“Overbearing? Obnoxious?” Lola fills in.
Bellamy chuckles, shaking her head a bit. “Stern. Is he always like this, or am I special?”
“I want to say you’re just that special, but the truth is he’s wound tight in his old age.” I drag my gaze from her and pin it on my brother, knowing he can hear me. He returns my look with that blank stare of his. Half an hour ago, I'd have been itching to rearrange his face for that, but maybe sugar's better than therapy—this strawberry donut's already taking the edge off.
“Are you done?” Bishop asks, raising his voice once more.
“Are you forgetting someone?” she counters, her tone sharpening.
“Coco’s not joining us tonight,” Rafe answers before I can.
Bellamy's gaze finds mine, her expression hardening into something careful. “Is that usual? I thought she was an equal partner in your jobs.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Coco's more... behind the scenes these days. Handles logistics, not legwork. She skips the planning sessions but never misses the execution.”
“How do I get that role? Equal cut of the job without showing up,” Lola muses. There’s a twist to her mouth that drips derision.
Bellamy looks from her sister back to me. “We brought her a donut. Save it for her or the job will be compromised.”
I arch an eyebrow, watching her face. Who knew she’d be this superstitious.
Bishop slaps a stack of cheap black phones onto the table with a hollow clatter. One by one, he slides each device across the scratched surface of our table. “Numbers are already programmed one through seven. No names on a line. Ever.”
Lola eyes him. “Let me guess—you’renumber one?”
Bishop folds his arms across his chest with a nod. “I’m planning the job.”
Beckett snorts. “Participating inourplanned job, you mean.”
Bishop slices his hand through the air. Bellamy's jaw tightens—a muscle flickering beneath the skin—then stills. She picks up the phone, turns it over once between her fingers, and slides it into her pocket. Her shoulders square by a fraction of an inch. The corner of her mouth twitches upward.
I’m watching her too closely not to notice.
Bishop keeps going. “Rafe is two. Gage, three. Cruz, four. Beck, five. Lola, six. Bellamy—seven.”
The amusement on her face flickers out like someone pinched the flame. Her expression settles into a practiced blankness that doesn't quite reach her eyes, where something cold and calculating has taken residence.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were compensating for something, Bishop,” Bellamy says.
Before Bishop can snarl back, Lola elbows her and mumbles around a mouthful of donut, “Uh-oh. Better not wear Dutch braids tomorrow, sis. Bishop might try to tug on them like middle-school bully.”
Cruz barks a laugh. Bellamy smirks. My stomach twists like someone’s shoved a fist through my abdomen and grabbed whatever’s inside. My jaw locks, teeth grinding. I catch myself staring at Bishop’s hands—those thick fingers that have broken men’s jaws—and the image flashes, uninvited: Bishop's fingers wrapped in her wavy strands, tugging her head back, exposing the line of her throat.
My fists clench at my sides, knuckles white. The donut turns to cement in my gut—too sweet, too heavy—and I force my gaze away before the thought can finish forming.
First Cruz. Now my other brother.
Who’s next—Rafe?
“Okay,” I say, louder than I meant to. “We’ve got the burners. What else?”
Bishop's jaw twitches once, twice, a muscle jumping beneath his stubble as he locks eyes with Bellamy. She doesn't blink, doesn't shift her weight, just lifts her chin a fraction of an inch higher. The air between them seems to shimmer with heat, like asphalt on a summer day. Everyone else at the table has gone still, breath held, fingers frozen mid-reach for donuts or phones. Even Lola's stopped chewing.
Cruz must feel it too, because he reaches for the rolled city plans on the table and unspools them fast, smoothing them flat with his palms. “Let’s confirm layout. Beck pulled permits and renovation records. We marked where the safes are likely installed.”
Bellamy slides in closer to the table, fingertip tracing the route across the plans, and everyone shifts with her—Cruz included. He leans in until his shoulder brushes hers. His head tilts, angling toward her ear, close enough that a strand of her hair catches on his stubble. My jaw locks. Something acidic crawls up my throat as I force myself to swallow it down.
This could be the best job we've ever touched—the one that finally puts us in a different league. Or it could be the thing that cracks us clean in half, and I'm not sure which outcome I'm more afraid of anymore.
