Chapter 1 #2
“Okay,” she mutters, grabbing my arms and shoving me back. I jolt as my knees hit the back of a chair, toppling me into it. “You have one minute.”
“Can I get some privacy?”
“No.”
My teeth grind as I pull my phone out of my pocket and I frown again under the blindfold. “Uh, can you…”
“Oh my God , the fact that you’re even being considered for the Crown Society is mind boggling to me. Here. It’s someone named Callie. Not a fucking word about what you’re currently doing, as if I need to say that?”
I can feel her hand brush mine as she taps the answer button. Then I raise the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Cals, this isn’t really a good time—”
“ Are you fucking serious, Eilish?! ”
I wince at the abrasively loud tone in her voice. Which is saying something, considering “abrasive and loud” is sort of her default setting.
“Um…about?”
“Don’t fucking bullshit me!”
“This is really not a great—”
“Do you even have any idea what the fuck you’re doing?! Breaking and entering?!?!”
Shit .
“ Who fucking told you!? ” I hiss into the phone.
“Dahlia.”
Goddammit. Dahlia is one of my closest new friends from business school—a good enough friend that I might have maybe spilled the beans about my initiation tasks to her. In fucking confidence , I might add.
She had plenty of concerns, obviously. And apparently when I ignored those concerns, she passed them straight up the chain to Callie.
“ Dude— ”
“I have to call you later, Callie.”
“Can we appreciate the fact that I am being the voice of reason right now, and by extension how serious that makes this?”
“Duly noted. Call you later.”
“No! Eilish, don’t you fucking dare—”
Her voice cuts off abruptly as my thumb finally manages to tap the button to end the call.
“Did you want to plan your Christmas vacation and maybe do your taxes while you’re at it? Or are you ready to fucking do this?”
I glare through the blindfold in the direction of Britney’s obnoxious voice.
“I’m ready.”
“Great.”
I jolt as she grabs my wrists, pulling me out of the chair and maneuvering me forward. I hear a door opening, and then she’s pulling me through it.
“You remember how this works, right?”
I nod.
“We’re in the office. I’m going to head back to the elevators and leave. You, count to thirty before you take the blindfold off, find your object, take it, and then get out of the building without being caught. You got all that?”
“Got it.”
She snickers again, the sound drifting away from me as she steps out of the office.
“Good luck, Kildare.”
The door shuts behind me. I almost rip the blindfold off immediately, but stop myself just in time. Britney is a petty enough bitch that she’d do something like stay in the room and just make it sound like she left so she could catch me breaking the rules so that she could boot me.
So I wait and count in my head, my pulse thudding in my ears.
…Twenty-nine, thirty .
Swallowing, I reach up and pull off the blindfold. Even though it’s dim to the point of darkness in the office, I still blink as my eyes adjust from the total blackness of the blindfold.
Holy shit . Where am I?
First of all, the office is huge . And gorgeously decorated, albeit in a very masculine way. High ceilings, slate stone walls with black and dark wood accents, and an enormous glass wall overlooking all of midtown Manhattan with a partial view of Central Park.
Even though whatever security system there is in here has been disabled, I still instinctively pull the hood of my sweatshirt up around my face.
I walk quietly across the dark-stained hardwood floor and elegant area rugs toward the mammoth, all-black desk.
Behind it, elegant built-in shelving frames a huge open space on the wall, where hangs what looks like an amazing replica of one of Monet’s Rouen Cathedral paintings.
My eyes scan the built-in shelves, looking for family photos, diplomas, anything that will give me a hint about who I’m about to steal from. But there’s nothing.
Not a single picture. No kids’ drawings.
The desk itself almost looks like it’s been staged, as if no one actually uses it.
The laptop is perfectly squared. Two silver pens are completely straight and in line next to it.
There’s even a bottle of still water with a crystal tumbler next to it, with a fucking paper cover on top of it, like in a hotel room.
Great, I’m stealing from a serial killer with OCD tendencies.
I prowl around the desk, repeating the clue in my head.
If you want to make an omelet…
My brows knit as I raise my gaze to the wall opposite the desk that I ignored when I walked in because I was too distracted by the view and the Monet replica. There, sitting on a shelf under a glass box, is a gorgeous, delicate, incredibly detailed, black and gold, oversized….
… you gotta break a few eggs.
Oh, fuck me.
Not just any egg, I realize as I walk over. It’s a Fabergé egg. As in the House of Fabergé, the 19 th -century firm famous for the jewel- and gold-encrusted eggs and other priceless decorative works of art they created for the Tsars and the other ultra-wealthy of pre-revolutionary Imperial Russia.
Like the Monet, it could be a replica. But judging by the glass case around it, not to mention the other opulent wealth clearly on display in this office, I’m guessing it’s the real deal.
I’m also sure that this is what I’m supposed to steal.
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
Forget Napoleon’s sword. This thing has to be priceless. It also has to be under the protection of an alarm. But again, that’s one of the assurances made by the Crown Society concerning this task: all alarms and other security measures will be turned off during the theft.
My pulse races as I reach out with shaky hands, letting my fingers graze the glass of the case. No alarms. I wince, lifting it up as gingerly as I can.
Still no alarms.
I exhale slowly as I set the glass box down on the shelf next to the egg.
Then I just stare at it sitting on its delicate, understated black wire stand mounted on an ancient looking wooden base.
I mean it’s gorgeous —a matte black egg girdled in gleaming gold with lines and swirls of what I think are yellow diamonds all over the surface.
It’s simply beautiful. And for a second, I hate that I have to take this, even though I know that within a week, an anonymous courier will bring it back to this very office with a note of apology on paper bearing the seal of the Crown Society.
Apparently, a lot of the “targets” that get picked for these initiation ordeals are either Crown Society alumni themselves or have otherwise heard of the ritual.
Even the guy who had his Napoleon sword stolen apparently laughed about it once it was returned.
But fuck me, I have to walk out of here with this ? A priceless, old, not to mention fragile , decorative freaking egg? Ideally without, you know, smashing it into a million pieces? Great.
I take a deep breath and ready myself to touch it. When suddenly, my gaze drops to the tiny slip of paper next to the egg glued to the dark wood base banded with brass that itself looks like an antique.
A slip of paper with beautiful, neat, masculine handwriting on it.
In Russian.
Moyemu synu. Vsya moya lyubov’.
I took two levels of Russian literature in undergrad. It was basically only enough to feel smug when discussing Tolstoy. But it’s also enough for me to know that the note reads “To my son. All of my love”.
My gaze drifts to the letterhead on which the little note is written, which includes the name of this benevolent father giving his son a freaking Fabergé egg as a token of his esteem:
Vadim Tsarenko.
It takes me half a second. Then cold, naked, razor-sharp fear stabs right through my heart.
Holy. Fucking. Hell .
Tsarenko. As in Gavan fucking Tsarenko , the co-head of the same Reznikov Bratva we almost went to war with four months ago.
The same Reznikov Bratva whose captain, Leo Stavrin, blew up my bar and killed Sean.
The same Reznikov Bratva who we might not openly be at war with, but whom we certainly are not “at peace” with.
I’m in Gavan Tsarenko’s office at his massive holdings and acquisitions company, Ironclad Capital.
This is horrifying .
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be within five freaking blocks of this entire building. And I definitely shouldn’t be stealing a priceless heirloom that he got from his father.
My heart races into overdrive, my ears ringing as my throat opens and closes reflexively.
Run. You need to run, now.
I know I should. Old Eilish would. Old Eilish would already be halfway down the block by now. But new Eilish is apparently fucking insane . Because before I know what I’m doing, my hands are raising again, reaching for the gorgeous black and gold egg.
My pulse skips as my fingers touch the gilded gold and yellow diamonds. I gently cradle it in my hands as I lift it from its wire stand and gaze at it with wide eyes, holding my breath.
Now, to get you safely out of the building—
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?”
My heart almost stops as the deep, slightly Russian-accented voice roars behind me.
As huge, powerful hands grip my arms fiercely.
As the black power of the voice’s owner rolls over me like a thunderhead crashing into a shore.
As the heady, intoxicating scent of bergamot, wood, and man invades my senses like a drug.
I flinch as he grabs me, like I’ve been zapped with a taser.
My hands spasm.
My fingers release.
Oh God—
It doesn’t happen in slow motion. It takes merely a fraction of a second for the priceless, gorgeous thing to slip from my hands and explode against the hardwood floor.
“You little. FUCKING —”
My reaction is instantaneous. When Gavan’s grip tightens on me, the self-defense moves Castle has spent hours and hours drilling into me come to the fore without warning.
It doesn’t matter that this isn’t some random mugger in the park.
It doesn’t matter that the man grabbing me is the single most powerful, dangerous man in New York.
I just react.
My foot stamps down on the bridge of his foot. And just as he hisses in a mix of pain, shock and surprise, I throw my heel back hard , my foot kicking all the way back and up until my shoe connects with his balls.
The bruising grip releases from my arms as he groans, and I bolt —flinging myself out the door of his office and rushing headlong down the halls of Ironclad Holdings.
I skip the elevator and take the stairs first two and then three at a time, almost blind with the dizzying fear and adrenaline roaring in my veins like napalm until I go crashing out a doorway into a side street.
Then I turn and run into the night, the scent of bergamot and wood still in my nostrils, the feel of his grip still tingling on my skin.