New York, present day.
That espresso was an insult.
Vera stared at the dark liquid in the cheap paper cup. The surface was uneven, the bubbles too large to form a proper crema, and the smell was aggressively acidic. It was a chaotic, rushed extraction. Much like the city outside the window.
New York was the city that adopted Vera only after her Fine Arts degree, yet she felt far more at home here rather than in her native Italy. Still, there were limits to her assimilation. Coffee was a serious matter, and this cup was an offence to her heritage.
She sat at her usual corner table by the window. It was her privileged vantage point to observe the masses unknowingly wandering by. It wasn't her favourite café, just the closest one to the MoMA with an allegedly high rating. Clearly, the reviewers lacked taste.
Vera pushed the cup away with the tip of her manicured finger. She preferred thirst to mediocrity.
She stood up and approached the counter. "Excuse me," she said, her tone perfectly polite but devoid of warmth. "Do you happen to have a copy of today's paper I could borrow?"
"Sure thing, ma'am," the barista replied, wiping down the machine. "Got a whole stack today. New York Times, Post, Wall Street Journal... any preference?"
"If you don't mind my asking, which one would you recommend?" asked Vera, tilting her head slightly.
"I'd go with the Wall Street Journal," the barista said, sliding the heavy newspaper across the counter. "Front page is wild today. Haven't seen a murder make the cover like this in a while. There's a whole spread on it inside."
"I trust your judgment" Vera replied, taking the paper with a thin smile.
During the short walk back to her table, Vera focused on her breathing. In precisely thirty-three minutes, the doors of the MoMA would open for a private gathering of art critics, journalists, and artists. She was nervous.
The Exhibition of My Sins was the ninth curatorial project Vera had undertaken, and easily her masterpiece. She had selected a group of young, provocative artists—some still students—whose raw, visceral work echoed her favourite contemporary movements. It had taken a year to pull together, and despite the repulsive nature of some pieces, critics were already whispering about a "triumph of vision."
Vera smoothed the Wall Street Journal flat against the beaten table, ironing out the creases with her palm.
There it was. Front page.
THE SILENT MONSTER RETURNS: Third Victim Found on Madison Avenue.
Vera's eyes scanned the text, skipping the sentimental drivel. Arthur Brown, a hedge fund manager, had been found seated at his desk, staring blankly at his monitor. The article painted him as a "loving father and pillar of the community."
Vera knew better. Arthur was a boorish, arrogant man who kicked stray cats and spoke over women at dinner parties. He was unnecessary noise.
She shifted her focus to the police report snippets. "Authorities are baffled by the lack of struggle," the article read. "No signs of forced entry. No trauma. Just a sudden, inexplicable cessation of life."
Vera frowned slightly.
Inexplicable?
It was perfectly explicable. It was biochemistry. It was the muscles slowly forgetting how to contract, a gentle descending paralysis that smoothed out the wrinkles of worry, leaving the subject in a state of permanent, statuesque peace. The journalist used the word 'brutal' twice.
There was nothing brutal about it. Brutality was a hammer. Brutality was messy. That was a preservation project. The toxin rendered the vile man perfectly still, an art installation for an audience of none.
Before leaving, Vera checked her reflection in the café window. Her deep crimson lipstick had faded slightly in the centre. Her dark brown hair, pinned in a flawless half-up style, had not a single strand out of place. She retrieved a compact mirror from her Prada bag and mechanically reapplied the colour. It was a grounding ritual.
She returned the paper to the counter. "Thank you."
"Good read, right?" asked the barista.
"I found the amount of sensationalised details and inaccuracies rather disappointing," Vera replied flatly. "I don't care much for gossip."
The barista blinked. "Gossip? Lady, it's the Wall Street Journal, not a tabloid."
Vera offered a patronising smile. "If, in your country, a good article relies on catchy titles and dramatic hyperbole, that is perfectly fine. Where I come from, journalism is expected to align somewhat with reality."
She turned and walked out before he could process the insult. Withdrawing her presence was her preferred method of de-escalation. Arguing over trivial matters was entirely beneath her.
The path from the café to the art gallery felt mechanical, almost robotic.
As Vera approached the glass doors, she mentally catalogued the evening's potential trajectories. Scenario one (highly unlikely): the press would focus exclusively on the art, asking sensible, curated questions. Scenario two (the catastrophic one): they would fixate on the morality of the displayed works. Scenario three (the most probable): a tiresome debate on the meaning of art from her perspective, and whether the public was ready for such visceral truths.
She navigated the opening with practised grace, presenting the artists and guiding the murmuring spectators through the installations. Then came the reception.
Vera was endlessly fascinated by the gluttonous metamorphosis of the elite in the presence of free food. No matter their net worth, they descended upon the buffet like vultures on a fresh carcass. She despised them, yet, to blend into their ranks, she accepted a glass of wine from one of her artists.
At eighteen, Aisha was the youngest creator Vera had ever championed, a first-semester university student with the heavy, jaded soul of a veteran. Aisha's medium was video, often violently spliced with collage and photography, exploring themes far too weighty for her age. Life had not been lenient to the girl, and without a safe harbour, Aisha had poured her trauma into her practice. Just like Vera.
Looking at Aisha was like looking at a younger, unpolished reflection of herself—with one key difference: Aisha knew she was an artist from day one, whereas Vera had spent her youth adrift. Vera felt a rare, genuine connection to the girl. She was already mentally drafting Aisha's solo exhibition for the coming years.
Vera held the lukewarm white wine by the stem—a cardinal sin in an establishment that prided itself on housing groundbreaking art—using it merely as a prop to blend into the crowd.
"Have you heard the news this morning?"
The whisper came from an older woman draped in vintage Chanel, standing on her left holding a pen and a notepad.
Vera turned her head in annoyance, but she inadvertently started a conversation with Alfred Blanche, the most respected art critic of the contemporary era. Vera suppressed a sigh, forcing her features into a mask of pleasant surprise. Shit. Well, at least his critiques are usually coherent, she thought, turning to face him.
"Vera, my dear."
"Alfred. Thank you for coming."
"I have attended hundreds of exhibitions this year," Alfred began, placing himself directly in her path, "which is a pretentious way of admitting I forget most of them. But yours... yours are always vivid. You've brought fresh air into this stale museum. Congratulations."
Vera offered a cordial, empty smile, hoping to sever the interaction.
"There is something I wish to discuss regarding a future opportunity," he pressed, vibrating with a nervous energy Vera found pathetic. "Will you be in New York next week?"
Vera looked through him, dissecting his posture, the sweat on his brow, the slight tremor in his hand. What do you actually want from me, you coward?
"I have a flight booked," she replied in a cool, flat tone. "We shall meet upon my return in March."
"Very well," Alfred said, handing her his business card with the eager smile of a child in front of an ice cream shop.
Vera slipped the card into her Prada purse and deposited the untouched wine onto a passing waiter's tray. She had endured enough pointless noise for one evening.
"Excuse me, Ms. Vera? Would you have a minute for a few questions?"
Vera didn't turn immediately, but the crow-like cadence was unmistakable. Scenario two it is, then. She plastered on her most convincing gallery smile.
"I'm afraid I have a dinner reservation in twenty minutes," Vera said smoothly, hoping the vintage Chanel-wrapped pest would desist. "But we could speak briefly on my way out."
"Thank you. I'm just curious... what inspired you to curate such an abhorrent and immoral exhibition?"
Vera sighed internally, reciting the sterilised, academic defence she had prepared for such pedestrian minds, hoping it would satisfy the woman. It didn't.
"And what about the timing?" the journalist pressed, her lack of tact clashing violently with her expensive outfit. "A brutal murder of a hedge fund manager happens not far from here, and hours later, your exhibition—titled The Exhibition of My Sins—opens its doors. Is it a fair link to make? Was it an intentional coincidence?"
Vera stopped walking. She turned, her green eyes locking onto the journalist with the chilling stillness of a predator.
"Excuse me?" Vera's voice dropped an octave, icy and dangerously quiet. "What exactly are you insinuating? Need I remind you that baseless accusations will be met with severe legal consequences, especially given the young age of the artists involved in this project?"
The journalist faltered, her confidence evaporating under Vera's dead-eyed stare. "I... I apologise. I'm just in shock from the news. I was merely wondering how the public might perceive your reputation given the recent events."
Oh, right, now you're worried for me. Pathetic, Vera thought.
"Now, if you will excuse me," Vera said, her tone dismissive and absolute, "I have an important business dinner to attend. Enjoy the rest of your evening."
She left the woman blinking rapidly, struggling to process the interaction.
Finally, peace.
Vera stepped out into the crisp New York night, her heels clicking a steady, rhythmic beat against the concrete.
Click. Click. Click.
Like a clock counting down.