Page 112 of Stealing Blinds

Zara bobs her head, a little tipsy. “And the last part of the shitty experience is about to happen.” She slaps the table with each word. “Another. Fucking. Shoe.”

“It would be pretty bad if I had to use a weapon.” Mercy tucks her blonde hair behind her ear before her brown eyes widen in my direction. “It’s why I’d never wear flip-flops.”

“Oh, it’s literally about the shoes,” I surmise as “These Boots are Made for Walkin’ ” blares from across the table and the three troublemakers devolve into hysterics.

I’m rarely surprised by people, but while Mercy might give a girl-next-door vibe and be in the throes of motherhood, it’s evident that she’s a ruthless thinker. I’ll keep an eye on her footwear in the future.

Cash gets out of his chair, swaggers around the table with his shot glass, lifts me up, and sits back down with me on his lap. “Thanks for this,” he rasps in my ear. “I know we’ve got intense days ahead. This took the edge off.”

After all my freak-outs and doubts, his devotion is unwavering.

“Thank you.” I brush my fingers over his cheek and press a chaste kiss to his lips. “For being patient with me and giving me all of this.”

He nuzzles his face in my neck. “Sylvie and Cash. Sly and Noire. You and me.”

Belonging.

He drags his hand between my thighs, lightly teasing my clit. “Did you finish yourself?”

“No,” I confess, my voice low. “I wanted to wait for you.”

“Good girl,” he breathes, and I know we’ll put that mess behind us.

“Moving on.” I fill his glass and set the bottle in front of him, knowing he’ll need it. “Taking something extra that isn’t part of the job is a bonus.”

The girls remain stoic, but the billionaire Noire men chug.

“Using brute force to get things done is always an option.”

Everyone but Mercy goes down with that.

“Murdering someone is okay if it’s necessary.”

Everyone—even Mercy—drinks.

I glance at Axel, and he tips his scotch back with a smirk.

I don’t know why I’m disillusioned; the corrupt setting that I’m currently calling home should have prepared me, but for some reason, it just didn’t. Maybe in an effort of self-preservation, the psyche ignores things until it can’t.

Cash squeezes my hip, reading my mind. “It’s okay, Sly. Rip off the Band-Aid and ask.”

“Okay. Forget the hypothetical aspect of the game.” I eye him for a beat, bracing for impact when I address the rest of them. “Drink if the following statement is true: I have murdered someone.”

Every. Single. Person. In. The. Room.

“Game over.” I grab the whiskey and pour a shot straight into my mouth, learning to bend in a whole new way.

I think my days of being a simple art thief are over.

CASH

Cruising into the Blind Tiger to the tune of Louis Armstrong crooning from the vintage phonograph, I do a quick scan of the crowded speakeasy to confirm that what I found on the security cameras is still intact. The strangest mix of glee and rage swirls in my chest when I find it is—an ecstatic cyclone ready to tear through this place.

Maybe not the whole place. My great-grandfather’s blood, sweat, and spit are engraved on every original brick and antique floorboard. I can almost smell the whiff of moonshine, champagne, and cognac dragged in through the tunnels. But my mind drifts to the smoking gun he built his fortune on. The Mafias revered him because he had what they wanted, his contacts were endless, and he was crazy enough to shoot them in the face if they got out of line.

That’s a legacy worth continuing.

I called ahead to the bartender, Jason, to get my seat and other things in order, so he relocated one of our patrons to provide me with the coveted location.