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But I know I’m right. These guys stick out—amateur fucking hour. Makes sense, ’cause these ain’t Nick’s normal stomping grounds, so he’s probably working with some ragtag, pay-by-the-hour ruffians he hustled up—doesn’t have a longtime crew sussed out of the shadows to work the corners of the heisting game.

A good thief doesn’t need one. The movies make it look like there’s so much shit involved, like you need the acrobat and the demolition guy and the getaway driver and blah blah blah. All the shit, right?

Truth is, simplicity wins out. Plus, you work solo, you don’t gotta pay anybody, and more importantly, you don’t gotta trust anybody. Don’t gotta worry about their motivations or loyalties, their ulterior motives.

The fullest truth of all is that every act of thievery is really just a sleight-of-hand trick.

That’s all.

A flourish of fingers, a charming smile, a misdirection. You look down, I go up. That kind of thing.

But Nick isn’t a great thief—he’s a two-bit conman at best. So, he’s got a cheap crew, and they’re gonna go at this like Neanderthals, bashy bashy, smashy smashy, with their big fists and their tiny brains.

I mean, I can’t see Silverback trying to crack a safe with those sausage fingers. Let’s hope they don’t plan on trying to squirrel away anything too large or unwieldy. Can you picture the goons trying to steal a painting?

Not that that narrows the options much—plenty of pocketable things worth a fortune. Things Nick can swipe while his boys create distraction, disable alarms, unplug some cameras, that kind of stuff. Manual shit, ’cause they’re here in the flesh and not lurking out in a van with a computer and a bag of Cheetos.

Power cut would be the easiest way to take down a lot of systems without a lot of finesse or hackery. There’s a backup generator nestled into the rear corner of the backyard, so if that is their plan, they’ll have to take that down too. And the security guard watching it.

Punchy punchy!

“Well, that’s everybody I know.” Rachel finally, finally, takes me over to the edge of the ballroom, near one of the double French doors opening onto a wide sweep of balcony. Which means she’s gonna stop leading me around like a new puppy on a leash. “I’m going to find another drink.”

“Oh, thank fuck.”

’Cause that’s our code that we’ve done the rounds, made the intros, shook the hands, exchanged the fake smiles, all that jazz, and now I’m free to wander.

“Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t love it.” Rachel rolls her eyes. “Please don’t start any trouble?”

“Darling, you know I’d never.”

She gives me half a twisted smile—she does know that. In spite of everything I am or pretend to be . . . I don’t get caught. Period. Which means nobody ever sees me rocking the boat. “Bye, Jax.”

“Later, Rachel.” Still positioned beside the balcony door toward the back side of the room, I let my gaze shift through the crowd. Soft jazz flits through the background, far too fluttering for my taste. Perfect for this tittering collection of one-percenters.

I’ve a strong urge to sweep out my cards and start shuffling, almost do it too—doesn’t seem like anything fun’s happening anytime soon, if Angry Gorilla and Beanpole are gonna just stand in their respective corners looking awkward as all hell. Means I got time to kill, so why not wow some onlookers—

My eyes drift sideways towards the opposite edge of the ballroom. Pause. Caught. Caught by . . .

Man and woman, both taller than average, both underdressed. Hard not to notice, but the why takes me a minute. They're . . . out of place. Why? Why?

Once you see them, they stand right the fuck out.

For half a moment, I forget Gorilla, Beanpole, and even Nick.

This couple, they’re not doing anything suspicious. Nah, it’s more what they’re not doing. For one, they’re not dressed in custom-tailored high-end designer labels or sporting jewelry with a four-figure-plus price tag.

For another, they’re both fit and foxy as hell, and not in that over-done-up Botoxy way like most of the folks here.

She’s older, mid-forties, redheaded, with elegant lips, cheekbones, and brows that mark her as striking, even under a plain black mask. Her clinging red dress accents her commendable athletic curves and numerous assets—including a set of biceps nearly as big as mine.

But that dress ain’t custom fit like everybody else here. Probably a Macy’s sales-rack find. The slight scrunch around the sleeve suggests it’s not even tailored to accommodate the aforementioned biceps.

Bottom line: though she’s more naturally attractive than just about anyone in this joint, she’s out of place without a six-figure price tag on her appearance. The sort of rube-ishness most of the uppities here look away from, pretend not to notice—and I fixate on.

Still, I force my gaze away to the man next to her. That guy? Arguably even more noticeable.

I give myself an extra moment to study him. Actually take my eyes off Beanpole entirely to give them room to appreciate a new target.