Romancing the Thief (Ring of Thieves #3)

Prologue Addie

Ididn’t grow up like other kids. You might even say my mother’s parenting style was a little… Hmm, unconventional perhaps? But Alma “Angel” Mills taught me everything I know, and I will be forever grateful.

The first time it actually sank in that I wasn’t like other kids was on Christmas, fifteen years ago. While other seventeen-year-old girls got makeup and clothes wrapped up under the tree, I received a set of lockpicks.

Back then, I was still just an innocent baby trying to figure things out. And my annoying little brother was about to get a punch in his nose from my clenched fist…

“Shut up, Ryland! Or I’m going to punch you so hard it’ll straighten your crooked teeth,” I threaten.

His cobalt eyes narrow—eyes exactly the same shade as mine—and he clamps his mouth shut fast, hiding his braces. Unfortunately, it’s only for a second. “Shut your face, a-hole!” he retorts, flipping me off.

Sometimes I wonder why my parents had to have another child. Wasn’t I perfect enough? Guess not, because four years after I was born they had Shitstain.

Okay, so Ryland isn’t always on my last nerve. But some days I absolutely want to throttle him. Like today.

“C’mon, kids, it’s Christmas,” Mom reminds us. “Can’t we all just get along?”

I cross my arms, and my thirteen-year-old brother and I glare at each other. Neither of us says a word, but our shoulders sag, and we know she’s right. Today is Christmas, my favorite day of the year, and I’m not going to let my bratty little brother ruin it.

“I guess,” I grumble.

“Sure, whatever,” Ryland says grudgingly.

“Good, because we have things to do before company arrives,” she announces.

“Company?” I echo, exchanging a look with my brother.

“Who?” he asks suspiciously.

The unspoken question is, “Dad?” But we know better than to ask.

Our father—Nathan “Cross” Mills—left for good a few months ago.

Not that he was ever around very much to begin with.

He’s married to his job as a Navy SEAL. I’d say I miss him, but you have to know and care about someone to recognize a feeling of loss when they’re not there.

And dear old dad? Yeah, I barely know him.

I think his leaving us hit Ryland harder, but at seventeen, I’m old enough to understand sometimes families fall apart. He decided it was more important to save the world than keep his family together. And there’s nothing we can do about it.

I’ve always been closest to my mom, though. We share a tight bond, and I’m not sure what I would do without her.

“Just a friend,” my mom answers vaguely.

“Can I pick their pocket?” I ask jokingly.

Ryland groans. “I wanna go surfing.”

“Not today,” Mom says to him, then turns to me and nods. “Practice makes perfect. But whatever you take, please give it back.”

I smile, making no promises, and my fingers tingle with anticipation.

My mom taught me sleight of hand when I was ten, and I’m an old pro at lifting things off unsuspecting targets.

Most kids my age are focused on choosing a college and counting down the days until graduation.

I’m more interested in learning the art of the heist. And I’m a natural.

One day, I hope to be as good of a thief as Mom is, if not better.

Unlike me, Ryland isn’t interested in the family business at all.

He’d rather be out riding waves. Or talking incessantly about how he’s going to be a SEAL like Dad.

He still looks up to him, idolizes him, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.

He picked his career over us. And that’s not something I’ll ever forgive him for.

My loyalties lie with Mom. She’s always here for us, teaching me things I could never learn in school.

Life skills. Things that may be questionable to some because of their moral ambiguity, but when it comes down to it, we’re not your run-of-the-mill common thief. And we don’t steal from just anybody.

Mom has a lot of pearls of wisdom she’s always sharing and one of them is, “The poorer the mark, the poorer the thief.”

We only steal from the very wealthy. Or assholes. That makes it okay.

“Speaking of our guest, we need to get ready for his arrival. Addie, come into the kitchen and help me make dinner. And, Ryland, go change your clothes.” She eyes his ratty T-shirt and boardshorts. “You look like a beach bum.”

I chuckle and he shoves a shoulder against my arm as he stomps by, heading for the stairs. When I slap him upside the head, he whines, “Ow! Mom, she hit me!”

“Upstairs and change,” she states firmly. “Addie, don’t hit your brother. I want everyone on their best behavior tonight.”

Ryland makes a grumpy sound and I stick my tongue out at him before he hightails it up to his room. Little pain in the butt. As much as I love him, he drives me bonkers sometimes.

We head into the kitchen and I lean against the counter, watching my mom pull out ingredients and a pan.

She makes the most delicious lasagna. I take mental notes as she puts it together.

She likes to add special ingredients that aren’t called for in the recipe.

I’ve learned to pay close attention to the things she does because the lessons I’ve learned, and keep learning, aren’t anything I can find in a textbook.

“So, who’s coming over for dinner?” I ask, stealing a handful of mozzarella cheese. “Please don’t tell me you have a boyfriend.”

She pauses layering the noodles and tilts her head. “And what if he is a boyfriend? He isn’t, but are you saying I’m not allowed to date?”

“No, it’s just…” I frown and shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe in the back of my head, I think Dad might come back.”

In the beginning, I held onto a kernel of hope that he would come back. But now, after we’ve been relegated to sloppy seconds, probably even thirds, I hope he never returns.

Pain flashes across her face before she quickly hides it. “Your father isn’t coming back, Addison. He’s busy with other…things.”

The way she says that, I wonder if she means he’s busy with another woman.

Of course, that makes me dislike him all the more.

Good riddance. How he could ever leave my mom for anyone else boggles my brain.

In my eyes, my mother is perfect and beautiful and smart.

No other woman could possibly be better.

“Can you start the salad, please?” she asks, and I nod.

Then, as she so often does, Mom starts quizzing me. “What is the biggest mistake a rookie thief can make?”

“Going in blind,” I answer easily. “Know what you’re dealing with.”

“Meaning?”

“When you pick your target, find out who it belongs to and what kind of power they have. Then decide if it’s worth the risk.”

“Good.” She sprinkles parmesan cheese on the top layer. “What are two personal qualities necessary to pull off a successful heist?”

I pause cutting a tomato. “Being charming and light on your feet.”

“Because having a silver tongue can get you out of a jam,” she elaborates. “That will be your most valuable asset. And always look like you belong. But what if you can’t talk your way out of something?”

“Run.”

“Right. But running isn’t just about beating your feet against the pavement and controlling your breathing. It’s about fluidity of movement, so you need to practice.”

“Like go jogging?”

“Like practice falling from something high up. Jump over railings. Use walls to climb up onto a roof. Find some buildings to play around with and do some parkour. Practice running as fast as you can, stretch your muscles and let your instincts guide you. Eventually everything will become muscle memory.”

“Parkour?” I repeat dubiously. “I’ll never be able to do that.”

“Practice makes permanent. You’d be surprised at what you can do. And what do I always tell you about your exit strategy?”

“Always have a second escape route.”

“Exactly. Parkour will give you a second, third and fourth escape route. Your setting becomes your playground. Master it, and you can move efficiently in any environment by jumping, vaulting and climbing. It’ll develop physical skills like strength, agility and balance, as well as confidence and problem solving abilities. ”

Soaking in her words, I watch as she puts the lasagna in the oven and sets the timer. My mother is the wisest person I know. Ryland might put our father on a pedestal, but I’ve reserved that position solely for Mom.

“Can you set the table?” Mom asks, reaching for the knife. “I’m going to cut the bread.”

“Sure.”

She takes a quick look at the clock. “Mr. Fleet will be here at six. I expect you to be on your best behavior—no fighting with your brother.”

“I know.” I let out a sigh, open the cupboard and reach up to grab four plates. I have no idea who this Mr. Fleet is, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough.