Page 8 of Lord of Justice

After half an hour, Roman finds me. "I heard you found the latest stolen goods?" He mumbles it, lips barely moving as he scans the crowd for his wife.

"It was a smooth transfer," I acknowledge.

"It's over." He looks exhausted. "No more play crime. They're going straight. It would kill Violet to know they were still doing this."

Shrugging, I promise, "I won't tell her, but the girls moving over a million dollars’ worth of merchandise would be a serious charge. You know this."

"I do." He pats my shoulder, ignoring how I stiffen. "Thank you."

Still, on the way home I find myself laughing, remembering how expertly Iris disappeared with the stolen goods while Rose distracted Roman with her welling eyes and trembling lips.

Well played, ladies. Well played.

Chapter Four

In which Iris sets out to prove out she can handle Play Crime just fine without Rose.

Iris…

"Are you in or are you out?"

He's impatient. I can hear loud music, people shouting and laughing. A party. I haven't been in a partying mood recently. The sound is off-putting.

Rose isn't here. She's at a frat party with Jeremy, of course. Can I do this alone?

The thought hits me like a sledgehammer. I've never done anything alone. Rose and I do everything together. As identical twins, we've always said we were two halves of one whole.

But now, she's out with Jeremy and this is a classic opportunity. Who am I to let this go by? "I'm in," I say firmly. There's a moment of silence and the music's even louder.

"Isn't Rose doing it with you?"

"She's out right now, and I'm ready. Send me theinformation."

A map pops up on my phone.

Vitali thinks I've turned in for the night. It's an easy jump from my balcony to the next apartment. I bribe my neighbor Kathy with insanely high-end cosmetics and she pretends she doesn't see me taking her fire escape down to the parking garage for our building.

There was a brief period where Violet thought she had crushed our illicit spirits, but of course we started up right away as soon as her attention turned back to getting married to Roman.

We're just better at keeping it quiet.

Tonight, Jackson's sending me out to a desolate part of Long Island. It takes me a minute to realize my hands are shaking on the steering wheel. This isn't a normal exchange.It's all wrong. We have nice, clean handoffs, usually from other Columbia University students. Maybe at a pub or a storage unit. Not like this. I never would have agreed to the pickup if I knew Jackson was sending me to the ass-end of Long Island.

The houses on this street are mostly all dark. This is a working-class neighborhood. Some of the yards are well kept, some of them are covered in weeds and look desolate. Late model cars rest tiredly by the curb and the last house on the block is my pick-up spot.

Turning into the driveway, I stop for a moment, foot on the brake and eyeing the crappy house. I could just back out of this cracked concrete drive. I don't need the money. With a sigh, I press the gas pedal again and curve around to the back, the way Jackson directed me. I cut the lights, listening to thepingsof the engine as I wait for someone to come out. The asshole takes his time, of course, finally slouching out the kitchen door scratching his belly. Which is in no way enhancing his attempt to look like an Apex predator.

Getting out of my car, I fold my arms, attempting to look menacing, which is a wasted effort. I'm maybe 5"5 when I stand straight, and curvy, which leads to flattering comments like, "Hey, bodacious tits!" My secret weapon, though, are my amber-colored eyes. When I open them wide, I can make mean people melt like butter in the microwave.

"I'm Jackson's contact," I say. "Do you have the stuff for me?" His eyes are small and set close together, his nose has been broken maybe five or forty times. A failed boxer who was told that he was MMA material, I'm guessing. He's got a greasy film of sweat on his forehead, which makes me think he's been sampling something extra tonight. Maybe a whole cocktail of extras, and they're all fighting to see which one can make its way to the top. His dilated eyes tell mehe's not sure which particular drug is going to win out, either.

"Yeah, it's over here." He strolls over to his shitty looking camper truck and opens up the back.

After he pulls out one of the boxes, I click on my phone's flashlight, looking it over. "Open it up."

With the sigh of one who has clearly been pushed to the limit of his endurance, he pulls out a switchblade, drawing it down the packing tape and opening the box. A row of gleaming gold watches sit in their green velvet boxes, with cushioned linings that look more lush than my couch. They're just waiting for me to take them home and pet them like kittens. I look for the Rolex shipping stamp. Yep, these are legit. Excellent.

A flush of unreasonable self-esteem surges through me. I can do this without Rose. I can handle shit on my own.