A low, humorless chuckle slips past my lips before I can stop it. I’m not angry. Not really. I’m actually kind of impressed. The sheer nerve she must possess to do this to someone like me.
The watch and knife are replaceable. The chain… that’s different. That’s a line she shouldn’t have crossed.
I should be pissed; any normal person probably would’ve called the cops by now. That thought doesn’t even cross my mind.
I drag a hand through my damp hair, letting my thoughts settle. Then I move toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, admiring the city stretching out beneath me and the beginnings of traffic in the morning haze.
Where did she go? The question gnaws at me, sinking in deeper with every second of silence. How far could she be by now? My jaw aches as my teeth clench together, and I pace alongside the massive windows. She thinks she slipped away. But no one slips away from me. At least, not for long.
That truth steadies me. I will find her. Because I don’t lose, I don’t get played. The tightness in my chest eases.
This isn’t over. Not even close.
And Iwillsee her again.
Chapter 4
ARDEN
I never go home with stolen goods.
I’ve made it a rule: get rid of them as soon as possible. No holding, no second-guessing. Too much temptation, and I don’t bring my messes home.
So, as I walk out of the casino like just another girl who made a drunken mistake last night, I make a quick call.
“Hey, Milo. I’ve got something for you. Can I stop by?”
I’m at the pawn shop ten minutes later. This isn’t a pristine, well-lit, polished storefront. No, this is the kind of place you don’t walk into unless you know someone inside or you’re desperate. The kind that makes you wonder if you’ll make it out in one piece.
I push through the door, and the shop is dim, lit by a single buzzing and flickering fluorescent light overhead that casts everything in a sickly yellow glow. Shelves sag under the weight of old dusty trinkets and pawned junk that looks like it’s been sitting here since the ’90s. The linoleum floor is scuffed, sticky in places, and it smells like no one has opened a window in years. There’s a narrow hallway in the back, and I make my way through it, past more shelves full of crap no one’s even thinking of buying, until I reach the unmarked office door. This is where Milo does his real business. I push it open and step inside.
He’s at his desk, cigar in hand. A steaming mug of coffee sits next to a glass ashtray as he leans back in his chair with his feet on the desktop, like he owns the whole damn city. He’s in his fifties, if not older. His thinning gray hair is slicked back, and the fluorescent light catches on bulky gold rings as he lights a fresh cigar. A real old-school Italian motherfucker. I don’t ask questions, but if I had to guess, I’d say he definitely has mob ties. That’s nothing new in this town. He has to offload the goods somehow.
I set the watch and chain neatly on his desk. I keep the knife. It never hurts to have protection. Milo doesn’t react right away; he just leans forward, squinting at the watch like he wants to be sure it’s real. Then he picks it up, rolling it between his fingers, casual on the surface, but there’s a sharp glint in his eyes.
“Well, good morning to you, too.” His mouth twitches: half a grin, half a grimace. “You don’t usually drop this kind of shit in my lap.”
I smirk. “Should net enough zeros to make your head spin. The question is, will you have a buyer?”
He flips the watch once in his palm, and his thumb lingers on the bezel. “I move watches. Rolex, Patek, even Cartier if it ain’t too hot. But this?” He exhales a puff of cigar smoke through his nose. “This is oligarch shit. It’s beautiful… and it could be trouble. I’m willing to bet somebody important’s already looking for it.” He raises an eyebrow, waiting for my response.
I shrug. “So what? Call your guy.”
Milo’s snort echoes through the room. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “My guy? He would shit himself seeing this on my desk. The kind of people who buy RichardfuckingMille don’t do back-alley deals. They got brokers. Lawyers. Insurance policies that are bigger than my entire operation.”
He exhales, tapping the ash from his cigar into the ashtray, his free fingers drumming against the desk as his eyes narrow. He’s thinking. I just wait. I already know the greedy bastard isn’t going to let me walk out of here with this.
Then finally, “I might know someone.”
I arch a brow. “Might?”
He waves me off. “A middleman. He won’t meet with you; he’s selective, but if anyone can move this thing quietly, it’s him.”
“Great. Call him. Let’s meet up today.”
Milo chuckles, low and humorless, rubbing a hand down his face like he already regrets this. “It’s not that easy. He’s got rules. Youdon’t just walk in with a stolen Richard Mille and walk out with cash.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Then how the hell is this going to work?”
