Little Bird (Hawke’s Wood #1)

Chapter 1

Taryn

We shouldn’t be doing this.

Honestly, we shouldn’t even be considering it.

Then again, that’s nothing new for me. I’ve been thinking a version of that for most of my life. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t belong.

The people around me don’t want me here.

But I digress.

And also, the people in front of me definitely do want me here. Because they’re my best friends. My sisters from another mister (or two).

My other halves. If you’re allowed to have more than one.

Stella Fontenot slumps forward, nearly knocking over the milkshakes littering the table, and I tear my focus away from my thoughts and back to the space in front of me.

“Stella, careful!” Arden breathes, snatching at the milkshakes. She sets them out of the way, then turns judgmental blue eyes on our self-declared Minister of Mischief.

Stella, said minister, just gives Arden a defiant grin. “Grow up, Arden. Those cups are empty. And we’ve got planning to do.”

Arden huffs a frustrated sigh and keeps moving the cups away, her eyes dark with suspicion, and I suppress a grin.

My first of the night, if I’m being honest, but probably not my last. Stella and Arden are like a comic duo, even when we’re in the middle of a scheme that’s definitely going to get us in trouble.

It’s midnight in the city and we’re out way past curfew and huddled in our favorite corner café, the table in front of us crowded with glasses that once held milkshakes and a plate that still holds a few cheese fries.

Around us, the diner is mostly quiet, half the lights dimmed for closing.

There aren’t many patrons in here anymore, and I’m not even sure why those have been allowed to stay.

This café was supposed to close half an hour ago.

I cock my head at the thought, everything inside me focusing on it as I realize that there’s something wrong there.

We’re still allowed because of who our families are—Stella is a Fontenot, but her father is part of the Poffo clan, and that gives her specific rights.

Arden is a twice-removed Rossi, so although she doesn’t have a lot of power, she does have a name that gets results. And me?

I’m the bastard stepchild of one of the higher-ups in the Massimo clan.

Well. Not a bastard. But not exactly claimed, either.

Still, the point is the same. The owner of the café kept the place open for us because of who we are and how much money we spend here.

But the rest of the restaurant should be empty.

And it’s not.

“Stella, did you tell Joe to keep the place open for other patrons?” I ask, my eyes on a man in the back who looks way too alert for the middle of the night on a Tuesday.

I realize too late that Stella was saying something, and when her eyes turn toward me, they’re dark with anger.

Stella hates being interrupted.

“Yes,” she snaps. “Because it’s less suspicious if we’re not the only ones in here. Which you’d know if you were paying attention.”

Her voice falls silent and she glares at me in that intense, hyper-focused way she has when she expects something.

I’ve known her for long enough to know exactly what she’s waiting for.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll pay attention, I swear,” I whisper, giving in as quickly as possible.

Don’t look at me that way. My life is a whole lot easier when I give Stella her way. Besides, she’s right. We’re here to do some important planning, and I’m getting too lost in my head to pay attention.

One more beat of Stella aiming her laser beam eyes at me and she nods, forgiving me just as quickly, then turns back to Arden and the paper I now realize she’s laid across the table.

The paper doesn’t have a lot on it—scribbles, mostly—but they must mean something to Stell, because she looks down again, grinning.

“The store is right down the street,” she whispers, her voice full of conspiracy and secrets. “And I happen to know that there’s only one guard there right now.”

“Yeah, one guard with a gun and a walkie for backup,” Arden grouses. “I still say this is a bad idea. We’re bound to get caught.”

Stella’s glare turns to our friend, the least outgoing of our little trio, and I almost laugh.

Because Arden’s right, too. We’re here because Stella’s been bored for the last week—the first of our Christmas break from NYU—and decided earlier today that we needed to do something to break up the monotony.

Something exciting, she said.

Something dangerous, she meant.

Not that I should expect anything different.

Stella Fontenot, heir apparent to the section of the Poffo family controlled by her father, grew up rich and spoiled and has never met an adventure she didn’t like.

She meets every challenge head on and picks every fight she can.

I don’t think the girl knows the meaning of the words ‘you might fail.’

The problem is, she always succeeds. If she gets into a scrape, she finds a way out of it, by hook or by crook. Her brain works faster than anyone else’s, and if she can’t plan her way out of something, she uses her intellect to talk the other person down.

She also hates her father with a passion so hot it rivals the sun. And though I’ve never asked her about it, I suspect that her pranks tend toward things that will get under his skin and bite him.

I don’t know what he ever did to her.

And even if I asked, I doubt she’d tell me.

But all that is how we come to be here, sitting in our favorite diner at midnight, surrounded by the biting chill of New York City in the winter and planning our first jewelry heist. The target: L’angerie, the jewelry store on the next block.

Our mission: Steal the most expensive tiara in the entire place.

The problem: the security guard, alarm system, and cameras the store inevitably has waiting for us.

It’s a bad idea, and we’re bound to get caught. Arden’s right about that part.

But I think that’s part of Stella’s plan, too. Because the owner of that little store?

Her very own father.

And I don’t think she’d like anything better than to show him that she doesn’t give a single fuck about breaking his things.

And me? What part do I play in this little trio?

I’m the heart and soul. The one that loves Stella and Arden so much that I’d sell my soul for either of them. And if it comes down to it, I’m the one who will throw my body in between them and any bullets flying our way.

I mean it’s not usually anything that dramatic.

But ask either of them and they’ll tell you that I’m the glue that holds us all together.

I spend my days selling myself to keep these two from cutting each other to shreds.

And I’m happy to do it, because since we moved to this city when I was sixteen and my mom took up with Johnny Massimo, these two girls—dark, sassy Stella Fontenot and tiny, mousy Arden Rossi—are the only ones who’ve ever made me feel like I matter.

My mother certainly never has.

And I’m not sure Johnny Massimo—my stepfather—even knows my middle name.

It’s Elizabeth, by the way. After my real father’s mother.

“How are we supposed to get by the guy with the guns, Stella?” I ask, sliding right through the vague memory of my father and his parents and leaning toward my friend. “I don’t know about you, but I didn’t bring a gun. If he starts shooting at us—”

She scoffs, tossing her black curls over her shoulder. “He won’t. I’ve already made arrangements with him.”

Wait, what?

“Arrangements?” Arden hisses. “What the fuck does that mean?”

I glance at her, surprised at the cuss—Arden almost never cusses—but can’t ask anything before Stella is giving us a low, sultry chuckle.

“I mean I made arrangements,” she says, her tone telling me exactly what she means. “He’s not going to bother us.”

“You slept with him?” I gasp. “In return for letting us into the store? So this whole plan, this whole scheme, is just to walk down there so he can open the door for us?”

Stella’s lips curve into a smile so dangerous that I almost have to admire her.

“Is that a problem?”

Of course it isn’t. Because she’s done what she always does, finding the easiest way through a situation and making sure we take that path. Regardless of how much she had to cheat to find it.

I grin back at her, despite myself.

“Does it really qualify as a rebellion if we’re not doing any work?” I ask.

She shrugs and makes a face. “Who says I didn’t put in any work? The guy was terrible in bed. Besides, all that matters is that my father knows he got ripped off, and that I was in on it. I don’t give a fuck how it happens. I only care that it does.”

I shake my head, wishing for a moment that I had even half her confidence. Or her direction. I’ve never met anyone more sure of themselves than Stella, and for a moment—just a moment—I wish I felt that dedicated to anything.

I wish I had that bone-deep conviction that I was doing the right thing.

Before I can follow that any further, though, or decide not to look at it too closely, everything shifts.

The lights in the place grow somehow dimmer, and the space around us thickens with tension I don’t understand.

It feels like the air is suddenly saturated with evil, and I swear something tastes different.

When I take a breath, I can hardly hold it, and the skin on the back of my neck is prickling, some long-forgotten instinct warning me that something is very, very wrong.

I’ve never been in a horror movie, but if we were, the danger! music would be playing right now.

I look up and meet Stella’s eyes, register the same awareness, and turn my gaze to Arden to see that she’s gone chalky white, her hazel eyes far too big for her face.

“What’s going on?” she mouths, her eyes on mine and her hands reaching for me.