"Even bigger," I tell her. "And they'll serve you juice and cookies."
This information clearly elevates the trip to the status of greatest adventure ever in her three-year-old mind. "Sam too?"
"Sam too," Dice confirms. "The whole family."
"The whole family," she repeats, satisfied, before wiggling to be let down so she can return to her coloring, presumably to document this exciting development.
Later that night, after the kids are asleep, Dice and I sit on the porch swing, my legs draped across his lap as we share a beer.
"Happy?" he asks suddenly, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my ankle.
"Fishing for compliments?" I tease.
"Maybe." He shrugs. "Just like to check in sometimes. Make sure this is still what you want."
It's a vulnerability he rarely shows. This lingering fear that I might wake up one day and miss my old life of constant movement, of freedom without responsibility. That the woman who once stole priceless watches and outsmarted security systems might find small-town motherhood too confining.
"This is exactly what I want," I tell him, meaning it completely. "You, the kids, all of it."
His smile is slow and satisfied. "Good. Because you're stuck with me, Brooks. Till death do us part and all that shit."
"Such a romantic," I roll my eyes, but lean in to kiss him anyway.
Against my lips, he murmurs, "Belgium's pretty romantic."
"With a three-year-old and a baby?" I laugh. "Not exactly the secluded getaway."
"We'll have our moments," he promises. "Got us a suite with a separate bedroom for the kids. And James packed us a surprise bag with some... supplies."
"Dare I ask what kind of supplies?" Though I have a pretty good idea, knowing both Thompson brothers' penchant for mischief.
"Let's just say he made sure we have everything we need for those moments when the kids are asleep." His hand slides up my leg suggestively. "And soundproof walls."
"Always thinking ahead," I murmur appreciatively. "But are we sure we're ready to travel internationally with two small children? That's a long flight."
"We've faced down armed kidnappers and Irish crime lords," he reminds me. "I think we can handle a transatlantic flight with the mini-monsters."
As we sit there in the gathering darkness, his arm around me and the sound of crickets filling the night, I think about the woman I was five years ago. Always in control, always planning three steps ahead, never trusting anyone but myself. That woman would hardly recognize me now, and yet she's still here, underneath it all. Still calculating, still protective, still ready to fight for what matters.
The difference is what matters has changed. It's no longer just survival, no longer the thrill of the next score. Now it's this man beside me, our children sleeping inside, the life we've built together. A life I never knew I wanted until Dice Thompson crashed into mine with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.
"You know," I say thoughtfully, "Sam's passport photo might be the cutest thing I've ever seen."
"Nah," Dice disagrees. "Kayla trying to explain to the passport agent why she needed to bring her unicorn stuffed animal for the photo was cuter."
We laugh together, remembering how seriously our daughter had argued her case, as if her stuffed companion was an essential part of her identity.
"She's going to be trouble when she's older," I predict.
"Going to be?" Dice raises an eyebrow. "She already is. Just like her mother."
"And her father," I add. "Poor Sam doesn't stand a chance with our genes."
"He'll be fine," Dice says confidently. "He's got us. And James. And the whole club looking out for him."
He's right, of course. Our children will grow up surrounded by love and protection, with an extended family that may be unconventional but is fiercely loyal. They'll never know the loneliness I experienced as a child, or the abandonment Dice and James suffered.
Some gambles pay off bigger than others. This one, taking a chance on Dice Thompson, on staying put, on building a family, has been the jackpot.
And as we head to Belgium next week, carrying our past adventures with us but focused firmly on creating new ones with our children, I know that the best heist of my life wasn't anything I ever stole.
It was the heart of the impulsive, reckless prospect who refused to let me face danger alone, who showed me that sometimes the greatest freedom comes from putting down roots in exactly the right place.
