Chapter 6
Six
Rowen
What is he thinking?
No.
What am I thinking?!
There was no good reason for me to be planning a goddamn art heist—an inside job—especially not with an aggravatingly hot billionaire who didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Yet, here I was, doing exactly that.
It wasn’t just stupidity on my part, although it was partly that.
The main reason I’d agreed to this scheme was because of the obscene amount of money Giancarlo was offering as my cut, and the freedom that money could buy me.
As humiliating as my little panic attack in his home office had been, it was genuine.
The idea of being trapped behind bars for 10 to 20 years made me want to throw myself into the Hudson River, and it was because of the threat of jail time that I’d once taken a plea deal I’d regretted ever since.
And now I’m trapped in a different kind of prison.
Part of my deal with the FBI had been to give up the names of some fairly Bad Men, but even the possibility of a future hit didn’t scare me half as much as the thought of consulting for the Art Crime Team until the day I died.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t fit for employment anywhere else—not when my only marketable skills were stealing and transporting cultural property.
Plea deal or not, the felony theft conviction was a black mark on my record, so unless I wanted to go flip burgers for minimum wage, which I didn’t, I was beholden to the very people who could just as easily lock me up for a long time.
Somewhere along the way, my resentment over the situation had turned into resignation, because I was self-aware enough to acknowledge it was my own damn fault I’d ended up here.
It felt inevitable, in a way, and the only thing that kept me going most days was the knowledge I’d done what I needed to survive.
Just like always.
Then Giancarlo fucking Luxford had to come along and offer me an offshore bank account full of ill-gotten gains in exchange for staging a fake heist to increase the value of his mother’s art collection at auction.
The man may as well have proposed.
This was the excitement I’d been missing over the past few years, and that it came from an unexpected source made it all the more thrilling.
An unexpected, slightly helpless source…
It wasn’t that I was surprised a billionaire wanted to game the system—that was kind of their thing—but Giano seemed so out of his comfort zone, not just with this scheme but with life in general.
Poor little rich boy.
Poor little rich boy who might end up in jail without my help.
I stopped walking and dropped my head back with a sigh.
This is not good.
As big of a draw as the money was, it was also Giancarlo’s infuriatingly endearing cluelessness—the pure terror on his face when I mentioned his home possibly being tapped—that had sealed the deal.
My suspicions about him setting me up had vanished at that moment, because what I saw wasn’t a man getting caught in the act.
It was a boy realizing too late there were actual consequences to his illegal actions.
Highly relatable.
What wasn’t familiar was the weird urge I had to protect this trust-funded dum-dum from getting himself into trouble—especially when it wasn’t even my problem.
Maybe the high altitude of his villain lair messed with my brain…
More than anything, I was dying to know why Giano needed the money—what dark secret he was trying to bury. Not because I cared but because I knew better than anyone that having dirt on your business partners was useful in case things went south.
The squeak-hiss of an M4 braking directly next to my ear made me realize I was standing at a bus stop. My “fancy shoes” were making my feet hurt anyway, so I climbed aboard and plopped onto a seat near the front.
This gave me the opportunity to pull out my phone and conduct some light Google stalking of my new partner—more than I’d already done, that is.
To my continued annoyance, Giano didn’t have a social media presence at all, and what press there was on him was extremely limited, without a hint of scandal.
Such a good little billionaire.
Because I still had a ways to go before the bus reached Herald Square, I decided to get specific by googling “Giancarlo Luxford boyfriend.”
Purely because I’m nosey.
No photos of Giano with another man came up—not even gossipy speculation—which meant he kept his “not heterosexual in the least” status close to the chest.
Yet he had no problem telling me…
Some might consider using that as dirt, but outing someone wasn’t my style. A person’s sexual orientation and gender identity were their business alone, and unrelated to whether or not I thought they were an asshole.
I’m an equal opportunity hater.
What did come up with my latest Google search were results for “Giancarlo Luxford girlfriend”—multiple photos of Giano at various charity events with fashion model Anastasia Bosco on his arm.
Interesting…
It certainly wasn’t a problem if Giano was bi, since that’s how I rolled, but he gave the impression of someone who’d been dragged to a family function against their will in every photo with Anastasia.
Meanwhile, he’d looked at me with a predatory focus—like he wanted to eat me up and wash it down with a nice, long… drink.
The feeling is, unfortunately, mutual.
This attraction could be a problem. I usually didn’t mix business with pleasure, because that’s when things got messy in ways that royally fucked up the job. If I decided to sleep with him—and who was I kidding, of course I would—the affair would need to be treated as just another part of the deal.
It would also need to stay a very discreet, dirty little secret.
And something tells me Giancarlo Luxford would have no problem with that.
I ignored the twinge of inconvenient emotion trying to surface at that thought and focused on the facts.
Our conversation tonight—written back and forth on a single sheet torn from his leatherbound notepad—had mostly focused on what Giano would pay me for making the art temporarily disappear, along with a loose plan of meeting again to discuss next steps.
Understandably, he had to get back to schmoozing with his rich bitch guests, and we both agreed it would be better if I snuck out via the service entrance before the press arrived and started taking photos.
If word got out that I’d been at his little art party, it wouldn’t take long for scrutiny to fall on me as an obvious suspect.
As he’d led me down the back hallways of his ridiculously spacious apartment, I showed him how to permanently delete our texts and call log from his phone and helped him download Signal as an encrypted option for future text conversations.
Because ya boy doesn’t do phone calls.
Giano took all my expert advice in stride, but by the time we parted ways, I could see his cool cucumber mask beginning to crack.
If I’d suggested checking for bugs and buying a burner, he may have evaporated completely.
He didn’t need to be worried—not at this stage anyway. Once we’d ironed out the details for our next meeting, I’d burned the evidence of our incriminating conversation with his fancy monogrammed lighter.
The same lighter that’s now rattling around my pocket as a keepsake.
Oops.
At this point, the bus reached the end of its route. I hopped off and walked a block before descending into the stifling heat of the subway, miraculously leaping onto a B train right as the doors were closing.
I’m never this lucky.
The entire situation with Giancarlo felt too good to be true, especially with the tension simmering between us tonight.
With how he’d let me… handle him.
I dropped my head back against the smeared glass this time, willing myself not to get a boner two feet away from a drunk passed out across the grimy seats.
It was no use. By the time I emerged at Grand Street, I couldn’t hustle to my Chinatown apartment fast enough.
After wrestling with my key in the janky lock for a solid minute, I was inside, and the first thing I did was remove my suit jacket and carefully sling it over one of the two chairs at my tiny kitchen table.
I sighed in relief, but before I could walk away and fully undress, my work phone—because no way in hell was I using my phone for police business—lit up with an incoming message.
Motherfuckers.
The only reason I looked was because I desperately wanted to be thinking about anything except Giancarlo Luxford and his sex potion cologne still hanging over me like a mystical cloud.
Of course the text was Agent Markel telling—not asking—me to join him uptown at The Andervelt Museum at 4:00 p.m. to discuss a recent robbery with the director.
Ooh!
As much as I hated to admit it, my role with the Art Crime Team had allowed me to remain close to the world I once knew—the only world I’d ever felt a part of.
Most cases I was assigned weren’t overly exciting, but this one sounded promising.
More importantly, I could use tomorrow’s outing as an opportunity to see Giancarlo Luxford again sooner than later.
This is very bad.
I sent Markel a passive aggressive thumbs up emoji before switching back to my personal phone, opening Signal, and messaging Giano.
I’ve been summoned to The Andervelt at 4 tomorrow for official “team” business. Wanna meet up for drinks afterwards?
Since The Skyline is right around the corner and all…
I hadn’t expected a reply to my text tonight—since surely the air-pastries and twigs were still going strong—so I was surprised when three dots immediately appeared.
Surprised and turned on all over again.
Moneybags
I’m looking forward to it.
I could have left it at that—should have—but I was still high off the promised proximity to crime, and the lingering scent of Eau de Moneybags I could smell on my dress shirt.
From when I frisked him and he liked it.
Emboldened, I texted back, physically unable not to flirt with this man.
Wear something pretty for me.
I resisted adding he shouldn’t skip the cologne, but I had a feeling it was as much a part of his armor as that placid mask he wore.
The one I’ve managed to crack…
Three dots appeared and disappeared a couple of times before he went silent. While he’d most likely been pulled into a conversation about his “odd” childhood with Mrs. Winchester, I chose to believe he’d needed to find a private room to rub one out.
Just like I’m about to do.
No longer able to deny that I wanted Giano in a very not hetero way, I kicked off my shoes and hastily shed the rest of my clothes down the narrow hallway before flinging open the bathroom door so forcefully, I cracked the tile.
The icy blast that hit my skin when I stepped past the shower curtain did nothing to cool me down. If anything it only made me angrier—about this shitty, closet-sized apartment, about my indentured servitude with the enemy, and about the unattainable man I couldn’t get out of my head.
Who’s technically also “the enemy.”
Because that was the real reason I couldn’t resist getting into bed, in a business sense, with Giancarlo Luxford.
This was my chance to witness just how corrupt I’d always known those with money and power could be—to allow not only his wealth but his wickedness to wash over me like the baptism I’d once received as an orphan at St. Anthony’s Home for Lost Children.
To know he’s just as rotten inside as I am.
Even though jerking off was the entire point of getting in the shower, I groaned to find my hand desperately shuttling over my achingly hard dick of its own accord.
I hadn’t grabbed any soap, so the glide was rough, but it felt appropriate.
I wanted it to hurt. I wanted it to hurt in the same way I knew this entire situation would once Giano got what he wanted and paid me off to disappear like another one of his dirty secrets.
Pain was inevitable when you flew too close to the sun, but I already knew I lacked the self-preservation to change my course.
I could never resist a challenge.
Especially from a hot man in a nice suit.
“Fuck… what a fucking mess,” I panted, resting my forearm against the tile, gaze dropping, knowing I was about to come much faster than my pride normally allowed.
But why not take Moneybags’ pride down with me?
My balls drew up tight at that thought, of not only fucking Giano into his 10,000 thread count sheets but making sure he knew who his ass belonged to, if only for the length of our professional arrangement.
“So fucking messy,” I growled, practically strangling my throbbing dick as it began to pulse. “I can’t wait to make a mess out of you.”
My vision whited out as I painted the shower wall with what felt like an endless release, my breath momentarily lodging in my throat before emerging as a sound that was more animal than human.
As the hot water finally kicked on, I leaned my full body weight against the—shockingly clean since I had some standards—shower wall, realizing to my horror that I was also looking forward to seeing Giancarlo tomorrow, fucking or not.
Mostly to see if he’d dressed up pretty like I’d asked him to, of course.
Just for me.
For now.