Chapter Text
In the sea of constant chatter and the mechanical sounds of subway lines, New York City never truly goes silent. Even past midnight, when the majority of people littering the streets are only there because they have to be, there is a steady thrum of noise that settles around them through the thick brick walls lining the building.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" A concerned voice calls out in the middle of an almost empty warehouse. The large open space is divided into workspaces in the middle of the room. Several desks are filled to the brim with materials, and there is a screen on one wall displaying their targets at a high enough magnification to see the almost non-existent imperfections in each gemstone and metal setting. "If you ask me, it seems like an unnecessary risk."
"It's a good thing that I didn't ask then," another man replies without looking up from his task. His dark eyes are completely focused, hands steady as they manipulate each counterfeit gem into position. Forgeries aren't necessarily his forte, but he has enough proficiency to get by in most things. The end product wouldn't fool a professional, but that's fine. His work won't need to pass any harsh inspections. "I'm sure. It's the only way."
His answering nod is dubious at best. "If you say so."
"I do say so." He punctuates the sharp response by throwing a small metal tool in his direction. "Now make yourself useful. We're running out of time. She never does recon more than three days before she plans to move."
As a dedicated right-hand man since he was only a boy, he wisely stays silent at the opening, and gets to work as instructed. His attention shifts, but not fast enough to miss the next words.
"It's tomorrow night or nothing," he continues under his breath, clearly not looking for a response. "I've been waiting a long time for this. If things don't go as planned, she'll go to ground."
She needs to feel intrigued—in addition to her anger, because he is no fool to think that won't be her initial reaction—but not threatened.
After entering the museum through the main door and blending into a crowd of tourists, Violet Sorrengail allows her eyes to pass over the posters for new and upcoming exhibits.
Once past the metal detectors, she pulls a hand from her pocket and reaches up towards her ear, as if to brush her hair back. Without a word, she adjusts her sunglasses, assesses her surroundings for any threats, and checks the time on her watch.
After subtly clearing her throat, she continues her casual stroll through the impressive building, eyes lingering on some of the famous works on display.
"Everything is in place, boss," a quiet voice soon reports in her ear. It's a special state of the art communication device, easily disguised from most scanning equipment and undetectable to the naked eye once it's in place.
Don't call me boss, she thinks with a begrudging wave of affection. Instead, she just softly clears her throat again and steps out from one of the camera blind spots. Not that there were any noticeable blind spots before Ridoc got his hands on their security system and spent weeks slowly manipulating the angles—for all the dick jokes he sends over their secure connection, he's excellent at what he does. They would be lost without Ridoc's eyes in the sky, especially for these sorts of jobs.
Daylight robberies might deter some thieves, but Violet's crew loves a challenge.
Through a dedicated fence, careful laundering, and some lucrative investments as a public cover, Violet already has more money than she knows what to do with, and she makes sure that her people are similarly covered.
But all career criminals, if they're good enough, reach a point where it's not about value or survival. It's about creating a legacy—something untouchable, immortal even.
And it's worth mentioning that Violet and her crew are very, very good.
Without any hesitation, Violet walks through the museum and joins the slow-moving crowd, the heels of her designer boots clicking on the marble floor. Ignoring the steady flow of foreign languages floating around her from the tourists, her eyes travel casually around the exhibition. She marks the security guards and her escape route immediately.
"Green and Red are in position. Cross the main exhibit room. The employee entrance will be down your left."
Humming as if in appreciation for the impressionist piece in front of her—it's fine, really, but not one of her favorites—Violet shifts her attention down the hallway. Their target is in one of the deeper rooms, but only fools rush in without assessing the conditions accordingly. After passing through the crowd without anyone giving her a second look, Violet slips into another one of those delightful new blind spots, courtesy of Ridoc.
A prickling sensation in the back of her scalp sends all of her senses into overdrive. People don't get to where she is without knowing what it feels like to be watched. Right now, she is being hunted.
Violet takes out her cell phone from her pocket—an untraceable burner—and holds it in front of her casually to explain her sudden halt in movement. All the while, hidden by the dark shades of her sunglasses, her eyes carefully scan the surroundings over the line of her screen.
There. A tall man dressed in black, eyes locked on her from across the crowded museum floor.
A man looking at Violet in public isn't cause for concern on its own. That is not a matter of arrogance. It's called existing as a woman in public, especially in a major city. While she's carefully cultivated her persona to scream unapproachable on these types of jobs, there will always be a man stupid enough to try his luck.
She lowers her sunglasses up slightly, enough to clear her vision, but not enough to expose her full face to anyone. Her analytical mind catalogues all the relevant details, because she is a goddamn professional. Over six feet tall, brown skin, medium length black hair that stops a few inches above his shoulders, dark eyes, lean muscle, carries himself like someone with extensive training. She even loosely identifies the brand of his black, leather jacket. Expensive taste.
But Violet's analytical mind isn't the one in the driver's seat.
The man is fucking exquisite. Face chiseled yet boyish in all the most endearing ways, jawline sharp enough to cut through security glass, and posture bleeding well-earned confidence. He's tall, dark, and handsome on steroids. If Violet synthesized her exact type in a goddamn lab… she wouldn't even spare them a glance when this man is in the room.
He swaggers diagonally towards her, in the direction of the exit. Her training kicks in, and Violet stays perfectly still upon his approach, crossing her arms to be in reach of her hidden weapons. As he crosses near her, he shoots her an outrageous wink that pulls a small, almost indiscernible sound of protest from her.
With another smug expression, he exits the large room, and Violet is finally able to exhale.
"Boss?" Ridoc asks in her ear. "You good? Your heart-rate just shot up."
Violet's cheeks burn at Ridoc's unknowing indictment. Her insistence that the crew wears bio-monitoring bracelets is coming back to bite her in the ass. She coughs once lightly for yes, which has the benefit of clearing her throat and bringing her back to the present.
"In that case, thirty seconds until the power goes out. Then the clock starts."
She nods to herself once, adjusting her sunglasses once more and pushing that strange man to the back of her mind. There was something smug about his expression that set her nerves on edge, and she feels no reservations about using her considerable resources to find out his identity.
The lights go off on schedule, and Violet silently slips towards the employee-only corridor amidst the sounds of people panicking. Later.
Right now, she has work to do, and she can't allow herself to become distracted.
"Go," Violet whispers on the open channel with a confidence born from dozens of missions accomplished without a hitch. She doesn't have to look around or wait for confirmation to know that her team follows her word without protest.
This is just another job.
A reporter stands in front of a large ornate building lined with yellow caution tape, crowds lingering to catch a glance of the authorities conducting their investigation. Most of them are tourists caught up in the excitement of witnessing a crime first-hand, but some are locals and people with a vested interest in the coverage. It's not every day that there is a museum heist in broad daylight.
She sweeps her perfectly styled hair over her shoulders in a practiced motion that speaks to her years of experience. A quick glance at the camera confirms that there is not a single blonde strand out of place. She raises the microphone to her face to address the cameraman and the captive audience watching from behind their screens at home.
"Hello, this is Iris Drue with the Channel 4 News. Welcome back to more coverage of the museum heist that shocked the world. To summarize where we left off before the break, the witnesses report that there was a power failure at ten in the morning that the security staff believes was remotely orchestrated by the criminals. I have Dr. Edwin Carr, one of the museum's curators, here to answer your burning questions."
"Hello," Carr responds stiffly.
"Thank you for joining us," she tells him politely. "Can you please tell our audience exactly what was stolen?"
"All the pieces were a part of a collection we acquired from the Navarre Group last year, and the origins can be traced to the 19th century. There were seven items total, including one necklace, three bracelets, and three other smaller pieces."
"What is the estimated combined value of those pieces?"
"The valuation for the collection is a little north of two million dollars when you consider the materials and design, but the cultural and historical significance of pieces like this…" His voice trails off for a moment. "Many members of the community would consider it priceless."
"Priceless," she repeats back. "I see. Have you found any clues regarding the culprits?" The questions come easily, and she barely has to glance in the direction of her script.
"Unfortunately, this appears to have been completed by a group of seasoned professionals. The suspects are from a noted collective of art thieves who have claimed responsibility for over a dozen heists in eight countries over the last four years. We do not have any information on their numbers, but from their targets and success rate, we have to assume that their resources are vast and they are all highly trained."
"How do you know they are the ones at fault?"
"The art of the heist has evolved over the years, and much of people's understanding is typically based in pop culture. It's not like the novels or the movies. Whereas some groups used to clamor to take responsibility for their marks, the field has… let's say, lost much of the spectacle in our modern era, in large part due to the rise of technology. However, the leader of this particular crew—" he begins, before amending his words. "Or the person experts believe to be the leader seems to prefer a certain degree of showmanship, even at the cost of implicating themselves."
"Showmanship?" The reporter prompts him with wide eyes, genuinely interested the response.
"They have a calling card that they've left behind at several suspected crime scenes. The same kind that we found in place of the stolen jewels today," he confirms with a stoic expression.
The curiosity in her voice is more real than manufactured. "What would that be?"
There is a long pause before he replies, gaze locked on the camera. "A silver dagger."
Her eyes widen at that piece of information that didn't make it into her briefing. The cameraman gestures quickly to indicate an upcoming commercial break, and Iris faces the camera again with a serious expression.
"Thank you once again for joining us, Dr. Carr," she says smoothly. "I wish you and the authorities the best of luck in tracking down the missing pieces."
"That probably will not happen," he explains with a shrug.
"Why is that?" She ignores her colleague's pinched expression at allowing the conversation to linger.
"Because it's already too late," Carr clarifies. "Jewelry isn't like a canvas that needs to be whole in order to retain value. Sapphires and diamonds always have worth. By the time the authorities find any leads, the pieces will likely have already been disassembled. Either the gemstones will be sold individually, or they will be repurposed into unrecognizable models they can move more easily. Once that happens, there is not much else anyone can do."
She nods thoughtfully and turns back to her audience at home.
"This has been Iris Drue. We will be back after these messages with more coverage on the professional thieves taking the art world by storm."
Across the East River, the sun has already begun to set over Brooklyn, filling the previously commercial space with golden hues from the large floor to ceiling windows lining the walls.
"Maybe he just thought you were hot," Rhiannon suggests with a laugh. "You were wearing the fuck me boots."
"Maybe," Violet allows, ignoring the thrill that shoots down her spine at the thought. They are really nice boots, with an impressive success rate in the field in more ways than one. Her ass and her legs look phenomenal in those boots, and she can still incapacitate a man without breaking a heel. Good shoes are hard to find, even with endless disposable income. "There was just… something off about him," she ponders quietly.
With a heavy sigh, she takes another bite of her pizza—a post-heist tradition that they honor regardless of the country housing their target. This has led to a number of strange encounters with what foreign nations consider pizza.
"Off how?" Sawyer asks with more urgency, leaning forward. "Did you get the feeling he was out to hurt you?"
"Not really," she admits slowly, finishing her slice and rising to wash up. "He looked like he was laughing at a joke that I didn't understand. It just pissed me off."
They laugh at her grumpy expression while she violently dries her hands on a dish towel. The Iron Crew rarely gets to see their fearless leader appear so flustered.
"I can track him down," Ridoc suggests with a shit-eating grin. "For a booty call or revenge. Whatever the vibe is."
Violet throws her head back with a laugh. "Fuck you," she calls out over her shoulder, walking towards the middle of the loft space where their score has been patiently waiting for their festivities to come to an end. Reaching into the silk-lined bag, she pulls out the first piece to assess for any damages caused during transit. Violet and Sawyer would be disassembling most of them for sale, but she'd hate for any damage to the softer stones. "One more cute remark and I'll take it out of your cut."
With laughter still on the tip of her tongue, she lifts the first piece up for perusal. Her eyes narrow at the sight of the necklace, focusing on the oval cut gemstone at the center. The beams of light streaming from the windows pass through the purple sapphire and the fine hairs on her body stand up straight.
What the fuck.
Ridoc begins complaining loudly that technically he's always cute, so the same applies to all of his remarks. Unfortunately, Violet is no longer listening. She walks towards one of the bright lamps dispersed throughout the room and holds up the piece to the light, squinting her eyes at the way that the beams pass through the largest the stones.
"That's not possible," Violet mutters suddenly, palms biting into the unforgiving, sharp edges of metal where she is squeezing the silver, diamond encrusted chain with a white-knuckled grip. All three of them rush towards her, worried that she will keel over at her pale, bloodless expression.
"Vi," Rhiannon calls out, arms extended. "What's going on?"
Violet ignores her to storm towards her work table, necklace in hand. With a growl, she pulls one of the drawers fully off of its track and the wooden frame hits the floor with a crash that reverberates through the room. The carefully maintained tools go everywhere.
"Whoa!" Sawyer calls out as Violet disappears, dipping down to grab the a tool from the wreckage. "Dude. Seems like opening it would have been just as fast."
They follow her around the desk in time to watch Violet examine of the sapphires, unique in color, through the small jeweler's loupe, expression paling even further at whatever she finds. "Vi?" Rhiannon tries again.
"That… he… how…" Violet mutters nonsensically, dropping everything onto the desk and settling heavily onto the chair. Her hands reach up to tangle in her loose hair, now free of the dark wig from earlier. She grips onto her scalp desperately.
How could this happen?
"Violet!" All three members of her crew call her her name at once and it shocks her into awareness. She leans back as her expression goes from white to cherry red fast enough to make her head spin—unclear to the room if it's in embarrassment or anger. Reaching forward to grasp the desk lamp in one hand, she brings the base down on top of the reportedly priceless piece of jewelry with a slam that makes everyone else in the room flinch.
Oh, it's anger. That quickly becomes very clear to them.
None of them dare say a word at the cold expression on Violet's face when she lifts it to reveal the remains of their supposed score.
The metal setting is warped and bent, which isn't surprising, but that isn't what makes everyone freeze. The gemstones, high-quality purple sapphires and diamonds worth more money than most people will see in their lives, shouldn't break that easily, yet they lay on the table smashed to dust like colored glass.
"It's a counterfeit," Violet snarls, standing up fast enough to send her chair flying. She barrels back across the room towards the other items they stole. She picks up another piece from the set and holds it up for inspection. "Fakes! Not even particularly good ones!" She screeches, tossing them at the exposed brick wall of the loft one after another. One at a time, they shatter and crash onto the floor. "All of them!"
"Violet, calm down," Rhiannon tries gently. "Let's just think about this rationally for a moment."
"Think about what?" She asks with wild eyes, filled to the brim with the kind of madness Rhiannon hasn't seen from her best friend in years—not since Violet smoothed down most of her rough edges to become the cool and calculated leader of the Iron Crew. The head of an international crime ring can't afford to be overly emotional. "What is there to think about? Someone got there first."
"Who could have done that?" Ridoc asks in confusion. "You all went in for recon two days ago. You would have noticed… right?"
Her eyes flash with a righteous anger. "Don't insult me. Of course I would have fucking noticed, but we nabbed everything in the dark!" She freezes for a moment. "That must be how he knew! He had eyes on us when we cased the scene. He was waiting! That smug prick!"
"He?" Sawyer asks, but is promptly ignored.
Violet storms towards Ridoc like a bull, if a bull was five foot one, trained in three different types of martial arts, and genuinely terrifying. He's not proud of it, but he yelps.
"Ridoc!"
"Y-yes, boss?" He asks with wide eyes.
"I want that bastard found yesterday," she swears. "Anything you need, you have it. No expense is too much. But I want his name by the end of the fucking week."
Ridoc looks down forlornly at his half-eaten slice, but his meek response comes quickly. "Yes, boss."
Violet stares at him with an expectant look until he abandons his food to scamper towards his impressive computer set-up at the far end of the room. As soon as she's confident he's on it, she turns back to Rhiannon and Sawyer, who are both holding up their hands as if approaching a feral animal.
"What's the plan, Vi?" Rhiannon asks, like she has so many times before over the last four years.
"If he wants to play," Violet mutters with her chest puffed in fury, walking over towards her desk. "I'll fucking play."
"That doesn't really sound like a plan…" Sawyer's voice trails off, but Rhiannon shushes him, horrified yet fully engrossed in Violet's spiral of angry murmurs. She wonders if her best friend knows that she keeps calling him a 'beautiful bastard' under her breath.
"Fucking thief," Violet screams once more, sweeping the remains of the fake necklace off her desk.
None of them laugh at the irony, even if they desperately want to. Sawyer silently walks to get the broom.