8. Kat

8

I rush to meet A.J. at our favorite coffee shop, weaving in and out of inconvenient traffic on my way downtown. I don't want to—and can't afford to—be late for our lunch appointment.

After the night of the gala, something clicked into place within me. Simply put, I'm done letting others take the lead in my life. No more passively reacting to things that happen to me. It's time I start deliberately acting on behalf of my interests again.

It has only been a week since that fateful evening, but I have been busy.

After leaving Nikolai, I called A.J. to let her know the heist was successful.

I still haven't told her about the passionate moment I enjoyed in Nikolai's arms. I want to tell her everything, badly needing to voice my thoughts out loud to process my feelings about him. But for some reason, the words just won't come to me.

Instead, I asked her to set up the drop for the Flame of Mir with the stronzo's contact. It is in everyone's best interests if my interactions with the man are kept to a bare minimum.

The diamond was such a hot item that I didn't feel comfortable keeping it overnight. It hurt me to part with the exquisitely beautiful jewel—and, worst of all, hand it to the villain—but it was a good idea to get rid of it as soon as possible.

Thankfully, when the news broke that the Flame of Mir was missing, I had already handed it to the stronzo's man.

In the following days, I stayed busy caring for myself and working with A.J. to pursue our lead on the stronzo's secret.

A.J. and I have been forced to answer to the old man's every whim for the past few months, ever since my best friend landed herself into some serious trouble with him.

In an uncharacteristic display of carelessness, she was caught red-handed defrauding the man's accounts. To her credit, she managed to relocate a few million dollars before he even noticed the money was missing.

A.J. and I are usually very careful about the people and businesses we target in our jobs. We never aim for anyone with organized crime ties or a history of violence.

This time around, A.J. didn't adhere to our one golden rule. She's very good at what she does, and over the years, she may have become a little too cocky about her impressive track record.

In our field, self-assuredness is essential. Self-doubt is of no help when one needs to be bold. My friends and I hate the term con woman, but our line of work is described as a confidence game for a reason. A good thief knows it is in their best interest to always hope for the best, but a great thief knows it is just as important to prepare for the worst.

A.J. forgot the latter when she set out to steal from the stronzo, assuming he was an easy mark. But he was a made man—a detail she ignored when she chose him as her target.

The Italian did not take A.J.'s offense lightly. He refused to accept her apology, even after she returned the stolen money and offered to help improve his meager electronic security measures free of charge.

For a dark moment, we feared the worst would happen to her. We know there are dire consequences to harming the mafia's interests, so we try to stay out of their path at all costs.

In the end, he agreed to spare A.J.'s life in return for her services. He was enticed to show her mercy once he learned about her identity, and he was even eager to do so once he realized her connection to me—one of the few occasions we regretted making a name for ourselves within our exclusive circles.

At first, A.J. and I agreed to do his bidding until her debt was repaid—with all due interest, of course. However, we quickly realized that this debt would never be satisfied, and the man clearly planned to keep us under his thumb indefinitely.

It is part of my nature to resent being controlled and manipulated. Still, my urgency in extinguishing the man's leverage over us doesn't stem just from my personal issues with our unfortunate situation.

I have lost countless nights of sleep, worrying myself sick about what will happen to A.J. and me once the old man's demands grow too outrageous for us to satisfy.

I fear he will force us into an impossible position that will land us either dead or in jail. Or that he will demand something so immoral and unthinkable from us that we will have no option but to refuse him.

Above all else, I dread the day when we will no longer have any use for him. It is only a matter of time before that time comes.

A.J. and I aren't precisely civilians and know a thing or two about self-preservation. Still, we are very aware of our shortcomings compared to many players in our slice of the criminal underworld.

At the end of the day, we are just two white-collar con artists. Our street smarts might be above average, but we aren't equipped with the skill set needed to take on a mob boss who has no qualms about killing us.

A.J. and I are running out of time. We must find a way out of our unfortunate situation soon or risk an unthinkable fate.

For this reason, we have been desperately pursuing even the slightest leads, hoping to gain any leverage over our blackmailer.

Coincidentally, around the time my sense of urgency reached new, unbearable heights, our friend Alana overheard one of her boyfriends—a soldier in the Irish mafia—joke about an old rumor about the stronzo.

At first, we thoroughly disregarded the tale because it was too good to be true. But the more we learned about it, the more we realized it couldn't be unfounded gossip. It became clear that this secret—often disguised as outlandish fiction—could be our way out of the terror the man has been wrecking in our lives.

When the old mobster ordered me to steal the Flame of Mir, the world's most famous diamond, from the Metropolitan Museum during a high-profile event with little notice, I was initially prepared to resist. I refused his outrageous demand until I realized this task's sheer recklessness and audacity could work in our favor.

If I delivered such a valuable prize to him after the entire world learned of its disappearance, he would have no choice but to lie low and give us some reprieve. It would be the heist of the century, but it could give us enough time to get the proof we need to uncover the secret.

I was highly successful in the first part of my plan. Now that it's time to close the deal, I must keep my head in the game and stay out of trouble.

Mainly of the tall, dark, and handsome variety.

During the past week, in the rare instances when I had a moment or two of free time, I did my best to focus on taking care of myself. God knows I haven't had the chance to do so in the past few months.

I took A.J. to the nicest spa in town. We enjoyed deep tissue massages that didn't even begin to dissipate the tension I have been carrying in my whole body. We treated ourselves to fresh haircuts and even got cute manicures and pedicures. Every inch of us was mercilessly waxed, plucked, exfoliated, and moisturized.

Maybe if I looked my best, I would also feel at my best.

Perhaps keeping busy would help keep a certain man off my mind.

Much to my chagrin, it's been utterly pointless—I can't stop thinking about Nik.

Infuriatingly, everything reminds me of him and of the mind-blowing pleasure I inconveniently found in his arms.

If I'm out and about and spot a tall guy with glossy, dark hair, the most aggravating flutter starts in my abdomen. It always begins in the pit of my stomach before climbing to the left side of my chest. That's when my heart threatens to burst out of my chest for a breathless instant until I realize the guy isn't Nikolai.

I have even found myself unfavorably comparing other male voices to his. More than once, I will try to relax by listening to music or one of my favorite podcasts and end up woolgathering about how much deeper and raspier his voice sounded in comparison.

Even during my luxurious massage at the upscale spa, I had to refrain from groaning in frustration. There was just no comfort or relaxation in it for me, knowing I would never get to feel his skilled hands on my flesh again.

In a moment of weakness, I succumbed to sniffing the velvet fabric of the dress I wore to the gala. It was an embarrassing attempt to get a fix of the scent of his skin. Even a week after the party, I can't make myself take it to the dry cleaner.

The night after the heist, I opened a deliciously expensive bottle of Cheval Blank wine I lifted years ago from a vapid French businessman who fancied himself in love with me. I was saving the Bordeaux for a special occasion but needed the pick-me-up from drinking something prohibitively expensive. Unfortunately, the alcohol only made me crave the taste of Nikolai's lips more.

I have conceded my defeat. Nik may be out of sight, but keeping him out of my mind is virtually impossible. His hold over me remains irresistible.

With any luck, time and distance from him and our moment of passion will eventually allow me to think of that fateful night as just an exquisite memory of a lovely summer evening.

In the meantime, I must keep myself occupied until I overcome this struggle to move on from our one-night stand.

With the monumental task I have at hand, it shouldn't be too difficult. Any day now, we will receive word from our blackmailer. Once he securely hides or fences the diamond, he will contact us with a new, outrageous demand, coupled with a handful of threats about the endless suffering he will put A.J. through if I go against his wishes.

We are closer than ever to securing the final key to his downfall. If I make it to our appointment with our contact in the next ten minutes, the man's reign of terror will be over before I can tell him vai a farti fottere, figlio di puttana!

The woman we are supposed to meet at the coffee shop was extremely hard to track down. Once we managed to find her, it was almost impossible to convince her to talk to us. The poor lady was terrified, dreading doing anything that could anger the horrid man. After the ordeal he put us through the past few months, I understand how she feels.

After a lot of reassuring, cajoling, and begging, we convinced her to speak to us. Her name is Camilla, and she was the stronzo's secretary for a period over two decades ago. I can only imagine the horrors she experienced during her time in his employ.

If anyone can help us with the last puzzle piece, it is Camilla. Her assistance will guarantee we get our hands on the almost fabled proof of the villain's sin. With it, we will have the leverage we need to turn the tables on him.

I pull up to the block of our meeting place and miraculously spot an empty parking spot. It can only be a sign from above that our luck is about to change.

Quickly, I park my car, grab my purse from the passenger's seat, and exit the vehicle, my hands shaking with anticipation.

The alluring scent of freshly brewed coffee beckons me to the shop around the corner, where A.J. awaits me, likely even more excited than me. As bad as I have it with the stronzo, she has it much worse.

I walk towards the cafe, glancing at my reflection in the window of a boutique. I must ensure that I look like a normal, trustworthy person to Camilla. The last thing we need is to spook her.

For a split second, I glimpse the man of my daydreams inside a dark SUV parked across the street. My heart lurches in my chest, and I spin on my heels to stare at the vehicle. Its heavily tinted windows are impenetrable, raised to the top.

Here I go again—daydreaming. Now is not the time for silly distractions. I turn around and resume walking towards our agreed-upon meeting spot. I run my hands over my skirt, nervously smoothing away a nonexistent wrinkle. The soft feel of the lush silk soothes my frazzled nerves.

As I approach the corner of the street block, I'm suddenly overcome by a deep feeling of unease. Just nerves, I'm sure. This is a huge deal for A.J. and me. Everything we have been working towards for almost a year has led to today. Anyone would be nervous.

Behind me, two sets of footsteps hit the pavement in rhythm with my heels click-clacking down the sidewalk.

Alarm bells ring in my head. My first instinct is to dismiss this perceived threat as mere paranoia, but my sense of self-preservation and professional experience warn me against doing so. There's no harm in staying alert and making sure there's no cause for concern. God knows the stronzo is capable of anything.

Still, it would be silly to let it rattle me. It's probably nothing. I should keep a cool head and remain calm. This is a busy, public street, after all. Not even the stronzo would risk causing a scene by hurting me out in the open like this.

I plaster an aloof smile on my face before glancing at my reflection in the windows of the shops I am passing, pretending to fix my hair. My eyes immediately land on two freakishly tall, burly men, wholly clad in black.

Fuck. There's no question—they are following me. Closely.

The one on the left has a long, aquiline nose on his face, framed by longish, wavy black hair. He is at least eight inches taller than me and probably a hundred pounds heavier. As he marches down the sidewalk, the unmistakable bulge of a firearm under his suit jacket is hard to miss.

Somehow, his colleague on the right is even scarier. His hair is cropped short, military-style, and he sports a long, uneven scar that crosses his face from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. He is wearing a black earpiece that matches the color of his dark attire.

He is dressed to kill. Possibly literally.

I quickly look away from the hulking, scarred man, accidentally making eye contact with his raven-haired brother-in-arms. His eyes narrow as mine widen, and I gasp. I take off running, abandoning all pretense of obliviousness.

The two men shout something unintelligible in a language I don't recognize, chasing after me.

The physicality of my job ensures I'm very agile and quick on my feet. Under normal circumstances, I'm confident I could've lost two burly men dressed in restrictive suits in the crowd.

Regrettably, I didn't expect having to run for my life this morning when choosing what to wear. I was only concerned with looking my best and staying cool in this eighty-degree weather. As a result, they shorten the distance between their terrifying hands and me as I sprint down the pathway, wobbling in my six-inch tall strappy Louboutin sandals.

The two thugs will snatch me if I fall on my face. I wish I could kick off my impractical shoes and continue my dash barefoot, but the leather straps are tightly buckled around my ankles.

So I calculate my options, yelling at people to move out of my way and shoving innocent bystanders and any loose objects I can get my hands on at my followers as I race down the sidewalk.

A little out of breath, I look over my shoulder again. My despair grows when I realize they are almost close enough to grab me.

As I round the street corner, my right ankle twists painfully, and I lose my balance for a second. I right myself immediately, but it's too late. The black-haired man grasps my hair, violently pulling me close to him.

"Suchka," he growls. His lip is bleeding, a crimson line running down his chin. One of the objects I sent flying his way must have damaged his scary face.

He holds me tight in his grasp, tugging my hair hard as I fight him as hard as I can. His colleague approaches me, holding a white handkerchief and aiming at my face.

Panicked, I catch the first whiffs of the recognizable scent. Chloroform.

With renewed enthusiasm powered by my terror, I kick and elbow the men as hard as possible, but it's useless. They hold me firmly in place, not even straining themselves to subdue my efforts.

The scarred one gets closer, and fear like I have never known before boils over inside me. My chances of escape or survival are drastically reduced if they render me unconscious or take me to a separate location, and my odds of evading them seem nonexistent at the moment.

Turning my head, I bite down hard on the dark-haired man's arm, detecting the disgusting, metallic taste of his blood. He yells in fury, yanking me away from his arm by my hair. His fist sharply connects against my temple, sending my head reeling back.

"What the fuck are you waiting for? Do it now," he says, scolding his scarred counterpart.

Still dazed by his blow, I barely have a second to try to resist them any further before the overpowering chemical smell invades my nostrils and burns my throat as they cover my face with the chloroform-soaked cloth.

I don't have a chance to do anything but despair as the unrelenting darkness overtakes me.