Chapter Text
Financial fraud, money laundering, several bars, clubs, and a casino. That was what Lewis Hamilton’s world revolved around. Carefully planned and executed ways of getting too much money while breaking too many rules. Prestigious clubs serving as a cover even though they were like a side hustle to Lewis. He walked the streets of Pigalle, a Parisian district, like he owned them. In a way, he did. After all, he had eyes everywhere. He knew about every penny that passed through his turf, legal or not. He was single-handedly responsible for the hazardously high financial fraud rates in this specific part of Paris. The Billion Dollar Man, they called him. The ‘Billion’ part may have been a slight exaggeration, although it wasn’t that far off. But there was something he wanted besides cash.
He wanted to be known and respected. Whether he achieved that goal by being good or bad didn’t matter to him.
He wanted something grand. Something that would leave a mark. Something people couldn’t look away from. And he was used to getting what he wanted.
It wouldn’t surprise anyone that what caught his attention one Tuesday morning was a jewelry article. Not just any jewelry, though. He was just taking a walk around the streets of Pigalle, as he usually does. He was in the midst of appreciating the district he’d helped build into what it was today when he passed a kiosk. He usually doesn’t care for them if he doesn’t want a pack of cigarettes, but that Tuesday was different – one of the magazines had a particular, expensive looking article right on the front page. Lewis had time, so he paused, stepping over to steal a glance. He’d stolen something else by the time he moved on.
He pulled the magazine out from where it was snugly hidden in his coat when he reached the street corner. The article he was so interested in was within the first few pages. A long description of the importance of several jewelry sets from the 19th century, stored in the Louvre. Adorned with the most expensive gems, belonging to someone of importance, even if merely to historians. But what really caught Lewis’s eye, besides the gleaming beauty of those diamonds, was their location within the museum. Apollo’s Gallery. It was marked on a bird’s eye map, but even without it, he knew where that gallery was. Next to Seine’s riverbank, right above the street running between the river and the museum itself. What also intrigued him was the price, briefly mentioned mid-paragraph. The grand total sat just above one hundred million, making it one of the more expensive collections in the gallery.
Lewis was a smart, strategic, and quick-witted man. He saw an opportunity, an attempt at greatness within reach. With all the information given to him in this magazine, his imagination went wild. It doesn’t take a genius to realise that his brain was already brewing up a plan before he’d even reached his apartment. He wasted no time, pulling out a blank blueprint and writing down what came to mind, the magazine laid out next to his sketches. He developed his idea with precision, drawing and calculating as he went. The plan was good, perhaps even foolproof if he finalized it. But before that, he just needed a willing team. In his line of work, finding willing accessories to his crimes should prove to be a piece of cake.
It was getting late by the time he left his apartment again, taking the folded blueprint with him in a neat folder that matched his coat. He lived just above the casino he owned – he knew he’d find his most trusted colleagues there. He descended down the stairs and entered the casino through the side door just left of the bar. The smell of wood, whiskey, martinis, and bad decisions wrapped around him as he entered, the acoustic music and dim lights only enriching the atmosphere. He began weaving his way through the crowd, packed with all kinds of people, well dressed and in a pleasant mood.
His eyes landed on Max first. His face was focused yet serene as he spun a deck of cards between his fingers, preparing to distribute them between the players sitting before him. They stared in awe as the cards seemed to flow between his fingers. Lewis would have stopped to stare too, had he not seen Max perform this trick and teach it to the other members several times before. It was simpler than it looked, it just took a few attempts.
Upon reaching him, Lewis tapped Max on the shoulder and leaned in, whispering: “Have Tsunoda switch with you. My office.” Max gave him a curt nod, finished mixing the deck and called the young, short boy over to finish what he started.
By the time he got up from his seat, Lewis had already found George. He was sitting at the bar, drink in hand, talking to a man Lewis was sure he’d seen before. George spotted him approaching and leisurely raised his glass in greeting.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Lewis said even though he didn’t mean it. George smiled and shook his head. "Not at all,” he replied, “is there something you need?” His smile was wide, insinuating that he's already had a drink too many. Lewis wasn't too happy about that, but he had other things to worry about. One of them sat in a neat folder that he still carried with him. Lewis leaned in, muttering: “My office. You’ll find out there.” George, although perplexed, nodded. He continued his conversation anyway. He’d never been one to leave his business unfinished, and that applied to his conversations, too. Lewis left his side to find the last accessory to the crime – Charles.
Lewis usually knew exactly where to find Charles. Usually, he was sulking over a bet he lost, talking to whoever’s eye he’d caught that night, or charming people that had money and were willing to spend it. Lewis’s intuition proved him right – he found the Monegasque gracefully waving his hands as he explained something to three other men who intently listened as if whatever Charles was saying was the most compelling thing they’d ever heard. It was impressive, really, how easy it was for Charles to catch their attention. He was what got Lewis all those investors and, more importantly, messengers that brought with them the information needed to execute yet another fraud or gain yet another sum of cash. Lewis weaved his way through the crowd, muttering “Excusez-moi,” as he slipped past champagne-holding rich men. He finally reached Charles and the men that were still busy listening to him.
“Mind if I borrow him?” he inquired when he stepped beside the quartet. The looks on the listeners’ faces were mildly dissatisfied even as they begrudgingly agreed. “Très bien,” said Lewis as he took Charles’ wrist in his hand and pulled him away with all the grace of a beginner pairs skater. Charles caught up to him. “What is this about?” he asked as Lewis dropped his hand, trusting him to follow as he navigated towards the door left of the bar that led to the staircase and, where he intended to go, his office. “I’ve had a bit of an… epiphany, you could say,” Lewis announces, “You’re gonna want to hear this one.”
He could hear the man beside him sigh, but he didn’t have to look at him to guess that he wasn’t as intrigued as he’d hoped. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯, Lewis thought as he finally reached the door. He rushed up the stairs, Charles following close behind, turned left at the top of the staircase and opened the door at the end of the hallway. The room they entered was all expensive colours varying between shades of burgundy, wood, and gold, good quality furniture and, in Lewis’s humble opinion, impeccable taste. Three leather armchairs sat before a desk cluttered with paperwork and notes, a gorgeous leather chair pushed behind it. A carpet with classical patterns laid below them. A simple yet elegant chandelier hung above the desk, enveloping the room with light that was kind on the eyes of someone who spends the majority of their time in dimly lit casinos and bar booths. The walls had artworks on their walls in between the bookshelves and cabinets, keeping the space balanced and interesting. The biggest picture by far was that of a big dog which sat on the wall behind the desk.
Two of the aforementioned leather armchairs were already occupied, leaving the one on the right empty. Charles sat there after shaking hands with Max and George, who were already there, and Lewis took his spot behind the desk. He didn’t sit down. Instead, he simply stacked the paperwork on the desk into a neat little pile and set it aside. Then, he took the folder he still carried under his arm and took out the folded blueprint, unraveling it with ease. He looked up at the gentlemen sat before him as their faces went from confused and bored to more and more intrigued as they leaned forward to examine what had been laid in front of them.
The blueprint on the desk was filled with rushed drawings of floor plans and streets, graphs, calculations and a step-by-step description with added details down to the second in terms of precision. Charles stared at it, blinking as he tried to make sense of what he was looking at. George’s hand rested on his chin as he was deep in thought, his bright blue eyes focused as he read through the plan and calculations, eventually gleaming as he understood what Lewis was trying to tell them. Max took one look at the blueprint, then back at Lewis.
To Lewis’s surprise, Max did another short-lived double take before he burst out laughing.
“Mate, you-” Max struggled, his astonished and loud laughter sounding through the room, “You’re insane!” Charles and George had long stopped staring at the blueprint, staring at Max with a mix of amusement and concern etched into their brows and exchanging quick glances. Max kept laughing for a little longer before he got the hint that he shouldn’t be. Still grinning, he cleared his throat.
“You can’t seriously believe we can pull this off,” Max remarked, his grin persistent. “It’s borderline insane.”
It was Lewis’s turn to chuckle at that. He turned his eyes to the blueprint, staring at it intently.
“Don’t you see?” he began, his voice carrying that hint of mischief that every other man in that room recognized as determined hunger for achievement, “This is our path to greatness. The greatest heist this century has ever seen – the execution so spotless that they’ll remember us for years.
“The money is just a coincidental bonus. If the 100 million we could split between one another doesn’t convince you, I don’t know what will.” Lewis looked up from what he called his masterpiece to gauge his companions’ reactions. Max still appeared unconvinced, George looked at him with a conviction that said more than words could, and Charles turned his attention back to the blueprint one last time before looking into Lewis’s eyes and holding his gaze as he nodded, grinning ever so slightly. Charles averted his gaze, electing Max as the next target of his stare. Max felt those eyes on him and he glanced at Charles, who had waited just for that. “Think about it, Max. You pull this off and everybody in our organization will know not to look down on or doubt you. All of Paris would know about what you'd done. You’ll be rich, to top it all off.” Those eyes were, apparently, hard to say ‘no’ to – Max’s brows knitted as if he were seriously considering it. “And nothing will go wrong,” Lewis feels compelled to add, “ I’ll make sure of that.”
Even George had started looking at Max, waiting for him to give in and agree. And with a defeated glance at George, then at Lewis, Max did. “Fine,” he sighed like it pained him to. George triumphantly patted him on the back. “Knew you’d fold,” he said, and Lewis saw Max sigh even as he fought the slightest smile.
George dropped his hand from Max's back and looked to Lewis, asking: “So? What’s the plan going forward?”
Lewis splayed his palms over the blueprint, leaning over the desk to move closer to the trio before him before he spoke, focused as ever. “We have the plan. We just need the team and the equipment.”
“But before we get there…” he turned around, going to the cabinet in the left corner. It was a glass cabinet, so the three men that remained seated could see what he was after befire he reached for it. He pulled out a fancy whiskey bottle and four glasses. Drink and glasses in his hands, he turned on his heel, walking back to the desk. After he set the glasses on the table, he poured each of them a glass with enough grace to make sure he didn’t spill a drop, took his and sat down, his free arm leaning on the armrest. The other three took a glass each, and Lewis raised his glass before he took a sip. The whiskey tasted like the start of something he’d never forget as it slid down his throat.
“Let’s continue,” he demanded, the blueprint of his path into history stretching between him and the people that would help him do so.
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Among one of Pigalle’s many streets, there’s one that lies not too far from the center of the district. There are less bars and clubs, the apartments are placed close together and there’s always some sort of sewage renovation going on – whether the project remains unfinished or it’s frequently revisited, nobody can be sure. The construction site has been there for what feels like forever, so the residents are used to ignoring it, maneuvering past it when they pass. But other than that, the street is bright and the few bars it has are always worth it. The nightlife isn’t intense – most of this street’s lights go out by midnight. There’s one apartment where the lights don’t turn off. It’s an apartment that never seems to sleep.
On a certain night, just at the end of September, there was a small amount of light peeking through the half-closed blinds of one of the apartment’s windows. Though nothing could be seen or heard from the tall set of stairs leading to the front door, you could hear faint music and the sound of a keyboard the second you entered. The closer you’d come, past the messy living space in shades of green, black and the occasional orange, bathed in dim neon green LED lights, the louder those sounds got. Eventually, you could hear off-tune humming, maybe the occasional clank of an energy drink can hitting the desk. Then a pause, a click, a sigh that embodied exhaustion and brief defeat. But then the clicks started up again, the song switched, and just minutes later, the clicking stopped again, except that the sigh that came after was relieved.
Inside the room from which those noises were heard, the first thing that would have caught anyone's attention were the posters that covered the walls. There were those of certain country artists, a Spiderman poster along with other movies, and some about sports such as basketball, motorsport, and golf. But the majority of what took up the walls, put up with no sense of order or alignment besides chaos, were pages of code, little cheat sheets, sticky notes with certain formulas written in quick handwriting with a pen that hardly worked. Some of the sticky notes weren’t about a certain Python script, instead they had little sketches on them – the Monster logo, little stickmen, random blobs that made very little sense. The floor wasn’t spotless either, with loose bits of crumpled paper and Monster Energy cans pushed against the walls to make room for anyone that tried to reach the desk – which was possibly the biggest disaster this room had to offer, especially if you ignored a certain cabinet in the corner that couldn’t even close because the junk inside wouldn’t allow it, the top of it covered in little car models and the occasional plate or pen.
The desk itself had a glowing computer below it and three monitors on it. There was also a microphone, adorned with a hanging dog plushie and bracelets, a glowing keyboard, a mouse that had no mouse pad, left to scratch against the desk as it was moved. There were also several papers all over the desk, some labeled, some not. The pens were pushed into the one corner that wasn’t filled by other stationery, crumpled paper and the two Monster cans.
The screens glowed, displaying a Python script, a certain website, and another script covered with several loose ends. The man responsible for tying them was leaning forward, eyes scanning the lines of messy codes as he typed away, filling in the blanks and watching it all come together. His watercolor eyes were tiredly yet patiently darting from the papers to the screen. It took him forever, but eventually he went to test what he’d done – and he’d never been happier when he saw that it worked. He leaned back, stretching as he already started planning how he’d shower, eat if he felt like it and then went to bed. It was already past one in the morning, so it was about time.
But of course, someone somehow still made it their mission to bother him. Just when he rightfully assumed he could go to bed unbothered, his phone began to buzz. Confused by the call at this hour, he gingerly picked up the phone and looked at who it was. The contact read ‘annoying intellectual.’ The man sighed and still swiped up to answer.
“What’s so important it couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?” he croaked, voice hoarse from enery drinks and tiredness.
“I’m not surprised you picked up,” the voice on the other side quipped, “but I’ve got an offer for you, Lando.”
Lando ran a hand through his hair, grimacing. He immediately realised what this was about. “If this is about the debt I owe you, then-” he began, but the voice on the other end cut him off: “Exactly! We need someone in your field of expertise!” Lando had nothing to add to that. Any complaint he had would be shut down, so he elected not to bother trying. He simply nodded in acceptance even though the man on the other end couldn’t see him. “Fine,” he breathed, trying to mask his irritation, “What’s the job?”
“Oh, you’ll love it,” the voice oozed with excitement, “We’re robbing that big, lovely museum down by the Seine and we’ll need someone to, you know, get the technical difficulties off our to-do list.” Hearing those words of his impending doom, Lando got the very strong urge to throw his phone into a wall and storm off. “You’re joking,” he exclaimed, stunned. “Quite the opposite,” the other announced, his tone growing a little more serious. “Think about it. The debt is off your back entirely, you get a honest share of the prize money so you can move on or whatever…” the voice trailed on, but the only thing Lando heard was that he wouldn’t be indebted to these people anymore and that he could leave his past in the past and move on.
“Fine,” he said, earning an exaggerated gasp from the other man, “But you’d better keep your word.” “Why, of course,” the reply came, followed by a chuckle. “I’ll text you the details. I need my beauty sleep now.”
“Good night, George,” Lando said before he ended the call. “Not,” he quietly added once he was sure George could no longer hear him, an apparent edge present in his tone.
He set the phone down and buried his head into his hands, his fingers coming up to run through his hair. He kept falling deeper into this mess, all for the sake of paying off a debt he wasn’t sure he owed anymore. This organization has owned him and his skillset ever since he’d been given no choice but to join them. He wondered if this time would be different if he allowed himself to hope one last time.
He forced himself to get up, leaving the computer screens on. With slow steps, he trudged past the mess of his apartment floor and reached the bathroom. He turned on the light and found himself staring into his reflection in the mirror just seconds later. He looked disheveled, all dark circles and messy curls. There was a tiredness in his eyes that was a result of not just the consecutive all-nighters, but also all the stress he’d been under these last few months.
He realised then that he was ready. Ready to allow himself to hope this heist would finally be enough to set him free. His energy wasn’t limitless, and he could already feel himself crumbling. He had to reach for this exit and pray it doesn’t close.