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“I was thinking I might run into you—”

His knife presses harder against my throat, and my thoughts list from how do I get out of here, to would he actually kill me, and how the fuck do I make him not do that?

“—when I heard there’s been a considerable uptick in elite, unsolvable robberies in town.”

Suddenly, I realize my mistake. This whole time, I’ve been trying to figure out Nick’s angle through the filter of my own experience—as a thief. What would bring a thief out of the Big Apple? I’ve been asking.

But Nick’s not a thief. Not really.

He’s a two-bit conman at best. When all that shit with the jewelry store went down, he sold me out to the flatfeet to save his own ass without batting an eye.

All this time I’ve been wondering what treasure might be great enough to bring a thief out of the city—but I was asking the wrong question.

Nick’s not a thief, and it’s never been about the treasure.

“It was all just part of your diversion,” I realize in a whisper. “The cut power. The false trail.”

“Trap.” Nick’s face folds into a cruel smile. “The word you’re looking for is trap.”

Fuck me.

Am I so predictable he saw through me that easily? He thought I might do exactly what I did—go after him. So he cut the power as a distraction for me, so I’d think he was in the showroom. Give him time to do whatever he’s doing here, for Silverback to catch up. For me to spring his trap.

Maybe Nick’s cleverer than I gave him credit for. Maybe my ego got in the way of my logic—because I let it get fucking personal.

I resist the urge to swallow, ’cause that knife man. That knife is all kinds of places knives shouldn’t be. Namely, way too close to my thrashing pulse. Saliva fills my mouth, making me want to swallow that much more. I hate this. I hate it so much. This isn’t my jam or my style, this face-to-face shit here.

And I hate fucking villain monologues.

“I heard you were uncatchable,” Nick murmurs, his breath a warm caress like feathered wings against my cheek, in my ear. Lifting tingles of sensation along my skin. His fingers wrap around my jaw, tilting my head back painfully. “I was almost afraid, but I should’ve known that was just a pumped-up myth like the rest of you.”

Maybe it’s the knife against my throat. Maybe it’s how close he is, how he corners me against the wall, fearless, bigger and stronger and bolder, and I’m not used to people being so much . . . more than me. But I suddenly feel so very small. Weak. Pathetic.

Helpless.

Like the Jax Summer who fled the West: a dog with my tail tucked between my legs. Running, running, running like the demons of hell were after me, because in a sense, they were. I feel like that Jax: scared, tiny little Jax, who couldn’t do anything for myself.

And for one fucking second, I think, I shouldn’t be here.

In this fucking city, in this house, working this heist. Or any heist.

I should’ve stayed back in the last city I lived, or maybe the one before that. Maybe I should’ve stayed back where I got my start, in good ol’ NYC, surrounded by a small cadre I might have almost considered friends.

Maybe I’d have been the kind of person who could have a friend. Who deserved one.

“So pathetic,” Nick murmurs, like he reads my mind. And without warning, his fist flies. Cracks against my cheekbone, hard enough to throw a second fireworks show across my eyes. “How did you get to be a famous thief? You’re just a sad little kid.”

My head spins, the ground and the ceiling threatening to reverse their roles. The copper tang of blood coats my tongue, nauseating and grounding all at once. I groan.

He’s right. I am a sad little kid. And I could’ve embraced that, or maybe moved on and built a new life . . . But no. No, instead, I’m here. Digging back into my pitiful past, back to Jax Summer, who couldn’t even steal enough to afford my own place, which is why I wound up with Nick.

Nick who leers down at me now, taller and more menacing than he ever was back then, when I was living off his charity cause I couldn’t pay rent. He let me stay ’cause he thought I was cute and maybe twinky and definitely pathetic. Hell, his jewelry-store scheme was the first one I ever worked on this coast, playing another dude’s game, following someone else’s rules, just like I did back West.

And then, he sold me out.

The faintest hint of a smirk curls the corner of his mouth now, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. How I’m feeling.

Only makes me feel that much smaller and younger and more helpless.