Page 1 of Business vs. Pleasure

CHAPTER 1

Leaning against the doorframe of the mansion’s obscenely huge great room, watching his husband and their guest arranging the newest piece on a pedestal, Ricardo Torralba couldn’t help but chuckle. “That has to be the most expensive middle finger I’ve ever seen.”

August turned a look on him that Ricardo knew well—the snarky, wicked grin that meant he was exceptionally pleased with himself. “Isn’t it, though?”

Ricardo shook his head and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t even surprised anymore. If anything, he was shocked August hadn’t actually bought a giant sculpture of an actual middle finger. More than once, he’d thought about making that comment out loud. He refrained, though; it would be so much funnier if August came up with the idea organically.

Their guest, a white woman with short gray hair and thick glasses hanging over her lavender blouse on a beaded chain, smiled fondly at August before returning her attention to the newest acquisition. Lilith Gowan looked more like someone who should’ve been shushing people in a museum gallery or a library than smuggling multimillion dollar works of art across international lines. And yet, here she was, completely unbothered by the three-foot anus painting on the wall above them as she helped August put the legendary figurine on display in their house.

The figurine itself was puzzling to Ricardo. He’d never even understood why people paid tens of millions of dollars for paintings. Well, no, that wasn’t true. He knew exactly why they did it: money laundering. What better way to launder mountains of money in one go than to buy or sell a piece of modern art worth that much because you’d paid someone to say it was?

This little sculpture, though, had all kinds of myth and legend attached to it. Though it stood only a few inches tall, the Iberian Puffin’s storied history alone made it a coveted piece. It was said to be solid gold in the middle, which explained its weight; Ricardo had been surprised that such a small object that wasn’t a firearm could be so heavy.

“Maybe we could turn it into a gun,” he’d floated to August.

August had huffed indignantly and snatched it away from him. “We are not turning a—Jesus Christ, Ricardo.” He’d rolled his eyes and tsked.

That had amused Ricardo for a moment or two. Always did.

Now the penguin sat on a pedestal, with August and Lilith fussing about how many degrees they should turn it to the right or the left to make the enormous flamingo diamond on its chest sparkle the most. It was ridiculous—the sculpture itself, the stories behind it, the fuck-you of obtaining it, and the two of them caring so much about how it was oriented on the pedestal. As if Ricardo wasn’t going to come in later and turn it a few degrees just to fuck with August.

Eventually, Ricardo decided to leave them to it, and he headed upstairs to the rooftop patio. As he ascended the stairs, he thought there should be some kind of patriotic pride attached to owning such a coveted piece originating from his own country, but there wasn’t. He honestly didn’t care. The only satisfaction he’d get in that regard was that his brother, a Catalan separatist to his core, would hate it. Even that… meh.

As he stepped out into the Maltese sun and drank in some fresh air, he hated how little he cared about… well, about anything. He loved August fiercely, of course. He loved this palatial estate they’d bought and its view of the Mediterranean. He had good people in his life and all around him, and he had peace that had never come with being a Green Beret or an assassin.

And God help him, he was fucking bored.

Not long ago, they’d flown to New York to attend a lavish party thrown by a billionaire on Long Island. Ricardo had wondered aloud several times what he’d done to warrant such a punishment. Hadn’t he suffered enough in his life without stuffing himself into an uncomfortable suit and pretending to enjoy a rich asshole’s dinner party? Apparently not, because the rich asshole he’d married had insisted, and there they’d been, sipping the worst champagne imaginable while pretending to care about conversations with the most insufferable people on the planet.

About the time that one woman had started bending their ears about a modern-day cubism revival, he’d started dissociating and fantasizing about stealing one of the pieces on display. Theft hadn’t really been his MO since his youth, but it would’ve livened up the party and gotten him out of that conversation. And there had been some incredible, almost priceless pieces on display. The fifteen-year-old burglar in him had started salivating at the prospect of making off with any one of them. And this time he knew what he was doing, so he wouldn’t have had to climb out a window and fall onto some evil rosebushes.

Then the whole party had suddenly erupted into chaos. The sprinklers had gone off. People had started screaming and shouting. Plainclothes cops—where the fuck had those come from?—had tackled someone attempting to make off with the Iberian Puffin. The Iberian Puffin… had shattered.

“What the fuck?” August had never sounded so disgusted or insulted, which said something. As they’d hurried out of the room in their now soaked suits, he’d scoffed, “That thing was supposed to be solid—how the fuck did it shatter? That lying piece of shit!”

For the entire drive back to their hotel in their wet clothes, he’d ranted and raved and threatened God Himself because Harry James Alders had allegedly had the real Iberian Puffin. And he’d taunted August with it. Told him he’d come into possession of a piece August would never get his hands on. Invited him to come to the party so he could see it, along with all the other near-priceless pieces he owned.

“Do we have to?” Ricardo had asked for the billionth time on the way into the party.

“Yes,” August had snapped, and so they had.

And then the “Puffin” had shattered.

And now, weeks later, with the real Puffin sitting in his own house and his husband thoroughly satisfied with the situation… Ricardo couldn’t shake this suffocating boredom.

It had been an issue for a while. He’d been restless in ways he hadn’t wanted to think about. That party, though, had forced it all into sharp focus. The whole time August had been losing his mind over Alders fooling him with a fake, Ricardo had been vibrating with adrenaline. One taste of the excitement and chaos, and he’d been hungry for more.

Standing here now, palms flat on the sun-warmed stone as he stared out at the sparkling Med, he itched for another taste. And not from the sidelines this time. He wanted to be in the thick of it.

Except he and August were retired now. He’d been livid with August for suggesting they retire when they got married, but he’d come around to it. Their job had meant a significant level of danger—one that had nearly killed them both more than once—and they’d wanted a peaceful life together. Which they had. Apart from August’s occasional shady dealings for artwork and cars that may or may not have been hot, they were living the law-abiding lives of normal people. As much as billionaires ever lived anything close to normal, anyway. They had homes in half a dozen countries. They rubbed elbows with powerful people (some of whom definitely made Ricardo’s trigger finger itch). Their life was full of fine dining, beaches, sex, and leisure. They wanted for nothing money could buy and plenty that it couldn’t.

But more and more, Ricardo was bored. The restlessness was starting to keep him up at night, and it had only gotten worse since that party on Long Island.

Being an innocent bystander in a heist gone wrong had whet his appetite for the life he and August had left behind.

He craved it. He longed for the excitement.

For the danger.