Page 74 of The One-Night Heist

More specifically, who he is to him.

“Mick is an old associate of yours?” I casually asked as I stood and straightened my coat.

Rowen took his time retrieving the sunglasses from his buttonhole and putting them on, hiding his gorgeous eyes—and his secrets—behind mirrored lenses. “Something like that. He and his sister Lucy were my first partners in crime.”

Such an intense blast of possessiveness shot through me, I forced myself to look away, across the square to our destination. “I see. Follow me.”

Rowen walked beside me in silence for a minute before I felt his fingertips brush mine. “No need to be jealous, Giano. Mick was my foster brother… from the house I was at before I aged out of the system completely.”

I stopped in my tracks outside the boutique, feeling terrible that he’d picked up on my unnecessary envy over some of the only family he’d had.

“You were in the foster system?” I asked, knowing Rowen wouldn’t want platitudes but eager for any drops of personal information I could squeeze out of him.

His expression—what I could see of it—shuttered the slightest bit. “Well, yeah…” He half-shrugged and glanced up at the building, as if forgetting he was safely hidden behind his sunglasses. “Foster care was the next stop after you outgrew St. Anthony’s Home for Lost Children.”

For the second time in the past twenty-four hours, the world tilted on its axis, and I had to place a hand on the marble facade of the retailer to steady myself before I passed out.

“Are you okay, Giano?” Rowen’s freckled face, sans sunglasses appeared in my blurry vision, peering at me with more concern than he probably meant to show. “Allergic to orphans?”

I had to laugh at that. “Not at all. The heat got to me for a moment, but I’ll be fine once we’re inside.”

He grabbed my arm and led me through the boutique’s doorway. “Yeah, let’s get you inside… with the AC and ridiculously expensive watches… Oops, did I say that out loud?”

Of course, he had, and—of course—his words echoed around the marble-walled room of the luxury watch retailer in a way that drew attention, but I wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by the outburst.

Everything in here is ridiculously expensive.

Like many interiors—and exteriors—in Rome, the color palette was neutral, with warm tans and creams on the walls, light wood chairs upholstered in soft gray fabric at the consultation areas, and a series of glass cases that stretched the length of the entire store.

And enough lighting to make everything expensive shine.

Rowen opted to browse the available merchandise while I spoke to a consultant at one of the available tables. After leaving my Patek Philippe with them for immediate service, I turned to join him.

Then, I froze.

He was standing in front of the Audemars Piguet display, staring into the glass case with an odd, almost angry expression. As I slowly approached, I determined the offending item was a first generation AP Royal Oak.

“Allergic to Piguets?” I teased cautiously, watching his perfect face for more clues.

“Yes,” he practically spat, pointing accusingly. “That one in particular.”

I nodded, addicted to how emotive he was being, but wanting to show support. “It’s never been my favorite design. Blocky with far too much steel and… overbearing, like something my maternal grandfather might have worn when he was alive.” I snuck a glance at Rowen, noticing how his golden eyelashes were glittering in the light beneath his adorably furrowed brows. “He was the epitome of a rich asshole, by the way.”

His wide-eyed gaze snapped to mine, as if surprised by the admission, before returning to the case. “Maybe you weren’t actually related… Do you like any of these?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and perused the offerings. “For you? I’d go with the Code 11.59.” I leaned down until my lips brushed against the skin beneath his ear—one of my new favorite places on earth. “It’s about twenty grand more than mine retails for.”

“Fuck, I am so hard right now,” Rowen blessedly whispered before turning to face me. “It looks like something a Bond villain would wear.”

“Precisely,” I purred, drinking in his dilated pupils, the way his lips were centimeters away from mine. “You have my wallet. Go on and buy it for yourself.”

He stumbled backward. “What? I can’t do that, Giano. I…” His gaze drifted to the watch in question with so much longing in his expression, I almost got jealous again. “How much is it?”

I shrugged nonchalantly, knowing he was close to folding. “54… 55k? Use the black card when you pay.”

That one’s for the trust fund.

“Jesus Christ, I’m gonna come in my goddamn pants,” Rowen muttered just as an unpleasantly familiar voice called my name.