Drake chuckled softly, his coffee cup hovering near his lips. "Well, he yelled a lot, but he eventually came around. For someone being blackmailed, he sure is ballsy."

Ryan's face lit up with satisfaction. "This is great news. Let's head back and tell the boss about it. The dirt we have on that businessman should be enough to keep him in line."

However, Drake's gaze drifted to the picturesque scene before them, momentarily distracted by the charm of the street they were on. "We don't have to leave right away," he suggested, his smile hesitant. "The view of this street is stunning. Unlike Ceovally, it's not constantly shrouded in darkness and the stench of damp tobacco. I like the fresh air here."

The street they stood on was very distinctly different from the environment they were used to. Filled with the enticing aroma of a nearby bakery and filled with the joyful chatter of Drake couldn't help but be captivated by the tranquillity of the place, his imagination wandering towards living in and owning a house in a neighbourhood like this.

Ryan, caught on to ther thoughts of his friend fast, having gown up together, he could read drake like a book. He shot him a stern look, his tone pedantic. "Drake, you're not supposed to admire other streets. Not when we have Ceovally. You do realize that you're next in line if the boss ever decides to pass down his legacy to someone? He treats you like a son."

Drake nodded, letting out a sign as he acknowledged his position within the organization. "I know," he said tiredly. "Let's get back then, this place is making me sick" The two friends turned their attention away, ready to return to the shadows of Ceovally Street, where their loyalty and dedication were demanded.

Ceovally Street had earned its notorious reputation as the epicentre of crime in the city. Here, the law enforcement officers were no better than marionettes, dancing to the tune of bribes, blackmail, and good ol threats. The entire street operated under the iron grip of a criminal organization, a Mafia syndicate that knew no bounds. The mastermind of this empire was a man whose name sent shivers down the spine of even the most hardened criminals-Joe Makling. He was the son of a notorious ex-convict drug dealer, a legacy that he had inherited and expanded upon.

For the unsuspecting citizens of Prague, Ceovally Street might have seemed like just another shadowy alley, barely worthy of a second glance. To the eyes of the law, Joe Maklin appeared as clean as a whistle, with no damning evidence to condemn him to prison. Belive me the police have searched and tried. But within the realms of the drug trade and smuggling, everyone recognized his true identity. Some whispered his name with reverence, others with dread, but all knew him as the undisputed Mafia boss.

On one fateful day, as the sun cast long shadows on the gritty pavement of Ceovally Street, Drake's sleek black Mercedes-Benz glided through its maze of secrets. His car, which Joe had frowned upon but allowed out of fondness, possessed an understated elegance. It was obviously expensive yet did not draw attention. It had a sleek profile and the leather-clad interior exuded quality, making it a vehicle that commanded attention without ever demanding it. Just like Drake himself.

Joe Maklin had taken Drake under his wing when the boy was a mere thirteen years old, moulding him into the person he had become, a reflective image of him. Drake's stature was naturally imposing, marked by a tall and broad frame. Years of rigorous daily exercises had sculpted his physique, adding layers of muscle to his gigantic and powerful build. With the support and backing of Joe Maklin, Drake had risen through the ranks to become one of the most feared and respected figures in the criminal underworld, second only to his mentor.

As Drake and Ryan emerged from the car, the Street seemed to hold its breath. The usually bustling haven of illicit activities was eerily silent, with only a handful of individuals daring to venture out onto the desolate sidewalk. Among them, a lone man stood puffing on a cigarette, his eyes briefly meeting Drake and Ryan's. In that fleeting moment, he offered a subtle nod-an unspoken sign of respect.

Drake and Ryan proceeded into the shadowy and desolated building they had parked in front of, a place that served as their clandestine headquarters. As they descended into the subterranean depths of the building, they passed through a concealed hallway, its entrance guarded by two burly bouncers. Drake acknowledged their presence with a casual wave, and the imposing figures readily cleared their path.

At the terminus of the dimly lit corridor, they confronted an imposing iron door, the gateway to their inner section of the building. Upon crossing the threshold, the room revealed itself in an unexpected lavishness and luxury. The walls were painted in a shiny silver tone, bathed in the glow of ample lighting. The decor was so lavish that for a moment, one could forget that they were buried deep underground. Priceless ornaments adorned the walls and graced elegantly arranged stands.

A lingering scent of tobacco hung in the air, lending a certain nostalgic air to the room. In one corner, a transparent box harboured a formidable stack of cash, a statement of the power wielded within these walls. The atmosphere was luxurious, yet cold, with a perpetual hum of air conditioning providing a veneer of comfort.

At the heart of it all, positioned opposite the entrance, stood a substantial wooden desk adorned with intricate gold designs. Seated behind it was a man of formidable presence, ensconced in a plush black leather chair. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of command. "My boys, how is it going?"

Ryan straightened up and said, "Boss, you look good today. We've got good news."

Drake chimed in, "The businessman called. He's ready to do whatever we ask."

Maklin grinned, looking pleased. "Great job, guys. I've got another task for you." He pulled a file from his desk. "I need you to get me this painting."

Abigail's eyes remained fixed on her phone, her nerves electrified with anticipation. She had been on the edge of her seat, waiting for a call from an old friend who had promised to bring her news about the elusive collection she had been fervently seeking. Finally, the phone danced to life with its ringtone after dragging on for hours.

A delighted squeal escaped Abigail's lips as she swiftly answered the call. "Hello? Brian?" There was a momentary hush as she hung onto every word Brian had to say. Her expression shifted from anxiety to elation, and she replied with a simple, "Okay," before ending the call.

Her heart raced like a thoroughbred as she processed the revelation-Brian had found it. The fourth piece of Adelina Greens' coveted collection was located, and it was slated to go under the hammer in a mere six hours. Without a second thought, Abigail snatched her coat and made her way to the small shop that held the key to her ardent quest.

The shop, though diminutive in size, gave off an air of meticulous maintenance. Its exterior boasted a bright off-white neon sign, "Marson and Sons," that beckoned curious souls to explore within. Abigail stepped inside, her eyes scanning the interior until they landed on an individual who appeared to serve as the shop's receptionist.

With a sense of urgency, she introduced herself. "Hello, my name is Abigail Miller. I have a keen interest in a specific artwork you have here-piece number four of Adelina Greens' collection. Is it possible for me to take a look at it?"

The man behind the reception desk nonchalantly swept his hands across the keyboard. "Ah, you must be here for the auction," he remarked, his voice carrying a hint of familiarity. "It's scheduled to begin in an hour, madam."

Abigail cast a quick glance at her wristwatch, confirming the time. "It's 2:05," she replied. "Yes, I'm well aware of the impending auction. I'm here for that very reason."

The man behind the reception desk gestured toward the seating area opposite them, offering a place for Abigail to bide her time. A grin played on Abigail's lips as she accepted the offer. "Excellent," she replied with enthusiasm.

As the minutes ticked away, the shop saw a modest influx of people. Most of them, however, came in with different inquiries or made unrelated purchases. With just twenty minutes left until the auction's commencement, the only individuals waiting for the coveted Adelina Greens' collection were Abigail, a young bespectacled man, and an elderly lady.

Abigail remained outwardly confident, her trust in her boss's determination to acquire the painting unshakable. She was willing to dip into her savings to secure it if need be. Her focus was unshakable until the jingling of the shop's doorbell heralded a new arrival.

A strikingly handsome and burly man entered the shop, briefly stealing Abigail's attention. He looked older. Their eyes met for a lingering moment before he turned away to address the receptionist. "Hello, my name is Drake," he announced, his voice resonating with a sense of purpose. "I'm here for the auction of Adelina Greens' collection piece."

In an instant, Abigail's heart plummeted, and the confidence that had sustained her began to waver. She couldn't help but feel a bit intimidated by him-not just due to his impressive stature, but also because his gold watch and expensive suit hinted at substantial financial means. Trouble loomed on the horizon, and she braced herself for the challenge, hoping fervently that Drake might not be as resolute as she was in acquiring the painting.

"Relax," She told herself. The painting was exquisite and it was normal for other people to be interested in it as well.

Drake, though more accustomed to jeans and baggy tops, had dressed impeccably for this occasion. His choice of attire was calculated, designed to intimidate rival bidders and discourage them from competing. He needed to secure that painting, for failing Joe Maklin was a prospect he loathed.

Taking a seat next to Abigail, Drake couldn't help but notice her initial curiosity had transformed into a scowl-her disdain for him apparent. A soft chuckle echoed within his thoughts as he decided to play along. "Are you here for the auction too?" he inquired, attempting to break the ice.

Suddenly feeling confident, Abigail retorted with a sly grin, "Sadly for you, I am."

Drake's eyes sparkled with amusement. "I hope you're not trying to intimidate me with that," he teased.

The cheeky twinkle in Abigail's eye remained. "And what if I am?" she challenged.

A challenge was all Drake needed to fuel his determination. His resolve hardened as he met her gaze head-on. "Now I'm even more determined to take that painting home," he declared with a glint of competitiveness in his eye. The stage was set, and the battle for the coveted artwork was about to unfold.

She couldn't help but snort dismissively. "You won't," Abigail retorted with a tone of absolute certainty.

Drake's laughter rumbled, a mix of amusement and playful challenge. He was having a lot of fun. "Then can I take you?" he quipped, his eyes dancing with mischief.

Abigail's face flushed a deep shade of crimson, a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment swirling within her. She stared at him, her irritation palpable.

Drake chuckled again, undeterred by her evident vexation. "How about your number then?" he suggested, his voice lighthearted.

"The only reason I'd give you my number is if you won and I wanted to make a deal with you," Abigail retorted firmly.

Drake saw an opportunity in her response. He reached for a piece of paper from the coffee table in front of them and extracted a pen from his coat. He began to jot down a figure-a sum of money so substantial that Abigail's eyes widened in disbelief. It seemed implausible, bordering on absurdity. Who could possess such wealth? Was he a drug dealer or something equally sinister?

Abigail was left speechless, her face contorting with disbelief as she stared at the exorbitant amount he had written. She felt a sense of humiliation and anger welling up within her.

Taking advantage of her silence, Drake continued with a sly grin. "I'll take your silence as a 'no,' then. So why don't you give me your number now? I have a feeling I won't be needing the painting very soon anyway. We can discuss a price." With a deep chuckle, he stood up and approached a nearby employee to inquire about the location of the restroom.

Abigail seethed with anger and frustration. What did he mean he wouldn't be needing the painting again? Who would purchase an expensive artwork only to dispose of it? Was he some kind of eccentric collector? She frantically scanned the room for him before remembering he had left to use the restroom. She had no intention of waiting. She needed to confront him and give him a piece of her mind.

In the bathroom, Drake stood before the mirror, his phone in hand. He dialled Ryan's number, speaking in hushed tones. "Hey, yeah, I'm at the auction. It's sparsely attended, so I don't think we'll have a problem... Yes, I know, I'll make sure the frame is intact." Just as he was about to continue, the creaking sound of the restroom's iron door opening startled him.

"I've got to go, Ryan. I'll update you later on," Drake hurriedly concluded the call, trying to act nonchalant as he turned to face the sink.

However, his attempt at composure was shattered by the sudden, high-pitched voice that rang out within the men's restroom. "You!" Abigail exclaimed. Her face was red with anger

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Are you aware this is the men's room?"

"Are you aware you're a jerk?" Abigail retorted with a fiery glare. "Just because you have money doesn't mean you get to say and do what every you want!."

Drake stood there, dumbfounded by the sudden confrontation. Abigail seemed utterly unfazed by her intrusion into the men's bathroom. He attempted to maintain a modicum of politeness. "Miss," he began, only to be promptly corrected by Abigail.

"Abigail," she clarified sharply.

He stared at her. "Miss Abigail. With all due respect, I don't care about you or your life."

Abigail continued her tirade, her voice rising with indignation. "You'd better start caring because, after this, you'll be begging for my number. I'll be the one leaving with my painting, not your obnoxious self!"

She picked up a stray roll of tissue from the edge of the sink close to her and flung it at him, narrowly missing Drake.

He leaned over to dodge, staring at the crazy woman in bewilderment. What on earth? he thought.

Without hesitation, she grabbed the mop from a nearby corner and dashed out of the restroom. In her wake, she wedged the mop handle between the door handle, effectively locking Drake inside.

"Hey, what are you doing? Let me out!" Drake's voice echoed in exasperation from within the restroom.

Abigail couldn't help but smile mischievously as she seized the opportunity for a spiteful comeback. "With all due respect, I don't care."

"You're going to regret this. I promise you" Drake growled. Abigail ignore him, she was going to do anything to get what she wanted, including playing unfairly if she had to.

Abigail hurried back to her seat at the auction. The room settled into a tense silence. Besides the man she had locked in the restroom and the elderly lady, there were a few workers present. I guess not a lot of people in this area liked art.

The auctioneer entered the room, accompanied by two assistants carrying the precious painting, her ticket to the life she wanted, shrouded in a veil. They placed it prominently at the front and center of the room.

The auction room buzzed with anticipation as the veil was dramatically removed, revealing Adelina Green's fourth masterpiece. Abigail stood there, mesmerized, her eyes fixed on the painting. It was a breathtaking landscape, depicting a lush forest beneath a vibrant blue sky, with shades of green that seemed to dance with life. What struck her most was the artist's use of an unconventional brushstroke style-a blend of tradition in a contemporary setting. Abigail's heart raced as she confirmed that this was indeed the genuine fourth piece she had been searching for.

As the auctioneer's voice filled the room, Abigail's gaze swept across the assembled bidders. To her right sat the bespectacled man, his countenance marked by uncertainty, perhaps contemplating his next move.

Her thoughts briefly turned to the handsome bidder she had locked in the bathroom, the memory of the number he had hastily scribbled on the paper still fresh in her mind. The sum he had written down had seemed almost preposterous, especially for a painting that wasn't the Mona Lisa.

The auctioneer's voice maintained a steady rhythm, leading the room through the sounds and cries of biddings. The elderly lady to Abigail's left raised her paddle, igniting the bidding war. Numbers flew back and forth, climbing rapidly and dizzyingly. Abigail could feel her heart pounding in her chest as the price slowly rose.

Beside her, the man hesitated, his gaze darting nervously between the auctioneer and Abigail. She seized the moment, subtly slipping a folded note onto his lap. His eyes widened as he unfolded it, revealing a figure that left him stunned. Abigail had employed the same tactic Drake had used on her, and it worked like a charm.

Panic washed over the man's face, and he faltered for a moment too long. The auctioneer's gavel resounded through the room, and a profound silence descended.

"Sold!" the auctioneer declared triumphantly, breaking the tension. All eyes turned to Abigail as she raised her paddle with a victorious smile. She had secured the painting, not through a deep wallet, but through clever strategy and nerves of steel.

Beside her, the defeated man slumped in his chair, accepting the bitter taste of defeat. Abigail's unwavering determination had won the day, and she couldn't help but feel a surge of exhilaration. The painting was now hers, and no obstacle had proven impossible.

Someone had finally heard Drakes shouts and had freed him from the restroom. He rushed over to the auction room, adjusting his tie and suit as he ran. He pushed open the door, scanning the room, searching for any sign of that crazy woman, Abigail.

Drake's sharp eyes locked onto Abigail just as she began making her way towards the exit, cradling the prized painting protectively in her arms. Ignoring the curious glances of people who were startled by his appearance.

His voice, oozing with confidence, carried across the room, cutting through the ambient murmurs and whispers. "Leaving so soon, Abigail?"

Startled, Abigail turned to him, "Oh, you've escaped," she quipped, her tone curt and guarded, her grip on the painting tightening involuntarily.

Drake leaned in slightly, his voice taking on a low and conspiratorial tone. "I told you I wanted that painting."

Abigail's brow furrowed as she regarded him with scepticism. "And I told you it's not for sale. Besides, I won it fair and square."

A sly grin played on Drake's lips as he sized her up. "Fair and square? You locked me in the bathroom! I'd say it was more clever and cunning. I must admit, Abigail, you've got quite the knack for outmanoeuvring."

She rolled her eyes, her irritation evident. "Yeah, sure."

Drake casually pulled out his phone, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Give me your number."

Abigail arched an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Why?"

Drake's playful response came without missing a beat. "Why else? Don't tell me you think I'm in love with you."

Abigail couldn't help but chuckle at his audacity, shaking her head in disbelief. "You're shameless, aren't you? No, you can't have my number. I'm not parting with this painting anytime soon."

With that, Abigail turned on her heel and walked resolutely toward the exit, leaving Drake standing amidst the intrigued onlookers in the room. As she disappeared through the doors, Drake couldn't help but admire her determination. Something that was bound to get her killed