Page 33 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

He knew her too well, and she was being a coward. She sat straighter and took a fortifying breath. “Is what we do really making the world better? We’re feeding America’s criminal underbelly. The people who fence our art make cash off us. It keeps them in business, which means criminals who wouldn’t think twice about killing to make a score use their services. We’re perpetuating the system. And we steal, for God’s sake. Wrap it up in whatever pretty picture you want, paint our victims as degenerate, millionaire assholes—we still steal.”

Her last words vibrated in the airy space, clanging with her need to purge the stresses invading her recent sleepless nights.

Lucien didn’t flinch, only tipped his head slightly. “What would happen to Nisha if we quit funding that orphanage?”

She pictured Nisha’s scarred arms, the overcrowded building the little girl had called home. “She would land back on the streets.”

“And where is she now?”

Clementine glanced at the mantel above his fireplace, at the framed photos depicting their successes. Nisha held a fat tomato in one shot, big smile on her face. “She works at the orphanage’s greenhouse.”

“And how did that greenhouse get built?”

“With our money.”

“And you still think our work is meaningless?”

“We could do it legally. Start a charity, get donations.”

He waved his hand as though swatting flies. “You know very well I’ve tried that.”

He didn’t explain again. He’d gone over it a thousand times. Lucien had headed corporate charities, pulling in millions for Fortune 500 companies, so they could say they contributed to society. It was there Lucien had learned money often went unaccounted for. Even if the charities were on the up-and-up, huge percentages paid staff and overhead before a dime made it to their end goal. Red tape meant progress was slowed and often kyboshed. Aggravation had pushed him to take matters into his own hands. She knew the stories. It didn’t frustrate her any less.

“I’m just so tired,” she said.

“I understand, but there’s another issue to consider. Yevgen Liski is in town.”

Oh, hell no. “Are you sure?”

Lucien rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Rumbles have drifted from the streets. If he’s here for the same Monet, you know how that will go.”

Bloody was how it would go. Yevgen Liski may have been ten years older than Clementine, but his maturity hovered around twelve-year-old psychopath. To him, torturing victims was as exciting as an all-expenses-paid, all-inclusive vacation. Pets were dismembered for shits and giggles. Toes and fingers were left in jewelry boxes. He wore a string of teeth around his neck. Human fucking teeth. Twice now, Yevgen had lost scores to Clementine, and rumor had it he was pissed.

All that Yevgen represented had Clementine hugging her knees tighter.

“You are perfection at what you do, Tangerine.”

She didn’t answer.

“With your finesse, no one will get hurt. The money will save lives.”

Shallow breaths tightened her chest.

When her silence continued, Lucien scooted closer and took her hands in his. “If this really is too much for you, if you can’t continue, it’s okay. I’ll find someone else to work with, another protégé to train.”

Those shallow breaths roughened. Her attention flicked between his thinning hair and his reading glasses on the table. If he cut her loose and found someone else, their dinners would dwindle. His calls would decrease. They wouldn’t lose touch exactly, but like any family, blood related or not, life would get in the way. The work check-ins would cease. He’d be busy with a new partner and new heists, and he wouldn’t discuss illegal dealings with Clementine. They’d go from communicating daily to weekly or less. Where would that leave her?

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I’ve just been feeling off lately—not myself. Of course I’ll do it.”

He smiled and patted her hand. “That’s my girl.”

By then her window to seduce their mark had come and gone. That left breaking in. Eddie Cohen would be out of town for the night. One evening to execute the heist. They didn’t know on which of the three floors the Monet was hung, so she’d have to wing it.

Unease edged her movements as she dressed in her burgling uniform: black clothing that wouldn’t catch on anything, hair secured in a tight bun. Just another day at the office. Feeling skittish, she did some shadow boxing, but her punches lacked conviction and nerves continued buzzing through her. She wasn’t sure if her lingering ambivalence had sparked her anxiety, or maybe talk of Yevgen and his grizzly ways had infected her.

She waited a bit longer, hoping it would pass.

It didn’t.