Chapter 2
Two
Rowen
“Ignore him,” Markel sighed—talking about me, of course—shaking the ice in his empty glass and looking around as if the waitstaff were awaiting his beck and call. “I need a refill.”
“So do we,” I shot back, snatching my new friend’s empty glass and practically shoving it at my nemesis. “A Boulevardier for Moneybags here and an amaretto sour for me. Extra sweet.”
Agent Markel’s face was turning a lovely shade of purple at this point, but before he could take a swing at me, the older guy in the pinstripe suit threw his arm around the washed-up Fed’s shoulders and guided him back inside.
Smell ya later, G-man.
“I’ll send out a waiter with your drink orders, Giano!” Pinstripes called over his shoulder as they crossed the threshold, the familiarity implying they had a close relationship. “Enjoy talking to one of the greatest art thieves of the last twenty years.”
Psssh…
The last century at least.
If “Giano” was surprised by the news of my provenance, he didn’t show it. His conventionally handsome face was the epitome of calm—a perfect example of the placid mask all rich people wore, because they’d never had to deal with the struggles of real life the way us “poors” did.
Some of us more than others.
Opportunity rarely came knocking for unwanted orphans like me, so I’d muscled my way to the top the only way I knew how: With grit, hustle, and a laundry list of misdemeanors along the way.
I hadn’t set out to be an art thief. If I was being honest—which I rarely was—I hadn’t set out to be much of anything, but then I caught my first whiff of real possibility and everything changed.
I was fourteen or fifteen at the time, running a shell game near the aquarium in hopes of scamming the tourists passing through town.
My foster siblings sometimes came along to act as shills, but on that particular day I was alone.
The weather had been the right kind of hot to send people beelining directly from the air-conditioned aquarium to the ice cream stand I was strategically set up next to, and I’d raked in a thick stack of cash to show for it.
In fact, I’d done so well, I was considering packing up early.
Especially since I’d noticed I was being watched.
He wasn’t a cop—not even in plainclothes.
No cop dressed in a suit that nice, with the gold of his no-doubt astronomically expensive watch catching the light from beneath his jacket cuff.
Either way, I didn’t like the attention, but as I stood to begin breaking down my scrap wood table, he approached.
“What do you say to one last game, kid? I bet I can win.”
I’d scoffed, mostly because there was no winning the shell game, but also because, who did that guy think he was? Even though my instincts were screaming at me to ignore the asshole and be on my way, I could never resist a challenge.
Especially coming from a hot man in a nice suit.
I’d gestured for him to take the overturned bucket across from mine as we both sat. “All right. Since I’m doin’ you a favor, that’ll be twenty.”
The man had dismissively glanced at the “ten dollars per game” scrawled on my handwritten sign before smirking. “I’ll wager more than that.”
Before I could haggle for higher than whatever he was thinking, that motherfucker removed his watch—which I later learned was a Piguet worth more than most made in a year—and laid it on the table.
My shock must have been apparent, because he’d openly laughed. “Since you’re doing me a favor, you may have this keepsake if you win. But if I win, I get whatever cash you made today.”
“That’s not how—” I’d started to argue, but he’d abruptly held up a hand before removing his ring and slipping it into his suit jacket pocket.
The unexpected movement was enough to shush me, which I’d assumed was the point.
In reality, it was a distraction—a slick sleight of hand—and it would be years before I forgave myself for missing it.
At the time, I’d greedily agreed to the wager, because that watch was calling my name like a siren’s song and, as I said, there was no winning the shell game—not unless you were a hustler like me.
Or a hustler far more skilled than me.
The trick was found in your mark believing you’d actually left the ping pong ball under a cup in the first place, instead of palming it in your hand. Once you’d stopped moving the three cups around the table, you waited for them to pick one before deftly slipping the ball beneath another.
I’d done it a million times—could do it in my sleep—so imagine my surprise when this man who looked like he’d been born with an entire drawer full of silver spoons lifted the correct cup, revealing the ball I most definitely hadn’t put there.
My jaw was still on the floor when he’d picked his watch up off the table with one hand while expectantly holding out the other. “Time to pay up.”
I’d done as he’d asked without argument, because a deal was a deal. My only saving grace was that I’d managed to hide a few bills in my worn out sneaker when I bent down to retrieve the rest.
Unfortunately, the victor hadn’t immediately walked away after my crushing defeat. Instead, he’d stood over me while slowly refastening the watch around his wrist, dangling that impossible prize in front of my face until my shock and humiliation had transformed into a seething rage.
“Word of advice, kid,” he’d drawled, reaching into the pocket where he’d stashed his ring before tossing another ping pong ball onto the table. “Never let ‘em touch the cup.”
With that, he’d strode away, and I’d had enough sense to realize—beneath my embarrassment—that I’d just been taught a valuable lesson.
An expensive lesson, but still.
From that day forward, I assumed everyone I met was exactly as crooked as I was.
I also realized that if I wanted to be the kind of man who looked like they didn’t need to steal while smoothly robbing others blind, I would have to take several steps up from running the shell game.
This meant I needed to prove I could handle more serious crimes, and the pressure that came along with it—but I was young and dumb.
More importantly, I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
My newfound ambition, and connections I made along the way, opened doors for me I otherwise wouldn’t have been allowed near, and by the time I outgrew the foster system, my light-fingered services were already in high demand.
What started as petty crime grew more refined as the years went on, and it wasn’t long before I was acquiring art for black market buyers—liberating it from various museums with laughable security systems.
Until the day I got caught.
It was an amateur mistake, and one I’d been kicking myself for ever since.
About three years ago, I’d lifted a small bronze statue from a Gilded Age mansion and museum for a buyer in South America.
The heist went off without a hitch, but another piece had caught my eye while I was in there—one I knew a regular client of mine would agree to pay top dollar for.
So I went back for it.
Like a fool.
I should have learned my lesson the first time—during that hot summer’s day outside the aquarium—but it took real consequences to finally hammer it home.
Never give someone else the chance to take you down.
“I bet you’re wondering what a world famous art thief is doing at a party like this?” I asked my new, rich bitch friend as we awaited our drinks on The Skyline terrace. “Surrounded by a bunch of Feds from the Art Crime Team.”
Giancarlo fucking Luxford’s honey-brown eyes dropped from the top of my head—what the hell was he looking at?—to my face, his expression still chiseled out of emotionless marble.
Seriously chiseled.
Look at those goddamn cheekbones!
“Do you want to tell me why?” he calmly answered my question with another question, which seemed awfully avoidant, but he also wasn’t wrong.
Because, yes.
I do.
“Well, I work for the Art Crime Team as a consultant—oh, bless you, child!” I gratefully accepted my amaretto sour from the waiter who’d magically appeared on the terrace, tossing a few dollars on their tray before turning my attention back to Giancarlo. “It’s part of my parole.”
Once again, he gave me zero reaction, instead taking his drink and offering the waiter a polite nod before setting a crisp fifty atop my crumpled bills.
That felt personal.
But now I know which pocket he keeps his money in!
As I debated whether I should try and pickpocket the bazillionaire who owned the hotel we were perched upon, Giancarlo took a quiet sip of his Boulevardier and turned that honeyed gaze my way again.
“Is it a requirement of your parole that you socialize with federal agents outside of business hours?”
“No…” I grinned, thrilled that the only interesting person here was willingly engaging with me. “But the promise of an open bar was too tempting to ignore.”
His perfectly symmetrical lips twitched with what might have been a smile, which made my chest warm in an alarming way. So, naturally, I needed to restore the balance of the universe by asserting dominance.
“Why are you here, Moneybags?” I asked, my tone sharp with annoyance at myself. “Did someone make off with the Luxford private art collection and now you need Marky Markel to help get it back?”
His thick, black eyebrows furrowed the teensiest bit, promising a reaction. “No. My appraiser was assisting me earlier today with getting my collection prepared for auction. He invited—”
“Your Daddy in the pinstripes, you mean?” I countered, determined to throw this man off-kilter.
“My… what?” Now he was getting flustered and I was getting semi-hard as a result. “My father died when I was young.”
I ignored the twinge of adoration over how this sheltered rich boy thought I meant that kind of father figure and powered forth with another jab.
“Oh, so now you’re an orphan, hmm?”
“What?!” he snapped, true anger flashing across his annoyingly attractive face. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
Because being an orphan like me is a fate worse than death.
I felt an odd mix of triumph over how I’d managed to crack that unbothered facade, but before I could continue to poke the bear, Daddy Pinstripes reappeared.
“Hey, Giano! Come with me for a minute, yeah? I want to introduce you to the supervisor for this division…”
My boss.
That this wannabe gangster not only got the nickname privilege but considered himself the keeper of one of the wealthiest men in the city had an aggravating blast of jealousy shooting up my spine.
Unacceptable.
Even though I knew he wasn’t personally to blame for my woes, Giancarlo represented everything that was. Actually, I was sure he was somehow to blame, and I decided to make it my mission to figure out how.
Giancarlo Luxford will remember me if it’s the last thing I do.
“Good luck with your auction, Giano!” I called out in the direction of his—deliciously broad—retreating back. “It’s a shame none of your collection has been stolen. It sure would increase the value in the marketplace.”
Since the rich love to slum it with a good scandal that otherwise doesn’t touch them.
Giancarlo glanced at me over his shoulder, but instead of the glare I deserved, I saw confusion and…
Longing?
That was not what I’d been expecting, and it left me so off-balance, I downed my mixed drink like a shot and trotted straight to the bar for another.
The rabble inside were beyond plastered at this point, with some even singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” to the agent breaking free of his federal chains.
I wish.
This feels like a life sentence for me…
As I finished my drink, I snapped a few photos of a disheveled Markel—for blackmail purposes, of course—before heading for the exit, and so what if I unnecessarily squeezed past Giancarlo on my way out?
The man smelled expensive, and it gave me the opportunity to slip my business card into his suit jacket pocket—the same pocket where he’d stashed his cash.
And so what if I snagged a few crisp fifties for myself as I did so?
I deserve a little treat.