10. Nova
Chapter ten
Nova
“ W hat a romantic story,” one of the older ladies who we’ve been making small talk with comments when Cillian—or William, as she knows him—finishes telling her the story of the proposal. He was so good at it, I could practically see us at that little table in the French restaurant two nights ago.
Cillian leans down and kisses the top of my head. Even with the four-inch heels, he still towers over me. “When you know it’s right, a little thing like not having a ring isn’t going to stop you. Isn’t that right, dumpling?”
This motherfucker.
“So right,” I reply, pinching the skin at his waist with the hand I have looped around him.
“So, did you see anything that caught your eye, Charity?” the woman asks.
I see a whole lot that’s catching my eye.
“A few things, but I’m going to let Billy pick it out.” I send him a saccharine smile using the name he hates. Two can play at this game, asshole.
“Don’t worry. I’ll find something befitting the princess you are, lovebug. Something big and sparkly.”
I’m going to make him choke on these stupid fucking pet names.
“Ah, young love,” the woman says. I swear she has hearts in her damn eyes before her attention is taken by someone else in the crowd. “Oh, I have to go talk to Mimsy Halfred. She’s a complete bore but unbelievably rich.” The woman winks before turning, and moments later, I hear her call, “Mimsy, it’s been too long!”
I turn toward Cillian and use every ounce of self-control to not burst out laughing. “Mimsy?”
“Jesus Christ. Rich people are weird,” Cillian says. “I mean, I’m used to being around people with money, but this is on a whole other level.”
“They may be weird, but you have no problem charming them.” We’ve talked to a few couples, most well over the age of sixty and dripping in diamonds. But give Cillian thirty seconds, and they’re absolutely tittering with excitement. Can’t say I blame them a bit.
“It’s the Yankee charm.”
“If only they knew what was under that makeup,” I say, tracing my finger over his wrist.
Cillian covered up the tattoos that would have been visible on his wrists while I was getting ready. He said he was trying to look the part of a stuck-up financier. It made me realize how much I liked seeing the flashes of ink when his sleeves would ride up or when he rolled them to his elbows. There’s something about a man with rolled-up sleeves, strong forearms, and tattoos on display. Don’t ask me to explain it because I can’t. It’s sinfully enticing, and that’s all there is to it.
“Let’s have another turn around the table. I want to bid on something,” he whispers into my neck.
“Why?”
“Because it sells our story.”
He leads me to the front of the room where the items are being displayed. Sapphires, rubies, and diamonds cover the tables—making my heart beat that much faster as I think about all the money this is going to net me.
“This would look stunning on you,” Cillian says in earshot of one of the attendants. “Can she try it on?”
The attendant nods, and Cillian picks up the diamond necklace, placing it around my neck.
“Starting bid is seventy-five thousand,” the man says, and I nearly choke on my breath.
“That’s a good deal,” Cillian comments.
When the attendant hands me the mirror, I have to admit it is stunning. The necklace itself is made of diamonds that connect in the center, where a large, round emerald sits at the hollow of my throat.
“It brings out your eyes,” Cillian says from behind me. Our gazes connect in the mirror, and there’s a flash of something in his, but it’s gone before I can decipher it. I lift my hair slightly, taking care of the fact that I’m wearing a wig, and Cillian removes the necklace, handing it back to the attendant. We walk along the table and a sparkly diamond ring catches my eye.
“Look at this one, Billy,” I say, casting him a smile.
Cillian turns to the attendant again. “Can my dumpling try that one on as well?”
The smile I direct is syrupy sweet when the attendant hands him the ring. He places it on the third finger of my left hand, and I hold out my arm, examining the four-carat center stone with a diamond-encrusted band.
“It’s perfect. I can’t wait to be Mrs. Billy Bentley.”
Cillian chuckles, enjoying the little game we’re playing.
“Starting bid is fifty thousand,” the attendant states.
“That’s practically a steal,” Cillian says. He writes his name and a number on a piece of paper before handing it to the man, who drops it in a gold bowl.
“Thank you, sir. The selections will be made tonight, and if you win, your items will be delivered to your place of residence tomorrow by courier.”
Little does he know, no one is getting anything delivered tomorrow.
We wander away from the table and over to the bar where I order two more glasses of champagne.
“You know, you never told me what you want out of this little adventure,” I tell Cillian, careful to keep my words as benign as possible. People love eavesdropping at these events, at least from what I’ve heard. Though, I doubt anyone can hear what I’m saying, considering how low my voice is.
“Consider this pro bono work.” He leans down and kisses my cheek then moves his mouth to my ear. “I can think of plenty of inventive ways for you to pay me back if you feel the need to, though.”
My head pulls back and I look him in the eye. “I was thinking along the lines of you getting a cut of the profits. No one does anything for free or other ‘perks.’”
Cillian shrugs and sips his champagne. “I do.”
That’s the thing about Cillian. He has never reacted to a situation like I’d imagine. The first time we met, he didn’t fly off the handle when he caught up to me after I lifted his wallet. Instead, we hung out and formed a strange camaraderie— the only kind you can really have among thieves. He didn’t try to get in my bed that first night, either. I thought maybe he wasn’t interested, but then the night he came back to New Orleans a few days ago, he made his intentions perfectly clear, and we’ve spent countless hours tangled together since. It’s all very confusing, and I’m not entirely sure what to trust.
“So you aren’t interested in a score?”
“I’m very interested. Just not that kind of score.” His hand traces up my arm and over my shoulder, until he swipes back the hair covering my collarbone. “Listen, financially speaking, I don’t need this. Trust me, I’m well compensated by my boss. But I like helping people.”
I quirk a brow in skepticism.
“Okay, let me rephrase. You were going to do this with or without me, correct?”
I nod.
“You didn’t have the best plan in place, and I’m sure you can admit that I came up with a better one…”
I nod again, although more reluctantly than before.
“And you can also admit I look much better in a suit than your friend who you were going to try to rope into your terrible plan originally?”
My head cocks to the side, and I shoot him an irritated scowl.
“You don’t have to answer that last one,” he says with a smirk. “I saw an opportunity to help you out, and I took it. I happened to be in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”
“How did you happen to be here?” Cillian and I have never discussed what business the Irish mob has in New Orleans.
“Business,” is all he says.
“As in none of mine?” He doesn’t react other than a small shrug. “I get it. And it’s fine. Honestly, it’s probably better I don’t know. Wouldn’t want to end up in the Gulf with cement shoes and all that.”
Cillian chuckles and kisses me briefly. “It’s been years since we used that as a means of disposal.”
That…does not make me feel better. Before I can comment further, our emcee for the evening takes the small stage behind the display of jewelry in the front of the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for coming here tonight.” He proceeds to thank everyone for making the night possible and blah, blah, blah . Thank God this night is almost over. My damn feet are killing me in these heels.
“Now it’s time to announce the winners of our auction. Thank you again to everyone who participated.” The emcee goes down the list and when he gets to the ring Cillian bid on, the breath stalls in my chest. From what I could tell, there were a few slips of paper in the bowl, but wouldn’t it be the worst luck for his name to be called? I doubt he has a credit card or checks with the name William Bentley on them. Or maybe he does. This is Cillian we’re talking about.
“Edmund Bell,” the emcee states.
Phew. One less thing to have to worry about.
After he’s announced all the winners of the auction, the room begins to thin out, and we decide to head back to the suite so we can start phase two.
I change into another dress, this one a little less fancy-pants than the one before, but still as flowy and romantic. When it comes to disguises, I always pick something I normally wouldn’t be caught dead in. Instead of a blonde wig, I change into a long golden-copper wig and swipe the pink lipstick off to replace it with a nude color. It takes all of five minutes before I step out of the bathroom and into the living room, where Cillian is watching the security cameras in the ballroom where the gala was held.
“There are a few stragglers getting hammered on the free booze,” he says, staring at the screen. “It shouldn’t be too much longer until they take the jewelry to whatever location they’re keeping them safe in.” He glances at me, then his eyes go back to the screen before he does a double take and lets out a low whistle.
“Who’s this?” he asks, leaning back while his gaze sweeps over my new look.
“Ava,” I reply, doing a little spin.
“How many different disguises do you have?”
“Just these two. You like?”
“I do. I’ve always been a sucker for a redhead,” he says with a wink.
“Play your cards right and I’ll keep the wig on later.”
“Nah. When we’re together I like you to be exactly who you truly are.” He turns back to his computer as though those words didn’t strike me like an arrow to the heart, nearly knocking the breath from my lungs.
“Here we go.” Cillian leans closer to his laptop, readying himself.
I have a seat next to him and watch as three men begin packing everything up into black velvet cases and loading them onto a cart.
“Here, take this,” Cillian says, handing me a small earpiece. “As soon as they’re on the move, I’m going to direct you where to go. We don’t know exactly where they’re keeping everything, but I'll follow them on the cameras.”
I put the device in my ear and Cillian puts one in his.
“Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” I reply.
Cillian hands me a card like the one on the belt of the guys packing everything away. “Here. I picked this up earlier today. It’s not coded, but should be easy enough for you to switch it with the one on his belt loop when you run into him, yeah?”
“Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” I reply, and he looks at me from the corner of his eye, shaking his head.
“They’re moving.” Cillian switches between screens to map out exactly where they’re headed then switches back to the camera that faces our door.
“Go time. I’ll direct you through the earpiece. When I tell you to stop, you stop. I’ll be looping footage as you go so you don’t get caught on camera.”
“Not that anyone would recognize me.”
“True, but if it comes down to it, I don’t want anyone being able to get a picture of you that matches a description, even with the getup.” He presses a few buttons, but I don’t see any change. “Okay, time to go.”
Leaning in, I kiss him before standing. “See you down there.”
I step out of the room and into the elevator.
“When you get downstairs, take a right,” Cillian’s voice comes through my earpiece.
The door opens, and I see the camera pointing in my direction. “You have that one covered, yeah?”
“Do you doubt me?”
“Never,” I reply and mean it. I get to the end of the hall and Cillian directs me to take a left, another right, and two more lefts.
“Okay, wait there. I want to see where they go when they leave the room.”
It’s silent for a few moments—except for the loud thumping of my heartbeat in my ears. Every part of me is tingling with anticipation and excitement. I can’t wait to have those jewels in my hand and get the hell out of New Orleans. I haven’t told Harper my plans, but I hope she’s up for a relocation, too. I’m one step closer to that beach bar and finally being able to put the days of counting every last penny behind me.
“He’s leaving the room,” Cillian says into the earpiece. “Okay, Nova, he’s walking in your direction. Three, two, one. Go.”
I tilt my head to the phone in my hand, and as soon as the guy comes around the corner pulling the dolly, I run smack dab into him.
“Oh, my god,” I say as I drop my phone and bend down, fumbling as I attempt to pick it up. The guy is totally caught off guard and bends to try to help me grab my phone, which only serves to have us getting tangled together. My hand goes to his waist as I try to steady myself, and within half a second, I’ve secured the new badge holder with the one in my other hand, slipping it into my pocket.
Dresses with pockets for the win.
“Are you okay, ma'am?”
“Oh, yes,” I reply in a breathy voice. “I really need to pay attention to where I’m walking. I’m so sorry.”
The hotel worker smiles and hands me my phone. “Here you go.”
“Thank you. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s fine. Have a good night, ma’am,” he says, continuing on his way.
“Very smooth, I’m sure. Okay, turn right. The door is the fourth on the left. I’ll meet you in there.”
“Are you going to have a secret knock?” I ask as I head to the doorway and swipe the card. “How will I know it’s you?”
“Well, I figured if I knock and say let me in, you would figure it out.”
“I don’t like it. I still think we need a secret knock. And a password.”
I open the door and slide in, shutting it firmly behind me.
“Fine. What do you suggest? Two quick knocks then two long?”
“And the password is kumquat.”
“Kumquat?” he asks, his tone dry as the Sahara.
“Well it’s not like anyone is going to accidentally let that slip and have me letting them in thinking it’s you.”
“If anyone gets in there, trust me when I tell you, we’re in a lot more trouble than we anticipated.”
“Are you going to pull a gun on them?” I know he doesn’t have one on him, but I like to tease him in a tense situation.
“I told you, I don’t have a gun with me. Besides, there’re plenty of other ways I can incapacitate someone without firing a bullet.”
“Well, aren’t you a jack of all trades?”
“Do you always talk this much when you're nervous?”
“Who says I’m nervous?” I’m totally nervous but mostly excited. I have every faith that Cillian has this handled on his end, and all I have to do is wait for him here. But damn, I wish he’d hurry.
“I do. You talked nonstop when I first met you and you had no clue what I was going to do with you, and you’re jabber-jawing now.”
“Good lord, are you sure you aren’t an eighty-seven-year-old woman trapped in a hot thirty-something-year-old body?”
“And you’re seriously going to tell me you aren’t nervous?”
“Cool as a cucumber,” I reply.
“Are you sure you aren’t a 1940s jazz sax player trapped in a twenty-something-year-old body?”
“Well, we are in New Orleans. Phantom possessions are practically a regular occurrence around here.”
“As long as he gives you back to me in the next ten seconds.”
There’s a knock at the door. Two short then two long.
“Kumquat,” Cillian says from the other side of the door.
I unlock the door but don’t open it all the way, allowing him to slip in. He silently closes it behind him and smiles when he sees me.
“You don’t look possessed.”
“Does anyone ever really look possessed?” I look at him like that idea is ridiculous.
“In the movies, you can always tell.”
“That’s Hollywood for you. They never get it right,” I say, waving my hand at him.
Cillian shakes his head with a grin on his face. “You’re something else.”
It’s not the first time he’s said that to me, but I have a strong feeling he likes my something else .
We look around the room, which is nothing more than a large supply closet, except for the two tall safes lining the back wall.
“You said you were good with computers. I hope that extends to safes,” I tell Cillian.
“It pains me you didn’t think I’d come prepared.” Cillian sets the duffel bag on the table and pulls out his laptop, along with a small box and a computer cable. He hooks the cable from his computer to the box, then the box to the safe right above the keypad. After pressing a few buttons, Cillian smiles and enters the combination on the safe’s keypad.
“Holy shit,” I breathe out. “I need one of those.”
“I don’t suggest adding B and E to your bag of tricks.”
“Where did you learn all this stuff? And where did you get that fancy box of yours? Is that your business in New Orleans?”
“Cormac Monaghan is my boss’s dad—the head of the Monaghan family when I came on board. He was a bit of a traditionalist. Before Finn took over, he made sure that we had a well-rounded criminal education. His philosophy is you may never need to use it, but it’s a bitch if you do and don’t have it. So, there are three things I never leave home without. My computer, this little black box”—he nods to the contraption on the safe—“and a lock pick set.”
“Cormac sounds like a smart man.”
Cillian opens the safe and inside is case after velvet case stacked in the safe. “He is.”
A wide smile stretches across my face when I kneel next to Cillian and begin filling the bag he brought with him with the cases. Once the safes have been emptied, he sets his computer and the black box on top and zips it closed, grabbing the handle as we both stand.
“All set?” he asks, closing the safe door with his foot.
“Let's go.”