Sparrow (Hawke’s Wood #3)

Prologue

ARDEN

The minute Stella starts giggling, I know we’re in trouble.

Actually, that’s a fucking lie. I knew we were in trouble the moment she told us about this terrible, stupid, definitely going to get us in trouble plan.

I’m bored, she said. Let’s do something fun, she said. It’ll be easy, she finished.

God, I’m stupid. Because every time she comes up with a plan, I’m the idiot who actually says yes.

I look her up and down, taking in the stark black hair and eyes as dark as coal, the mouth caught in a grin that tells me she has even more news and the slant of her eyes defining that news as trouble.

And despite myself, despite every bone in my body telling me that we’re about to get in so much trouble we’ll never get out of it, I grin.

Because when Stella Fontenot gets that look in her eyes, it generally means two things: 1. We’re about to do something really stupid and 2. We’re going to have one hell of a time doing it.

Oh, and a third point as well: We’ll actually end up being just fine. Because Stella Fontenot’s dad is one of the most important mobsters in the city–one of the heads of the Poffo clan–and that carries some weight in this town. Weight that Stella wears like a fucking mink stole.

My eyes slide to the other member of our little trio, and my grin gets slightly bigger.

Taryn Matthews doesn’t sound like she should be anyone special, but when it comes down to it, her stepdad is also high up in the mafia–second-in-command in the Massimo leadership–and that makes her more important than she likes to admit. Not untouchable, but certainly safe.

And me?

Well. A lower-level Rossi, if you must know. Daughter to one of the cousins, though last time I bothered to check, he wasn’t high enough to throw his weight around. If I get in trouble, he won’t come to save me.

The bastard’s never liked me enough to bother.

But Stella and Taryn won’t leave me behind. They never have.

None of which makes this idea any better.

I pull my attention back to the matter at hand and notice just in time that Stells is slumping over the table in her glee, and about to go boobs-first into the remains of our meal.

“Stella, careful!” I his, snatching at the glasses.

We’ve been drinking milkshakes and the table is littered with the remains, the glasses still half full and the plate of cheese fries still sporting the last of its bounty.

I shove everything out of the way and glare at her.

We’re in our favorite diner in the middle of the fucking night–after closing, mind you–and supposed to be planning, and she’s acting like we’re on some sort of party cruise.

Without the whole boat/water situation.

Instead, it’s icy and cold outside, two days before Christmas, and the sky above us is that halfway sort of black New York gives you at night. Snow is coming down like we’re in some sort of Christmas movie, and the diner around us is...

Not as quiet as it should be, given that it’s supposed to be closed. Before I can follow that thought, though, I catch Stella’s glare.

“Grow up, Arden,” she mutters. “Those cups are empty. And we’ve got planning to do.”

I make a face at her and finish moving the cups. The last time I checked, planning didn’t mean drawing as much attention as possible, but I bite my tongue and keep my mouth shut.

Arguing with Stella will just make her louder. I know from experience.

I turn to try to find a waiter, wondering if I can get the dishes removed entirely, and suddenly remember the thought I had moments ago, about this place having too many people in it.

I glance at my watch and then back up, doing the math quickly.

The cafe has been officially closed for half an hour, but there are still four other men in here. And they’re sitting way too close.

I tell myself I’m being paranoid–that I’ve spent too long in the shadow of the mafia–but then one of the men looks up and meets my eye, and I don’t think I’m wrong. He’s way too awake for after midnight on a Tuesday, and far too focused on a bunch of girls sitting in their favorite corner booth.

Something is wrong.

“Stella, did you tell Joe to keep the place open for other patrons?” Taryn asks behind me.

I turn back to the table and see her eyes on the same man, and thank God for that. Stella wouldn’t listen to me if I said anything–why would she, when I’m the least of the three of us?–but Taryn’s her best friend, and if she’s questioning it, surely Stella will take it seriously.

Look, I know those two are important and everything, and I do trust them to get us out of any mess we get into, but even I have limits. And those men sitting around us are stepping all over them.

“Yes,” Stella, who was just opening her mouth to say something else, snaps. “Because it’s less suspicious if we’re not the only ones in here. Which you’d know if you were paying attention.”

She turns her eyes on Taryn, furious, and I watch the two of them, my own eyes big and my lips pressed together with repressed laughter. Stella hates being questioned, especially when she thinks she has a plan, and the result is always... dramatic.

Also hilarious, as long as it’s not pointed at me.

I watch Taryn take in Stella’s look and then press her own lips together as she realizes what she’s just done, and this just makes me want to laugh even more.

Which is stupid. We’re out way past our curfews on a stupid mission to do mischief Stella thought up. The last thing I should be doing is laughing hysterically at Taryn upsetting Stella’s sensibilities about her plan-making.

But something about the moment has me almost fizzing with laughter.

“I know,” Taryn whispers quickly, all contrition. “I’m sorry. I’ll pay attention, I swear.”

Oh my God I’m going to die trying to keep my laughter in.

Stella lets Taryn sit for a moment before she nods, accepting the mea culpa, and turns back to the paper that’s somehow materialized on the table.

I look down at it, wondering where the fuck it came from, and find it covered in scribbles and notes.

They don’t like anything more than gibberish to me–certainly not a real plan–but Stella looks at them like they outline the most genius heist ever known to man.

“The store is right down the street,” she whispers, her voice full of conspiracy and secrets. “And I happen to know that there’s only one guard there right now.”

“Yeah, one guard with a gun and a walkie for backup,” I point out. “I still say this is a bad idea. We’re bound to get caught.”

Taryn turns big eyes to me like she’s questioning my intelligence, and I shrug.

What does she want? This plan is barely planned and I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t point that out.

My mind works along straight lines, and it drives me crazy when Stella wants to drive the car in the most circuitous way possible.

Particularly in the middle of the night on a Tuesday when it’s freezing cold outside and we’re about to attempt our first–and probably only–jewel heist. Stella, she of the bad ideas, took one look at two weeks of Christmas vacation and immediately decided that she was bored and wanted to do something ‘fun.’

The fun part being highly questionable.

Which is completely on brand for her, if I’m being honest. She’s grown up spoiled and coddled, rich enough to do anything she wanted and smart enough to push the limits as far as they would go.

She’s never seen anything she didn’t think she could pull off, and a lot of times I think she makes things more difficult just to challenge herself.

Honestly, Stella could probably run the entire mafia herself, if she wanted to.

Unfortunately, she’s the wrong gender for that.

So she settles on making as much mischief for her father as possible.

Tonight, that mischief includes getting to the jewelry store down the block, L’angerie,’ breaking in, and stripping it of its prize diamond tiara.

The one they keep in the window to lure the passing shoppers into the place, where the salespeople will fleece them of as much money as possible.

I’ve always thought that particular store is probably a cover for something else, and under normal circumstances I’d be down to cause them a little bit of trouble.

But this particular store belongs to Stella’s dad. And that makes this slightly more complicated.

Though I suspect that’s the entire reason for the prank itself.

Stella hates her dad, and isn’t shy about showing him.

“How are we supposed to get by the guy with the guns, Stella?” Taryn asks, repeating the question I’ve already brought up. “I don’t know about you, but I didn’t bring a gun. If he starts shooting at us–”

She chuckles and tosses her black curls over her shoulder. “He won’t. I’ve already made arrangements with him.”

Oh no.

“Arrangements?” I ask sharply. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Stella directs a low, very sexy chuckle my way.

“I mean I made arrangements,” she says, her tone leaving very little to the imagination. “He’s not going to bother us.”

“You slept with him?” Taryn gasps. “In return for letting us into the store? So this whole plan, this whole scheme, is just to walk down there so he can open the door for us?”

Stella’s smile gets wider. “Is that a problem?”

And now that laughter is back, trying desperately to claw its way out of my throat, because it’s just so Stella.

Set up a prank. Make it as big and ridiculous as possible, act like this is some grand international jewel heist and like we’re doing something highly illegal, and then stack the deck so that the game is already won.

Of course she’s already slept with the guy.

Because Stella hates to lose.

I snort with laughter and Taryn grins.

“Does it really qualify as a rebellion if we’re not doing any work?” she mutters.

Stella blows out a puff of air. “Who says I didn’t put in any work? The guy was terrible in bed. Besides, all that matters is that my father knows he got ripped off, and that I was in on it. I don’t give a fuck how it happens. I only care that it does.”