Chapter 4
ARDEN
I never go home with stolen goods.
I’ve made it a rule: get rid of them as soon as possible. No holding, no second-guessing. Too much temptation, and I don’t bring my messes home.
So, as I walk out of the casino like just another girl who made a drunken mistake last night, I make a quick call.
“Hey, Milo. I’ve got something for you. Can I stop by?”
I’m at the pawn shop ten minutes later. This isn’t a pristine, well-lit, polished storefront. No, this is the kind of place you don’t walk into unless you know someone inside or you’re desperate. The kind that makes you wonder if you’ll make it out in one piece.
I push through the door, and the shop is dim, lit by a single buzzing and flickering fluorescent light overhead that casts everything in a sickly yellow glow.
Shelves sag under the weight of old dusty trinkets and pawned junk that looks like it’s been sitting here since the ’90s.
The linoleum floor is scuffed, sticky in places, and it smells like no one has opened a window in years.
There’s a narrow hallway in the back, and I make my way through it, past more shelves full of crap no one’s even thinking of buying, until I reach the unmarked office door.
This is where Milo does his real business. I push it open and step inside.
He’s at his desk, cigar in hand. A steaming mug of coffee sits next to a glass ashtray as he leans back in his chair with his feet on the desktop, like he owns the whole damn city.
He’s in his fifties, if not older. His thinning gray hair is slicked back, and the fluorescent light catches on bulky gold rings as he lights a fresh cigar.
A real old-school Italian motherfucker. I don’t ask questions, but if I had to guess, I’d say he definitely has mob ties.
That’s nothing new in this town. He has to offload the goods somehow.
I set the watch and chain neatly on his desk.
I keep the knife. It never hurts to have protection.
Milo doesn’t react right away; he just leans forward, squinting at the watch like he wants to be sure it’s real.
Then he picks it up, rolling it between his fingers, casual on the surface, but there’s a sharp glint in his eyes.
“Well, good morning to you, too.” His mouth twitches: half a grin, half a grimace. “You don’t usually drop this kind of shit in my lap.”
I smirk. “Should net enough zeros to make your head spin. The question is, will you have a buyer?”
He flips the watch once in his palm, and his thumb lingers on the bezel.
“I move watches. Rolex, Patek, even Cartier if it ain’t too hot.
But this?” He exhales a puff of cigar smoke through his nose.
“This is oligarch shit. It’s beautiful… and it could be trouble.
I’m willing to bet somebody important’s already looking for it.
” He raises an eyebrow, waiting for my response.
I shrug. “So what? Call your guy.”
Milo’s snort echoes through the room. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“My guy? He would shit himself seeing this on my desk. The kind of people who buy Richard fucking Mille don’t do back-alley deals.
They got brokers. Lawyers. Insurance policies that are bigger than my entire operation. ”
He exhales, tapping the ash from his cigar into the ashtray, his free fingers drumming against the desk as his eyes narrow. He’s thinking. I just wait. I already know the greedy bastard isn’t going to let me walk out of here with this.
Then finally, “I might know someone.”
I arch a brow. “Might?”
He waves me off. “A middleman. He won’t meet with you; he’s selective, but if anyone can move this thing quietly, it’s him.”
“Great. Call him. Let’s meet up today.”
Milo chuckles, low and humorless, rubbing a hand down his face like he already regrets this. “It’s not that easy. He’s got rules. You don’t just walk in with a stolen Richard Mille and walk out with cash.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Then how the hell is this going to work?”
He leans forward, his voice dropping slightly. “You let me hold on to it. I pass it up the chain. If he bites, you get paid. But it won’t be today.”
I hate this. Every instinct in my body tells me not to walk away empty-handed. I hold Milo’s gaze, my fingers curling into fists. “You know I don’t enjoy leaving with nothing.”
He shrugs, completely unbothered, taking another drag of his cigar. “And yet, here we are. You want top dollar? You’re gonna have to play it my way.”
I weigh my options. I could leave, find another fence, but who else has access to this kind of market? And right now, I’m more concerned about getting rid of this hunk of metal without getting jail time. I release a sharp exhale. “Fine. But if I smell bullshit, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Milo grins, flashing a smile that is unnaturally white for someone with his habits. “Sweetheart, trust me, I don’t wanna fuck you over.” He sips his coffee. “I just wanna stay under the radar.”
I leave with no watch and no cash to show for it, unease trailing me out the door. Deals like this don’t sit well with me, but I’ll play it his way for now.
I can hear Lexi in the kitchen when I finally walk through the door of our condo.
It’s nothing much, just an industrial-style loft downtown, with exposed ductwork, polished concrete floors, and quartz countertops.
The faux-unfinished look almost reminds me of my mom’s apartment, except this is intentional.
Nothing like the places Lexi and I grew up in.
When we first moved in, we spent weeks poking fun at the fact that anyone dared to market the spaces as ‘luxury’ condominiums. We quickly realized that our much wealthier neighbors get off on living a ‘modest’ lifestyle.
For us, it’s the perfect blend of the comforts of home, if you can call them that, and small luxuries we can finally afford. And it’s the only place where the noise and chaos of the outside world can’t seem to touch us.
The smells of bacon and coffee hit me first. Then the sound of a small voice, high-pitched and bubbling with excitement, drifts through the open space between the kitchen and living room and down the small entry hallway I’m walking through.
“Tía Arden! You’re home!” Zoe races toward me, her ashy blonde curls piled into two bouncy buns that spring with every step. Her fair skin catches the sunlight, and her wide, excited eyes stay locked on me as she launches herself into my arms.
“You’d think I haven’t seen you in a year!” I laugh, squeezing her close. “I missed you, too.”
Lexi hands me a mug of coffee, still steaming. Her bright orange hair is pulled into its usual messy bun on top of her head, and her amber-flecked green eyes are shining as her gaze drifts past me towards Zoe. “Hey, kiddo, movie time in your room. Adults need a minute,” she says with a grin.
As soon as Zoe is out of sight, she leans in, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Story time! What were you up to last night?” she says, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.
I sigh and turn to the living space, sinking onto the couch. “What do you think I was doing?”
Lexi narrows her eyes in my direction. “Obviously, I know what you were doing. The question is, with who?”
“No one noteworthy,” I shrug, lifting the mug to my lips.
Lexi tilts her head, shooting me a look out of the corner of her eye. “Uh-huh…”
I exhale sharply, giving up any attempt at being nonchalant. “Fine. I met a guy.”
I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to talk about him, but because I kind of do.
“He’s not like anyone else I’ve ever met at a bar.
Not some desperate trust fund idiot looking to impress a girl with his daddy’s money…
although his friend certainly fits that bill…
but he had a presence. Control. Like he was used to people waiting on his next move.
” I shake off that thought, avoiding trying to figure him out right now.
“His watch alone could probably net me fifty grand.”
Lexi nearly chokes. “FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS?” She looks like she just had an out-of-body experience. “From one watch?”
I smirk and give her a slow nod. “I’m telling you. He was next level… in every way possible.” I give her a quick wink at that last part.
Now she’s hooked. She pesters me until I spill all the details, down to what I took from him and how I got out of his hotel room without drawing attention. When I finally finish, she just stares.
Shock? Amusement? Disapproval? Even I can’t tell sometimes. Then, “Well, what was his name?”
I shift in my seat and mutter, “Lochlan.” Taking another slow sip of coffee, “Lochlan… something. He didn’t tell me his last name, actually, but he told me to call him Locke.”
Lexi instantly snatches her phone off the coffee table and taps the screen furiously.
I scoff, “You’re Googling him? Seriously?”
She doesn’t even look up. “Uh, yeah? You robbed a guy who had an amazing suite, a watch that could resell for fifty grand, a knife on his dresser… and who knows what else was hidden! That’s not some random rich dude, Arden.”
I roll my eyes, stretching against the cushions. Trying to give the illusion that he was nothing more than another target. Even if absolutely everything felt different. “Lex, I always do this. He was just another —”
Lexi’s breath catches, and she whispers, “Holy shit.”
My heart instantly drops into my stomach. “…What?”
She slowly turns the phone around, holding it out like it’s the final piece of evidence in a murder trial. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth hangs open in disbelief.
The bold headline at the top of the page reads, “Crisis King: How Lochlan ‘Locke’ Bishop Buries Scandals Before They Break.”
The article is paired with a photo that looks like the paparazzi took it. Him stepping out of a sleek black SUV, his face half-hidden by his hand as he walks away.
I blink a few times, then squint. “No fucking way.”
“Oh, fucking way!” Lexi squeals, continuing to scroll.
“Owner of Bishop Strategies, private PR. Crisis management firm for the ultra-wealthy. He’s the guy who cleans up celebrity scandals before they have the chance to hit the press.
” Lexi keeps reading, but I lose track of what she’s saying, and all her words blur together.
I’ve stolen from CEOs. Trust fund babies. Tech bros. Tons of men too rich to notice, or care, when their wallets or suitcases were lighter.
But this? Lexi’s right, he’s not just another rich asshole. His whole life is about Hollywood glamour and celebrities. He has connections. He might even be dangerous.
I exhale slowly, setting my mug on the coffee table. “Shit.”