Page 40 of Heist in Paradise

“Okay.” I believed him. “What are you going to do?”

“Stay here,” he said, ignoring my question again. His voice was like grated steel. “Don’t move. Don’t be a hero. I’ll come back for you.”

He shut the door, and I was enveloped in darkness. When my eyes adjusted, I looked around helplessly at the shelves of towels and linens, the soft scent of detergent somehow amplifying my dread. I bet a funeral home smells like this, my brain piled on helpfully. I slid down to the floor and hugged my backpack. At least I had my phone. Worst case, I called Preacher for an emergency extraction. But it was a last resort—he scared me as much as Jax did.

I strained my ears and caught the sound of footsteps creaking on the floorboards. Instantly, my heart rocketed, my stomach bottoming out. What if my intel was wrong and Salvadore had caught an earlier flight? Or what if he’d sent his staff to prepare the mansion in advance?

God, what if they insisted on changing the sheets first?

My linen cupboard just became a hot sauna of death. Sweat beaded over my temples, prickling down the back of my neck. The creaking got louder, confident steps, the steps of someone who belonged. I held my breath and squeezed my backpack when the footsteps neared, then paused. Shadows flickered under the crack of the door.

“Hello?”

Oh god oh god oh god

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” the voice continued without a reply, sounding impatient. It was male, young. Not one of Jax’s crew. Another pause, and he said: “Don’t ask me. I’m just the errand guy. Maybe he’s finally going digital.”

The lack of reply meant he was talking on the phone. That meant he was distracted, and not scenting the air like some demonic bloodhound ready to hunt me down. Another minute later, the shadows moved on, his voice pitching in annoyance as it drifted away: “Cool your jets, Marcus. I’m headed to the safe now. There’s a reason I’m the one holding it and not you. I’m fucking trustworthy.”

Panic thrummed through my veins. The safe. The painting. As soon as he saw it was missing, he would raise the alarm. There was no time to delay.

I stood up and reached for the door, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. I waited, and waited, but there was no cry of shock, no sirens. Was there another safe we didn’t know about?

More secrets, Molly whispered.

A fresh tear of grief ripped through my panic. I couldn’t leave now. Not when I was finally onto something. With trembling fingers, I opened the door and peered cautiously across the sun-lit hall into Salvadore’s office. The stranger was in there, speaking in low tones. I expected him to sound angry, like he’d just discovered a hundred-million-dollar hole in the wall.

Could he be so distracted that he hadn’t noticed? That didn’t seem likely. His conversation made it seem as if he were a frequent visitor, someone trusted with the safe. I stepped forward, pressing my sneaker delicately onto the floor so I didn’t trigger a creak. The new angle let me see the stranger, his back to the door, half-perched on the mahogany desk, his phone pressed to his ear. He was wearing a lime green shirt and black jeans and—

My brain stalled.

The painting was in front of the safe.

I blinked hard, thinking it was a trick of the light. But no, it was the same painting I’d seen Callum and Zola slip into a travel-friendly case. The stranger waved his hand, and my heart stopped, but then he grumbled, “You know how it is. He’s got a taste for it now. He’ll be back.”

Before I could second-guess myself, I skulked across the hall and into the office, immediately beelining for the huge wardrobe next to the door. Luckily, it was partially opened, as if the latch didn’t quite work anymore. I squeezed myself inside, nearly choking on my tongue when I was engulfed in fur.

“Hang on a sec.”

I froze, my heart pounding in my head, my mouth full of slaughtered mink. As I eased back, the hangers above me made a terrible clinking sound. I froze, my eyes plastered to the crack between the doors, waiting for him to come over and investigate.

Stupid, Molly said.

I know, I replied miserably.

There was a shuffling sound, like papers being sorted, and then he was talking again: “Do you know if he keeps his cigars in the top drawer? What? Since when?”

I released a winded breath. I couldn’t move, not without setting off the hangers, a task that became increasingly difficult when the fur stuck to my sweat-slick skin, making me itch. This was a stupid idea. Stupid and reckless and desperate.

“Brunette? Meh, I prefer blondes.”

My stomach made a low, grumbling complaint. God, not now. The rollercoaster of adrenaline was wreaking havoc on my digestive system.

More shuffling, a sound of a drawer being opened and shut. “Senator who? Never heard of him.”

He let out a short, barking laugh. “You know what? I wouldn’t put it past him. Nothing like good pussy to sway the vote. He can have the brunettes.”

A ghost of air brushed the back of my neck.