Page 69 of The One-Night Heist

Giano groaned as our dicks rubbed against each other through our clothes. “Yes!” he breathily gasped, exactly like a sprezza-slut would. “They deserve the karma and we can deliver it together.”

Together…?

That’s when I realized I’d used the word “we,” but it was too late to take it back now. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to—not when Giano smelled so fucking good, and not when he whimpered so deliciously as I dragged my teeth over his neck.

He knows he’s mine…

Yes, I’d always considered myself a lone wolf, but there would be a certain kind of poetic justice to taking down shady billionaires with the help of one of their own.

Malicious compliance for life, baby!

The pilot’s voice sounded over the loudspeaker again, giving us the thirty-minute warning for landing and interrupting our moment, but it was probably for the best.

Enough of this cuddly cozy shit.

“Am I expected to change my clothes?” I haughtily asked as I forced myself to step away. “Isn’t it like… eleven-thirty at night in Rome right now? Why did you bother changing when we’re just getting off the private plane, getting into a private car, then checking into the hotel to get undressed all over again?”

Hopefully together.

He smiled wryly. “Because I feel most comfortable presenting my carefully constructed public image, but… you can suit yourself, Rowen.”

It wasn’t until he’d walked away that I realized he’d thrown my pun right back at me, along with the much more terrifying, terrible realization that he’d meant it.

“Suit yourself.”

Giancarlo Luxford didn’t want to change me or put me in a box and throw away the key. He was legitimately okay with who I was, felonies and all, and for some unknown reason, felt completely comfortable taking on the world by my side.

Absolutely. Terrifying.

Twenty-Three

Rowen

It was such a big-dick-energy power move for Giano to insist that the Sotheby’s representatives meet at our suite instead of their local offices.

And such a hot demand coming from my sweet, subby little billionaire.

At this point, I realized Giano was mostly masking in public—playing the game he’d been born and raised on while internally cringing the entire time.

It reminded me of how I adopted a “fake it ‘til ya make it” persona back when my foster brother, Mick, first introduced me to the organized crime underworld. The difference was that I took to it just fine, while I doubted Giano would ever fit in with the rich asshole crowd, no matter how much he “belonged.” If I was being honest—which apparently, I was lately—I kind of liked that he didn’t fit in with these assholes.

It’s fine.

He can hang with me.

Mr. Vincenzo, the managing director for Sotheby’s Italy, cleared his throat from across the full-sized board room table this ridiculous suite came equipped with. “We have employed the help of la polizia to identify what region of Italia the photos of your missing artwork may have come from, Mr. Luxford… and expect to have an answer shortly.”

Giano immediately glanced at where I leaned against the wall to the right of his leather chair, which could have looked suspicious in different circumstances, but I belonged here just as much as anyone else.

Because I’m the FBI Art Crime Team liaison, bitches!

I took my time replying to Vincenzo, mostly to look like I hadn’t already covered my bases.

Which I have.

“How certain are la polizia that those photos weren’t taken in one location before the artwork was moved to another location?”

Because that’s exactly what happened.