AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Oh, fuck me.
Not just any egg, I realize as I walk over. It’s aFabergéegg. As in the House of Fabergé, the 19th-century firm famous for the jewel- and gold-encrusted eggs and other priceless decorative works of art they created for the Tsars and the other ultra-wealthy of pre-revolutionary Imperial Russia.
Like the Monet, it could be a replica. But judging by the glass case around it, not to mention the other opulent wealth clearly on display in this office, I’m guessing it’s the real deal.
I’m also sure thatthisis what I’m supposed to steal.
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
Forget Napoleon’s sword. This thing has to be priceless. It also has to be under the protection of an alarm. But again, that’s one of the assurances made by the Crown Society concerning this task: all alarms and other security measures will be turned off during the theft.
My pulse races as I reach out with shaky hands, letting my fingers graze the glass of the case. No alarms. I wince, lifting it up as gingerly as I can.
Still no alarms.
I exhale slowly as I set the glass box down on the shelf next to the egg. Then I just stare at it sitting on its delicate, understated black wire stand mounted on an ancient looking wooden base. I mean it’sgorgeous—a matte black egg girdled in gleaming gold with lines and swirls of what I think are yellow diamonds all over the surface.
It’s simply beautiful. And for a second, I hate that I have to take this, even though I know that within a week, an anonymous courier will bring it back to this very office with a note of apology on paper bearing the seal of the Crown Society. Apparently, a lot of the “targets” that get picked for these initiation ordeals are either Crown Society alumni themselves or have otherwise heard of the ritual. Even the guy who had his Napoleon sword stolen apparently laughed about it once it was returned.
But fuck me, I have to walk out of here withthis? A priceless, old, not to mentionfragile, decorative freaking egg? Ideally without, you know, smashing it into a million pieces? Great.
I take a deep breath and ready myself to touch it. When suddenly, my gaze drops to the tiny slip of paper next to the egg glued to the dark wood base banded with brass that itself looks like an antique.
A slip of paper with beautiful, neat, masculine handwriting on it.
In Russian.
Moyemu synu. Vsya moya lyubov’.
I took two levels of Russian literature in undergrad. It was basically only enough to feel smug when discussing Tolstoy. But it’s also enough for me to know that the note reads “To my son. All of my love”.
My gaze drifts to the letterhead on which the little note is written, which includes the name of this benevolent father giving his son a freaking Fabergé egg as a token of his esteem:
Vadim Tsarenko.
It takes me half a second. Then cold, naked, razor-sharp fear stabs right through my heart.
Holy. Fucking.Hell.
Tsarenko. As inGavan fucking Tsarenko, the co-head of the same Reznikov Bratva we almost went to war with four months ago. The same Reznikov Bratva whose captain, Leo Stavrin, blew up my bar and killed Sean. The same Reznikov Bratva who we might not openly be at war with, but whom wecertainlyare not “at peace” with.
I’m in Gavan Tsarenko’s office at his massive holdings and acquisitions company, Ironclad Capital.
This ishorrifying.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be within five freaking blocks of this entire building. And Idefinitelyshouldn’t be stealing a priceless heirloom that he got from his father.
My heart races into overdrive, my ears ringing as my throat opens and closes reflexively.
Run. You need to run, now.
I know I should. Old Eilish would. Old Eilish would already be halfway down the block by now. But new Eilish is apparently fuckinginsane. Because before I know what I’m doing, my hands are raising again, reaching for the gorgeous black and gold egg.
My pulse skips as my fingers touch the gilded gold and yellow diamonds. I gently cradle it in my hands as I lift it from its wire stand and gaze at it with wide eyes, holding my breath.
Now, to get you safely out of the building—
“What thefuckdo you think you’re doing!?”
