The Damsel and Her Villian (Stolen Love Duology #2)

Chapter 1

Grayson “Gray”

Betty, my sweet, elusive buttercup, dropped from the roof access on a rappel rope, zipping effortlessly down ten stories, like a lure cast into the sea.

My breath seized with the involuntary chill of being this close to her at last. A year away was too long.

Clad in black, her heist attire clung to her hourglass frame, showcasing every luscious curve. She moved like smoke, her entire being so naturally sensual that it was a wonder she didn’t have a line of men at her door every morning, vying for her attention.

Her rappel slowed as she reached the ground, and as her toe brushed the floor, light as a whisper, she exhaled softly from the effort. Unclipping from the rope, the metallic rattle echoed in the vast warehouse, and the carabiners fell slack against her hips.

When she’d found me on the dark web a little over a year prior, her naturally provocative and flirtatious messaging had instantly drawn me in.

I knew then she’d be a beauty in real life; there was no doubt.

Her chat nickname was ‘WhatsUpButtercup’, an intriguing name to find in such a dreary and depraved place.

She stood out like the wildflower she was, in a field of deadly assassins and depraved assholes.

A heist was her reason for being there. She was looking for information and a partner willing to help pull it off. When I found out she was after art stolen by the mafia, I knew I had to be the one to answer the call. The mafia was my realm, and antagonizing them was my particular specialty.

I’d heard about ‘WhatsUpButtercup’ before. She was connected to many art heists over the years and garnered quite the reputation for success.

I worried, though. The Mafia family she had her sights set on was notoriously brutal; I would know. A beautiful golden flower like that couldn’t possibly survive.

Before I ever met Betty in person, before I even knew her real name or heard her real voice, I felt compelled to protect her.

Call it fate, a cosmic wink—something almost magical.

She’d triggered a part of me buried deep in my bones, a feeling that compelled me to rise and be the villain she needed me to be.

I was the only one who could stand at her back and keep her safe.

After all—I was the mafia’s greatest threat, because I was the mafia, once—and this was my family, or what was left of it.

Only I had the skills and knowledge enough to evade their wrath and keep her alive, especially considering I’d successfully avoided them for over a decade now.

I entered the chat and answered her call for help before anyone less qualified came along. When I learned what she was after—a lost Rembrandt landscape—I knew immediately that fate did indeed have a role in this.

In 1972, it’s rumored that the mafia stole the artwork from a Canadian museum.

It was a simple heist, exploiting a disabled alarm on a skylight—smash, grab, and it disappeared, along with seventeen other pieces.

Today, experts estimate the stolen piece to be worth over $20 million.

I was always surprised that its value wasn’t higher, but perhaps its value would increase if it were discovered again, making it infamous.

Today, the recovery reward offered by a private equity firm that had owned it was a hefty $250,000, an attractive purse to the lucky thief who could get to it first. And yet, it had eluded many, mostly because of the danger—but not ‘WhatsUpButtercup’.

Luckily for her, I knew exactly where it was, and with my help, she would succeed.

I’d seen that piece enough times to recall every brushstroke. It stared down at me as a young child, above the desk of the man responsible for the worst day of my life—my uncle Matteo. That asshole deserved to lose it, along with his life, but for now I’d settle for the art.

With my help in overriding surveillance and guiding her way via earpiece, she’d completed her job without being seen. The equity firm granted her reward, and she offered me a modest helper’s fee which she was eager to hand over in person.

I didn’t take the offer.

Instead, I swapped the payment for an evening of cocktails.

The counteroffer had intrigued her, as I hoped it would.

I was the mysterious man in her ear, the gravelly voice she’d admitted to loving while she snuck through the corridors of my uncle’s building.

I, in return, had openly admired her form on camera, commenting on her beauty and grace, and relishing the blush my praise brought to her cheeks that night.

She agreed to meet.

Cocktails turned into dinner, then dessert. I never wanted the night to end, and it seemed she felt the same. I let her take me home. We spent the night together, tangled and breathless. It was the best damn night of my life.

I couldn’t help but rehash the highlights now as my gaze roved over her body in the skintight suit she was wearing.

My senses remembered every curve, every taste of her sweet lips, and the smell of her soft skin.

I’d worshipped her with insatiable abandon, and not only her body, but her stories, too.

She was a witty and fascinating woman—an art restoration specialist by day, an art recovery thief by night.

Smart, beautiful, sexy, a spitfire—never in my life had I met someone so multifaceted.

Betty tugged the rappel rope twice, carabiners jingling at her side.

When she let go, the rope swung free, then shook.

The rest of her party latched on overhead and followed in her footsteps.

There were three of them in total. I’d seen and heard them arrive on the surveillance cameras when her silver Porsche screamed into the alley.

They were here to retrieve two pieces of art I’d stolen from them in my ploy to get Betty’s attention.

Their family, the Beaumonts, owned one of the largest art auction houses in New York, and I knew stealing a few major pieces right out from under them was an excellent way to regain her attention.

She’d been hard to corner the last few weeks since my return, refusing my messages, ignoring the notes I left for her all over her house.

She was mad at me and playing hard to get. I liked it. She had a good reason to be angry. I’d ghosted her after our incredible night together, but I had no choice. While it had been an entire year, it was better to come back now than never, and refreshing to find that she hadn’t yet moved on.

Did she miss me too?

I was certain she’d understand if she knew the reason, but she wouldn’t let me explain. I’d left to keep her safe.

The Rembrandt heist had backfired. My uncle was furious.

While I’d expected a reaction, of course, I hadn’t expected it to be that strong.

Apparently, the painting meant a lot more than just money to him; it was the principle of it.

How dare someone get that close to the nucleus of his empire?

Letting something like that get taken was a symbol of his weakness within the business, and he couldn’t let that stand.

He lit up the internet with offers to find the person responsible, dead or alive.

Money was no object; sizable rewards were offered for even the smallest hint of information.

Terrified that Betty would be exposed, I convinced Matteo that it had been me who stole it.

All bounties and orders now pointed in my direction.

I was a dead man walking.

In order to survive, I left New York to draw their attention elsewhere. My uncle’s threats against my life were nothing new, though now more complicated. It was worth it, though; besides, what’s one more target on my back when there were already plenty?

Her life was more important. I led them on a fruitless chase around the world before I settled into hiding at the place I called home, the only place I could finally breathe—my wilderness hideaway.

There, I forced myself to find contentment with the cameras I’d left hidden around Betty’s house. I’d check in daily and get my dose of Buttercup before going about my lonely existence, just trying to pull through. It allowed me a glimpse into her life, a small crumb to keep me going this long.

Betty spun, eyes skipping past me as I blended seamlessly with the shadows. Her midnight-brown hair was tied back in a tight ponytail. A pair of pearl earrings caught the light, winking back at me. She wore a black baseball cap on her head, hiding what I knew to be striking whiskey-colored eyes.

I also wore a cap, pulling it low on my brow. I leaned casually against a rusty metal pole, arms crossed, and waited. The overhead lights were stark but minimal. Behind me, my surveillance computers hummed quietly in a dark corner, their screens asleep.

Coming back was still a dangerous choice, but I had to see her, even if this was the last time. The mafia—my uncle—would never stop hunting me; I had to accept that. If I wanted to continue to keep her safe, this would have to be my last goodbye.

It was time to let her go.

The abandoned warehouse where we stood had been my on and off home base when I came to New York.

There were very few of my safe houses left that the mafia hadn’t learned about.

I’d been here a few weeks, and just today chatter handed down to me by my buddy Ethan suggested my uncle knew I was back and was close to discovering this final refuge.

I hoped to have had more time. I’d been careful when I left the warehouse to enter the city, but with technology advancing so quickly, staying hidden in New York was getting tough. Despite my best efforts, it was clear this place was done for me. Regrettably, I’d never come back.

It felt like a stab in the chest.