Page 30 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

BEN

“ Y ou said, ‘Thanks, and now fuck off, please,’ after I helped you up to your apartment. You wouldn’t even let me help with your injuries, kept clinging onto the glass shards.”

Helena exhales, apparently feeling a little more at ease. “Good. So I didn’t do or say anything stupid.”

I can’t help but laugh at her rudeness. Usually, people don’t treat me this way. It’s annoyingly endearing.

She relaxes visibly, and we sit in silence, observing the gallery.

The sun has long since dipped below the horizon, and so far, no one has entered or left.

The heating hums quietly in the background.

The RV is like a cocoon of terrible gas mileage and questionable life choices, but at least it’ll keep Helena out of danger.

“Alright, here’s the plan,” I say once the neighborhood seems half-asleep, only the occasional car driving by. “You stay here, I go in, I find what we’re looking for, take it, and we leave before anyone notices. Easy-peasy.” I reach for the balaclava we picked up at the flea market earlier today.

Helena shifts her weight from side to side, scanning the empty street. “Sounds pretty straightforward,” she says, clearly tense. “It’s just… kind of quiet in there. Too quiet. Could be a bad omen. Definitely is a bad decision, the whole thing.”

“I’m pretty sure quiet is a good thing when you’re about to steal something in the middle of the night. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry. You just stay put.” The balaclava smells like stale cologne and cigarettes when I pull it over my head.

“You really think they’d just leave the paintings hanging there with a busted window?”

I shrug and put on a pair of gloves. “Would be very irresponsible to leave them just sitting there for any common thief to grab, wouldn’t it?” I open the door. “But if they’re gone, we still have Plan C.”

“What’s Plan C?” Helena asks as I step out of the RV.

“Craigslist and eBay,” I say over my shoulder and watch her close her eyes in despair.

She needs this to work. She’s afraid what will happen if it doesn’t. And I’m not gonna let that happen.

“I mean it, Panda. Stay here.”

“I’m not an idiot, Benedikt. I wouldn’t dream of stepping foot into a crime scene so soon after I caused it. That’s also how people get caught—returning to the scene of the crime.”

I adjust the hood over my head and dart across the street. The gallery is as inconspicuous as always, apart from the half-assed attempt at security—a plastic sheet over the shattered window and newspapers taped across the remaining ones.

It’s basically an open invitation, I think to myself as I rip the tarp off and slip inside.

The moment I step in, the air changes. It’s thick and heavy. There are no echoes of someone working in the back, no visible security system I’d need to disable. Just empty space and bare walls.

Bare walls.

No paintings.

Outside, a car speeds by.

If I was the paranoid type—which I am, professionally—I’d assume they moved the artwork to a different location, and I’d bolt out of here. But knowing the owners, there’s a good chance they were too cocky to bother. Who robs a gallery with an open window, right?

I move silently towards the back storage room and pull out my lockpicking kit. Five clicks later, the door eases open.

And, like I suspected, the storage room is filled with hubris and stacked canvases. Some wrapped, some bare. They’re all here. I step inside, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, scanning for something that looks old enough.

My fingers skim frames until I find it—an oil painting with cracked varnish and faded colors. Dated 1529. Perfect. I hold it up in an attempt to see better.

Which is when I hear a noise behind me.

Someone clicks their tongue in disapproval. “See, I was wondering if you’d be dumb enough to return to the scene of the crime—to finish what you started.”

Fuck.

I know that voice.

It’s the last one I wanted to hear today.

“The boss wanted to move the paintings, but I insisted we leave them. This way, we’d catch you red-handed.” He takes a step towards the storage room. “Although I’m thinking I might stop you myself. Be a bit of a hero. I promise to call the cops after I’m done with you. They can call the ambulance.”

I glance over my shoulder, the blade of a knife sparkling in the sliver of light breaking through the newspaper.

My body tenses, instincts kicking in.

I know I can take him, despite the knife giving him the edge.

But if he stabs me, my blood would implicate me at the scene. Of the vandalism and the theft.

Shit.

This is what happens when you rush your crimes.

Just as I pivot, a loud bang cracks through the air—and suddenly my adversary crumbles like a poorly built IKEA cupboard. Lights out. Almost.

I look up to see Helena, or rather her eyes that are peeking out of the yellow ski mask.

They’re squeezed shut from the loud sound.

She’s holding my wooden cutting board in her hand like a weapon.

Now we need to move. I shove the painting into Helena’s empty hand, step onto the knife before the dazed asshole can reach it, then grab him by his collar and knock him out with a single punch.

That’s for the knife. And because we obviously can’t have him chasing us.

Then I grab another painting that’s leaning against the wall and motion for Helena to run.

Thirty seconds later, we’re back in the RV, tearing through random turns to make sure we’re not being followed.

When things calm down, I glance at Helena. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

“And I thought you were going to steal just one painting.” She’s wrapping them in a blanket and wedges them between our seats.

I want to yell. But I don’t.

This is on me.

She actually did well.

She shouldn’t have come inside, but she did help.

“Next time, stay where it’s safe.”

I can’t put her in this situation again—one where recklessness might seem like her only option.

After what happened to her grandpa, and then to her, she’s running on fumes and fear, making choices she’d never consider otherwise.

Helena needs protection not just from whoever’s demanding the money, but from herself.

“I hardly ever plan on knocking people out with a cutting board. So I think the chances of a next time are pretty slim,” she says, wiping sweat from her temple. Her hands are shaky. “You ever get that? The post-heist heat? The shivers from the adrenaline?”

I breathe through my nose, calming my pulse. “Sometimes,” I admit. Not tonight though. Tonight, my hand is still steady, still ready to fight that fucker with his knife.

“Yeah, me too. Do you think I hurt him? I didn’t commit any accidental murder, did I?”

I steer the RV down a busy street that eventually leads to a quieter neighborhood. “No need to worry about that. He had it coming. But also, no—he was just a little dizzy.”

“Until you knocked him out.”

A smile creeps across my lips as I glance at my bruised fist.

That did feel good.

“Do you know him?” Helena asks, her cheeks flushed.

Must be her post-heist afterglow. It suits her.

“We’ve met,” I answer vaguely, without telling her the whole truth. “Cutthroat mobster. Runs the gallery on behalf of Mr. St. Clair, mostly to launder money. No need to feel bad about that board to the head.”

We take a left, then a right. Helena watches me closely, her fingers tapping against her knee, brows drawn together. “Where are we going?” she asks, realizing we’re clearly not headed to her place—or mine.

“Somewhere safe.”

Her eyes narrow further, but she doesn’t push.

Maybe we’ve reached that rare, fleeting point where she actually trusts me now—where I’m not just another annoying rich asshole or lying con artist in her eyes.

Which would be terrible timing, since I’m about to violate that trust right away.

We pull into a familiar neighborhood and park in front of the old apartment building that once used to be some sort of factory.

Helena leans forward, peering out the window. “This is my grandpa’s building. Why are we at my grandpa’s building?”

I cut the engine and grab the wrapped paintings from between the seats. “Come on, Panda. I’ll show you.”

She’s visibly confused but follows me anyway. I lead her into the elevator and stop one level above her grandpa’s.

Then I knock on a door twice and, when no one answers, open it. “After you.”

Helena steps inside—and freezes. Her mouth falls open, her eyes flicking around the room. She’s scanning the furniture, the decorations, the boxes.

“That’s my chair. That’s my actual chair!” She whirls on me, eyes wide with, well… murder.

I nod.

“And those are my books. And my coffee table. And—” She strides across the room, rips open a drawer, and pulls out a pair of lace panties. “These are my panties!”

Behind her, Alex steps out of what I assume to be the bedroom—and then quietly retreats again when he sees Helena brandishing the underwear at me like a weapon. “Did you rob me?”

“How dare you?” I feign being insulted. “I would never rob you!” I think about how we met and what I was doing at the museum for a moment.

“I would never rob you personally. Besides, no one robbed anyone.” I set the paintings down by the easel in the corner of the living room.

“Your things were expertly curated and temporarily relocated.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. “You broke into my home and,” she makes air quotes, “‘relocated’ my things?”

“Technically, Alexei broke into your home. I merely initiated, oversaw, and directed the operation from afar. So if you’re looking to blame someone, blame him. Alex?—”

Alexei’s eyes peek out from behind the door, holding a look almost as murderous as Helena’s.

Her jaw tightens even more. “Why?”

“Because,” I explain the obvious, “your apartment isn’t safe anymore, Helena. The men who hurt you? They know where you live. But they don’t know about this place. Here, you’re safe.”

Her fingers clench around the burgundy lace. “So your solution was to just move my entire life… without my permission?”

“Well, knowing you, you would have never agreed to it.”

“Oh, please,” she huffs out and throws the underwear back where she found it, “you don’t know shit about me.”

A second passes, with Helena angrily shutting the drawer, before I try to save what can’t be saved.

“Despite not being a morning person, you wake up very early every day, apart from weekends, when you allow yourself to catch up on sleep. You have a strangely close relationship with your boss. You do not believe in the supernatural. You always sit in the same seat when you’re having lunch because it has the best view of your favorite painting.

Sometimes you don’t even do lunch because you’re too absorbed by your work, which is a way for you to cope with loss—loss of people, loss of control.

Most of your clothes have paint-splatters somewhere.

You want to seem aloof, but you actually care a lot, especially about the kids you’re looking after, likely because they remind you of yourself.

But also because you’re genuinely just a good person.

You keep people at arm’s length because you’re afraid of getting close to them.

When you eat, you look like an adorable little squirrel stuffing her cheeks. ”

“I do not…” Helena interjects quietly and crosses her arms, “look like that.”

“And you definitely would not have said yes to this .” I motion around us.

“And she keeps a creepy doll in the freezer for some reason,” Alexei adds, stepping into the room.

Now, Helena throws evil stares at both of us. “Yeah, well, you two do not want to find out what that doll is actually for.”

I shake my head. “And none of that even matters, because the only thing that actually does is that you are safe!”

I find myself a lot closer to her than intended.

Hovering over Helena like this, giving a lecture, probably doesn’t help in conveying a sense of security, so I turn away and motion to the desk by the window where Alexei has already set up the easel, brushes, and her grandpa’s paints.

“Here you can focus on the forgeries without distractions. And without imminent danger.”

Helena presses her fingers to her temples. She is stressed. Then, barely above a whisper, she asks, “What if I don’t want to stay here?”

I think about it for a second. She’s trying to figure out if she’s a prisoner, whether I’m going to keep her here against her will.

“Say the word, and we’ll have everything back in its place in your apartment before midnight,” I lie.

She’s going to stay here—whether she wants it or not.

She needs to be protected. It would just be a lot easier if she agreed to it.

Either way, I’m not leaving her out of my sight while these men are threatening her.

I mean, she has to work on the heist after all. That’s why I’m doing all of this.

Helena sighs, her breath shaky. Then she walks over to the kitchen sink, turns on the tap, and dunks her head under the cold water. It almost looks like the cold liquid calms her down. She did this back in the museum too.

“I have a routine, Ben,” she says a few moments later, patting her face dry. “A system. A very specific, carefully structured way of living that is important for me to function and survive. And it absolutely does not involve people breaking into my home and reorganizing my entire existence.”

“I get that.” I slowly move closer and put my hands on her arms, rubbing warmth back into them. “But you know what else isn’t great for survival either? Getting murdered by a group of violent men demanding money you don’t have. So from my point of view, this is a safety upgrade.”

She glares at me. “They must have known where my grandpa lived. They might come looking for me here.”

“We’re prepared for that,” Alex says, fully stepping into the room now.

“I’ll be staying in your grandpa’s apartment for the time being.

It’s a trap. If they show up, we’ll get the drop on them.

” He opens the apartment door and slides right out.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you two to it. Try not to kill each other. ”

The door clicks shut. Helena exhales slowly, the tension finally bleeding from her shoulders. “Fine. For now. But no more surprises. No more secrets. From now on, just tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Thank God.

Explaining to Sienna that I’m hiding a hostage would’ve made all of this a lot more difficult.

“Alright.” I nod, trying to exude warmth and understanding, without seeming like a psychopath. “How about you tell me more about this routine of yours, and maybe we can find a way to work around it.”

Helena pouts for a moment, obviously working something over in her mind. Eventually, she hesitantly says, “Tell me a secret of yours, so I can tell you one of mine.”