Page 96 of The One-Night Heist

Why. Are. You. Here?

I’d made it crystal clear I didn’t want him anywhere near this police station—or in any situation where he could be blamed and taken away from me forever.

I can’t lose you.

As if instinctively reading all of this and more on my face, his expression softened. “C’mon, Mr. Luxford. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

I WAS TRYING TO KEEP YOU SAFE!!!

Franz was apparently too dumbfounded to speak—and I didn’t trust myself to—and the last thing I wanted was to draw attention to the fugitive in our midst. So we had no choice but to follow “Dan Cooper” out of our makeshift holding cell, past multiple unsuspecting polizia, and toward the exit.

“This way!” he cheerfully called over his shoulder, easefully leading us through multiple twists and turns—as if he had the entire station mapped out. “We’ll be sneaking out through the back to avoid the paparazzi…”

I bit the side of my mouth so hard, I tasted blood as I watched him continue on without a care in the world, swinging a briefcase by his side that was most likely empty—but could have just as easily been full of vintage ransom money.

Or something far worse.

I don’t even want to know…

There was one question burning on my tongue, but I had to wait until Franz and I were loaded into the back of our “getaway car” before it erupted from my mouth.

“Is that hair color permanent?!”

Rowen turned around from the passenger seat, grinning wide once again. “What’s the matter, Moneybags? You’re not interested in some D.B. Cooper role-play in the bedroom?”

That didn’t answer my question.

“Where and when did you have these printed?” Franz weakly murmured beside me, turning the business card over in his shaking hands, no doubt still absorbing the bombshell I’d vaguely hinted at. “Where would you have found enough money to bribe la polizia⁠—”

“Hello to you too, pretty boy!” Mick shouted from the driver’s seat as he swerved into traffic and slammed his foot down on the gas. “What am I, chopped liver?”

“Is that my hat?” Franz huffed, reaching forward. “I’ll take that back now.”

“Oh, no you won’t!” Mick replied, dodging his hand as Rowen cackled. “Hours of collection are midnight to 6:00 a.m., Firenze time. Location: My bed.”

What is happening right now…?

A sudden, more pressing question rose to the top of the growing pile. “Rowen. Does anyone from the real Decatur, Trent, and Fuller Associates know you’ve intercepted them?”

“Oh! Thanks for the reminder… Daddy Pinstripes?” He twisted in his seat to face Franz. “Would you be a dear and please send an email to the attorney army? Tell them to meet us at the Tivoli Palazzo Gaddi Hotel tonight at eight. By then, we should have everything taken care of to discuss next steps.”

“What. Did. You. Do. Rowen?” I gritted out, the cocktail of overwhelming relief at seeing him again and concern for his wellbeing now boiling over into something anger-shaped. “Why couldn’t you just wait for my attorneys to arrive? This is what I pay them to do!”

Rowen Quincy, master art thief, undeniable love of my life, and current reason for my rising blood pressure smiled serenely.

“Trust me, baby,” he cooed, making me melt despite my best efforts. “With the way things are about to go down,” he paused to wink lecherously. “You’ll wanna let the professionals handle it from here on out.”

Thirty-One

Rowen

The vibe in the meeting room we’d reserved at the Tivoli Palazzo Gaddi Hotel was tense as hell.

Unsurprising, since Giano’s lawyers are glaring daggers across the table.

What also shouldn’t have been a surprise was that I didn’t give a shit. I had no doubt these sharks in suits would have been more than capable of defending their client without my help, but in my expert opinion, humoring Markel’s “anonymous tip” wasn’t a good use of anyone’s time.

Because Markel himself isn’t worth our time.