Page 6 of Stealing Blinds

This is why involving my family in shit like this bites me in the ass. I told them a girl turned me down, and they’ve never let me forget it. Even though we all know it had nothing to do with me.

“That was two years ago, and we’ve established that the only reason I blew it was because the pianists used some voodoo witchcraft to take me down.”

“Logic. Or … what if your ability to reel in a lady with a simple grin is as lost as your wallet nearly was?” His devilish enjoyment is audible in every word.

“Never gonna happen. Just like my wallet, my grin is priceless and intact.” Refusing to take the ludicrous bait, I pull on a floor-to-ceiling shelf and guide him inside a tunnel. “Let’s go.”

My great-grandfather started La Lune Noire with a quaint speakeasy during Prohibition. It was off the beaten path just enough that it became the sought-after place for connected men to conspire. Our family expanded it a little more each decade, buying up the places nearby. Even after the ban on alcohol was repealed, we clung to the secret passageways and coded entry for our business model. Everything we do is cloaked in that same blanket of clandestine operations and exclusivity. There is no room without a backdoor to freedom.

Unless, of course, it’s regarding sibling harassment.

“And when you find her, will you see it as a victory because you outfoxed her, or will you be singing …” He lifts his phone into the air like a boombox, and the music ricochets off the old brick corridor as he belts out the lyrics to James Arthur’s “Can I Be Him.”

That’s what I get for revealing my hand.

Two and a Half Weeks Later

They all fucking know. I held out for a while after telling Maddox, but when I still didn’t find anything, I considered them a necessary part of my research. It was more desperate than the Serendipity ploy. Since the only picture I have is with her face partially covered, sharing with my family has proven to be useless for me and amusing to them.

It’s fucking pathetic.

I may have lost my damn mind. I honestly don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I’ve always hated defeat, but keeping my sanity is a worthwhile prize, so it’s over. I’m moving on and getting back to normal. It’s been far too long since I entertained a woman. That must be it, which makes the remedy crystal clear.

With that in mind, I tromp down the penthouse stairs with renewed spirit and wander into the kitchen for breakfast. Only Axel is present. Sometimes, everyone is here, and sometimes, it’s empty. The absence of even Zara leads me to believe this is by design because the man rarely lets his wife begin her day without him.

I stroll past him with a simple, “Good morning,” and grab myself a cup of coffee in our Art Deco kitchen.

The black-and-gold color scheme, sky lights, and retro appliances are lavish. At first glance, that’s what catches people’s attention. But that’s not what renders this area a showstopper. It’s the massive dining table and the unbelievable sense of family devotion instilled here through the mandatory meals and exuberant chaos. Home.

The weight of Axel’s scrutiny lands on my back, so I turn, leaning against the marble countertop, ankles crossed, with an air of nonchalance.

He adjusts his glasses, surveying me over his computer screen and sipping his own cup of joe. “It’s been a month.”

I knew he’d stress about this when there’s nothing to fucking worry about.

Axel is the dad of the group. Our parents died in our house fire when I was twelve. Axel was only twenty-one, but with Ryker’s help—who was nineteen—he moved us all into the resort, raised us, and ran the business. We were a handful. Maddox was fourteen and pissy. Jax was eight and scarred. Rena was six and spirited. And I was … resigned, determined to embrace every single perk of our new life and not let the emotional fallout touch me.

I’m sure Axel questioned his competency on a daily basis, but he shouldered it all and became our whole world. He is by far the best man I’ve ever known, which is why his fatherly perspective has him viewing things heavier than need be.

My gaze flicks to the two-story windows in the adjacent great room, showcasing the golden-hued New Orleans cityscape, before I park it on him. “I told you all at family dinner last night that I was no longer looking for her. I’ve moved on. You should too.”

He tilts his head—his dad hat and godfather ways colliding—like he’s debating what he should share with me. “So, if I had a list of all the female cat burglars between the ages of twenty and forty that I could find names for, you wouldn’t be interested?”

Fuck. That’s unexpected. Most thieves use aliases, but it could still lead to something. At this point, I should let it go. But it’s like doing the hard work of counting into an eight-deck blackjack game and losing the aces. Maddening.

I’m a damn junkie after one whiff—sweet and sexy and intoxicating. This must be what women feel like after a night with me. I’ll have to keep that in mind from now on. It’s tortuous.

I take my time responding, breathing in the steam and drinking my coffee. “Should I be?”

“Depends.” He spins roulette on his Casino Tourbillon watch, which is his telltale sign that something is unsettling. “Do you need to scratch an itch, or are you looking for more?”

Keeping my face impassive, I don’t hesitate. “I’m never looking for more.”

“Good.” The corners of his mouth wrestle his cheeks as he turns back to his laptop screen. “Because getting involved with a thief is as crazy as marrying an assassin.”

He would know.

One Week Later