Chapter 23 Bellamy #2
My sneakers scuff the rug as I drop to my knees beside him.
The safe's interior gleams in the half-light—green and cream rectangles stacked like bricks, bound with paper bands stamped $10,000.
Velvet pouches bulge from the corners, their drawstrings loose enough to reveal glints of metal and stone.
Three black cases with silver clasps lie flat against the back wall.
And there, wedged against them like an afterthought, two gallon Ziploc bags swollen with smaller plastic bags full of white tablets, each one stamped with a tiny grinning skull.
Rafe whistles under his breath. “Highlight takes their riders seriously,” he says, voice a low rasp.
I blink, squinting at the little skulls. “Is that—”
“Pack it up. We’ll figure it out later.”
I take a second to process. “No. I’m not taking it. That’s not the job.”
He shrugs, like maybe it’s not, or maybe it always is. “I’ll take ‘em.” He tosses the Ziploc bags into his backpack, right on top of his safe kit. “Coco likes stocking up.”
But my stomach tightens. That skull looks familiar, and I have a feeling Beck will recognize it. He runs a database on narcotics branding. He’s obsessive, and terrified of us getting caught up in something.
“Since when?”
“Coco knows people.” He glances up with a glint in his eye.
My lips part to argue when something thuds against the wall in the hallway.
Rafe's fingers stop mid-motion. His muscles coil, then unwind as he rises from his crouch, the movement so fluid he barely disturbs the air.
My lungs burn; I realize I've stopped breathing.
The darkness between us seems to thicken, pressing against my eardrums.
“Load us up,” he murmurs, tapping my backpack without looking at me.
Adrenaline spikes through me. I shovel cash, jewelry cases, and loose bills into my backpack, fingers moving on autopilot. My vest isn’t full, but it’s slower.
Rafe slides to the door in three fluid steps.
His hand disappears behind him and reappears with a matte black pistol, fingers curled around the grip like they were born there.
The muscles in his jaw tighten as he eases the door open an inch, one eye pressed to the crack, breath held so still I can hear the building settling around us.
The line of his shoulders loosens and he opens the door wide. “Keep it down and hurry up.”
Cruz’s voice fires back immediately. “You gonna shoot us, Rafe? The fuck?”
Metal scrapes concrete as something heavy slides across the hallway floor. From the shadows, Gage's grunt echoes off the walls, followed by ragged breathing. “These boards weigh a goddamn ton.”
Rafe glances at his watch. “Ten minutes left. You’ve got time for one more trip. Where’s the sister?”
“Right here,” Lola huffs, a little breathless but steady.
I swallow the instinct to go help her and keep stuffing cash in my backpack. Besides, she’d punch me if I insulted her like that.
“Good. Move faster.” Rafe shuts the door again, turning back to me.
“Did you sweep the room?”
“Not all of it. Just the desk.”
He jerks his chin toward the hutch behind me. “I’ll check it.”
He strides over, planting his foot on the lower shelf. A sharp tug, and the lock surrenders with a splintering crack that echoes like a gunshot in the quiet room.
“Found something.” Rafe's low whistle cuts through the silence.
I skid to a stop beside him, my breath catching in my throat. “Fuck me.”
Light fractures across the hutch's interior—a thousand tiny rainbows dancing across my face as diamonds catch the beam of my flashlight.
Platinum settings wink between blood-red rubies and sapphires so blue they look liquid.
My fingers hover over a necklace that probably costs more than everything I've ever stolen.
Rafe’s grin is feral, bright, and boyish at the same time. “We definitely got the good room.”
I grab his wrist before he can reach in. “Wait. High-end pieces get flagged,” I hiss.
His brows lift, amused. “You worried we’re gonna get pinched?”
“I’m thinking it’s not worth the risk.”
Rafe tilts his head, one corner of his mouth lifting in that way that always makes my stomach drop three floors. “Noted,” he says, voice like gravel against silk. “But—”
The stairwell door bangs open. Heavy footfalls vibrate through the floorboards beneath us.
“Check every goddamn room!” A man's voice booms, thick with rage.
My fingers go numb around the jewelry case. The room shrinks, air thinning.
Rafe's eyes flash dark as he lunges forward.
Two fingers hook into the V-neck of my vest—right between my breasts—yanking it open with enough force to strain the zipper teeth. His other hand scoops the entire velvet tray in one fluid motion, knuckles white against the midnight fabric.
“Rafe—”
He dumps every glittering piece straight down my cleavage. Diamonds, sapphires, and platinum chains cascade between the cotton of my shirt and bare skin.
Cold metal hits hot skin like ice on a burn. I gasp, sharp and involuntary, as jagged prongs and heavy pendants settle against my skin, some sliding lower to press against my ribs.
He's already grinning, teeth flashing white in the darkness like a predator scenting blood. “Time to go, baby.”