Chapter 12
Twelve
Rowen
For as long as I could remember, I’d considered myself to be a lone wolf.
Even back when my foster siblings and I used to skip school and head to Times Square, making a game out of how many wallets we could steal by nightfall, I preferred to work alone.
While they teamed up with a bump and dip method to pick their pockets, playing the roles of busy New Yorkers maneuvering around lost tourists, I liked interacting with my marks.
It was so much more satisfying to charm someone into trusting me only to take everything they valued and disappear into the wind.
To never let them touch the cup.
Even when I began working as a thief-for-hire, it was fairly standard to not make friends with your colleagues.
Not only was it highly possible they’d turn on you to save their own skin, the dangerous nature of our jobs meant any one of us could end up in prison or dead, so it was better not to get attached.
And definitely better not to sleep with anyone involved…
I tipped back the shot of soda I’d asked the bartender to give me instead of vodka, playing the role of “fun, workplace friend pre-gaming with the boys,” all while being annoyed as fuck about the entire situation.
Just get the job done then get out, Rowen.
Dine and dash.
The problem was that Giancarlo Luxford had the most perfect dick, and not only could I not stop thinking about it, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
The way he’d whimpered and begged, how he’d submitted to me without question, and the stupid message he’d sent after receiving my little prep kit Instacart delivery.
“Thank you for the gifts, Mr. Quincy.”
I wasn’t the least bit ashamed to admit I’d jerked off to that message—while leaving him on read, of course—but what I couldn’t forgive myself for was how I’d demanded we make our little fuck-buddy situationship exclusive while he was buried inside me.
Why the hell would I say that?
And why the hell would he agree?
The worst part was I knew exactly why I’d said it, and it wasn’t just because of the control it gave me over him.
I didn’t like the idea of Giano whimpering in someone else’s bed—couldn’t stand the thought of him on his knees elsewhere, “completion” or not—but, even more shamefully, I didn’t want him laughing for anyone else either.
Jesus CHRIST, I need a real drink.
“Uh-oh… I know that look…” one of the mailroom guys—Albert? Alan?—sidled up to me in the bar we’d all decided to stop in before the concert. “Is one of your girlfriends giving you trouble?”
Girlfriends?
I wasn’t offended by the question—since I sampled from all sides of the buffet table—but it always fascinated me when the default was to assume someone was straight.
How boring.
“Not a girlfriend,” I replied, when I should have just kept my trap shut. The last thing I wanted—even less than whatever dick-drunk exclusivity pact I’d made with Giano—was for my pretend work friends to get invested in my love life.
“My bad, man,” Alfred apologized, earning points in my book that he immediately lost when he then slapped me on the shoulder. “Is someone trying to ‘take the relationship to the next level’ too soon?”
Yeah.
This guy right here.
“Something like that…” I muttered, pulling my phone out of my pocket to check the time, only to stuff it away again when I saw a new message notification from Giano. “Shouldn’t we get going soon to, uh, claim our spots near the stage?”
“Oh, good call.” Alvin turned to face the others, shouting above the Friday night bar crowd noise. “All right, party people—let’s roll out!”
Ew.
I slid another one of Giano’s fifties across the bar before following the “party people” out onto the sidewalk and across the street to Bryant Park.
The show tonight was some kind of live-music samba dance party, and for one sappy moment I wished I could just kick back and enjoy myself like a normal person, instead of hustling 24/7.
Maybe in another life.
As we maneuvered through the gathering crowd, I peeked at my phone again, physically unable to resist seeing what nonsense a certain someone felt compelled to message me on the night of our goddamn heist.
Moneybags
Have fun tonight.
What the hell is his angle?!
Now I had the absolutely insane urge to take a cab to wherever Giano’s fancy gala was happening to make him explain himself, because if that man was actually implying I would be enjoying myself—while sober—at an outdoor concert with a bunch of work bros I barely knew…
Wait.
Does he mean have fun on the heist?
If that was the case, I couldn’t even be mad about it. Because, yes, I was going to enjoy myself tonight—more than I’d enjoyed myself in years, if you didn’t count my recent ride on billionaire dick.
Fuck, he has such a nice dick…
Angrily shoving the phone back into my pocket, I refocused on blending in with my inebriated alibis, shaking my ass to a few songs before shouting in Alex’s face that I’d just spotted an old roommate from Brooklyn, so I’d catch them all later.
Or not.
After confirming from a distance that no one seemed concerned by my whereabouts, I slipped away, tucking my hair beneath the brimmed beanie I’d stuffed in my jacket pocket and briskly walking the few blocks to where I’d parked an unmarked cargo van with a few sets of clean plates.
Securing the vehicle, and the contents within, had taken up most of my week outside of pesky working hours at the field office. My first contact hung up on me—no doubt assuming I was part of an FBI sting—and it took a lot of convincing for the second to finally believe I was back in the game.
I am so back, baby.
While waiting to be approved for van access, I’d hit up an old friend who owned a promotional products company and owed me a favor.
He took barely any convincing, and within a day I had a set of magnetic car signs and embroidered coveralls with the same logo of the plant company I’d hitched a ride in the service elevator with the night of Giano’s art viewing party.
Sorry, guys.
Hopefully no one on staff is hiding stolen art in their homes!
Once I reached the van, I unlocked the back and climbed in, awkwardly contorting my body around the flatbed cart full of large, leafy floor plants to wiggle into the coveralls and work gloves.
Clambering into the front, I zig-zagged for several blocks before parking on a desolate strip I knew had no cameras, so I could swap out the plates and attach the magnetic signs to the sides of the van. Then, I was on my way again.
I couldn’t deny the raw exhilaration racing through my system as I drove uptown to Giano’s building.
Exactly how I’d managed to survive the past few years without this gloriously free feeling was beyond me, but as soon as I pulled up to the curb by the service entrance, that old familiar calm washed over me.
It’s showtime.
After unloading the cart and locking up the van, I used the keycard I’d swiped from the real floral delivery crew to access the back entrance and service elevator.
It was tempting to obstruct the cameras inside the car, or disable them altogether, but that sort of visual glitch would bring more attention from building security than if I just played it straight, so I kept my head tilted down, allowing the brim of my hat to cover my face.
Most elevators didn’t keep a permanent log of stops made—especially in an old building like this—but in case keycard access meant building security got the historical data, I pressed a few extra buttons upon entry and exit to throw ‘em off the scent.
Let the Wentworths take the heat.
Unfortunately for everyone I was indirectly roping into this heist, I’d called the floral design company from a burner phone a few days ago, pretending to be a member of Mr. Wentworth’s staff, checking that the usual Friday delivery was still on the books.
These delivery guys should really stop spilling customer information to randos in service elevators…
While Giano had promised he’d trip the breaker on his own security system, I still kept my face angled away from the camera pointed toward his staff entrance as I entered the code he’d reluctantly given me on the keypad.
Once inside, I fiddled with a light switch, sighing in relief when the apartment remained dark.
Let’s get to work.
Even though a strip of handy emergency lighting edged the hallway floor, I pulled a headlamp out of my pocket and situated it above the brim of my beanie before carefully wheeling the cart down the hallway and into the main living area.
Parking in front of the wall of soon-to-be stolen art, I then—carefully, since I wasn’t a total monster—cut the canvases out of their frames with my shiny new utility knife, because taking the time to remove them properly would imply I knew I had the time.
Which then implicates all the rich assholes at the gala with him!
After slotting the canvases into the large portfolio case I’d hidden between the plants on the cart, I rearranged said plants and roughed ‘em up a little, to give the illusion I’d swapped them out with old ones in the apartment.
The rich and their vanities.
As tempting as it was to head upstairs to the third floor and follow my nose to Giano’s bedroom, I finished the job and headed out, whistling Claire de Lune as I loaded up the van and leisurely drove away.
Once I was safely parked on another overgrown block, I swapped out the plates again, removed the signs, and busted out a couple cans of Rust-Oleum Peel Coat to temporarily tag the van until the white paint was nearly unrecognizable under the graffiti.
Not bad for being so out of practice.
After bagging up the signs, hat, gloves, and coveralls and tossing them in a nearby dumpster, I texted Giano with a string of suggestive emojis ending with a thumbs up and a green check mark.
For no reason aside from insanity and leftover adrenaline, I then sat in the driver's seat and waited for his reply.
When he left me on read, I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat with a huff and peeled off.
Get a hold of yourself, Rowen.
Moneybags is out on the town today—for charity.
Gross.
After stashing the van in a trusted Brooklyn garage, I hopped on the train back to the City, eager to shake off the extra energy of a successful job with a reward of carbs, cheese, and beer.
This came in the form of two thick Sicilian slices and an order of garlic knots from Not Original Ray’s Pizzeria, along with a three-pack of Modelo Especial from the bodega below my apartment.
A king’s feast.
As usual, the spread tasted even better on the fire escape, with my bird’s-eye view of the extremely noisy, slightly smelly street, five stories below, which got me thinking about my future plans.
Could I really leave all this behind?
For as long as I could remember, this lone wolf had an endgame goal of finding a way out of here, even if anything beyond a simple escape seemed like a pipe dream to someone like me. Traveling for pleasure was unthinkable—an unattainable fantasy I would never have enough money to achieve.
It looks pretty attainable now…
The idea that I would soon have enough cash to go anywhere in the world, possibly for the rest of my life, was not as freeing as I thought it would be. In fact, it felt weirdly paralyzing.
I wouldn’t even know where to start.
That wasn’t entirely true. First on my bucket list would be Rome, then a quick stop in Florence before heading onto Paris, Greece—probably one of the islands—Dublin… Portugal was up there too, mostly because I’d heard Lisbon was a chill city.
It’s no Manhattan, I’m sure…
But maybe that’s a good thing?
It suddenly hit me that this international adventure planning would be a hell of a lot easier with someone who knew the ropes, but with the kind of money I was about to have at my disposal, I could always hire a travel agent or…
Nope.
Don’t even think about it.
Of fucking course, that was the moment Giancarlo decided to message me back.
Moneybags
I need to tell you something the next time we meet.
Oh???
Even though waiting for the tea was going to kill me, I understood Giano probably couldn’t get away from rich asshole charity gala duties to chit-chat. Plus, I didn’t do phone calls anyway.
You don’t do relationships either…
I’m all ears, baby.
Cracking open another Modelo tallboy, I gazed out over my little kingdom, daring to hope that maybe—if I was lucky—there could be more for me out there after all.