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“A move?” I tilt my ball cap back, letting a few dark curls escape. “The fuck’s that mean?”

Ricky shrugs. “Word on the street is he’s looking for a crew to hit some rich guy’s house out in Chestnut Hill. Edward Morton?”

“Never heard of him.” I chew the inside of my lip. This doesn’t make any fucking sense. “What’re they after?”

“Dunno. Morton’s a rich guy. Probably whatever’s in his safes. Gold? Jewels? I don’t fucking know. Ed’s having some giant party next weekend; that’s when they're planning it.”

I’m liable to gnaw a hole clean through my lip with all this sudden thinking. They got gold and jewels in New York. They got art. They got cash. They got all the rich-people regular things. For Nick to be out here, in an unknown city, making a move after seven years of silence . . . it’s gotta be something different.

Something better. Something more. “You really have no idea the fuck he’s after?”

“He’s playing it close to the vest.” Ricky leans over the table. “His crew ain’t even in on it. He’s paying them flat-rate cash, not a cut of the loot.”

“Shit.” I remove my cap to tangle my fingers into my curls. This is some kinda mystery, ain’t it? Definitely more than gold or money or jewels. It’s either something he can’t split or something he wants to keep.

He’s after something specific, unique, and I sorta really want to know what it is. Screw that. I really really want to know what it is.

I shouldn’t get involved with this. I should walk the fuck away, let bygones be bygones, let the past stay where it belongs—in the past. Just like I did with my long-ago life back in that Western city of shadows.

But.

I almost owe it to myself to look into this, right? Say hi to an old friend? See what li’l Nickie’s got cooking up? I bet something tasty’s brewing in that pot.

Walk away, Jax, my logical inner Rogue says. You know, the one who’s smart enough to get me into trouble and out of it. Who saves my ass all the damn time when I wind up tangled in these wild schemes. The one who knows better than to let a heist become personal.

But even though I’m the Rogue, I’m something else too. I’m a Western kid who saw too much darkness before I understood what it was, raised by my jaded, hardened witch of a brother. Taught to steal, to play games, to fight for my own existence, from the time I could walk.

That scared little boy escaped across the border into a new world of possibility—and terrifying unknowns. I’ve come so far from those days, when I was a barely above homeless nineteen-year-old hopeful, trying to pay rent, remember my new name, and find my place in the world of crime.

I fled the Wild West with stars in my eyes, visions of glory . . . and what a ride it’s fuckin’ been since then.

Man.

Lil Jax Winter-not-Summer has come a long way from the days when I was working for Nick and trying to be grateful ’cause it was better than slaving for my dark-magic-addicted older brother.

I learned hard lessons in hard ways and still found it in me to smile.

Jax Summer smiles now, the innocent dimpled charming grin, as I meet Ricky’s gaze. “What are the odds you can get me floorplans to the house he’s gonna hit?”

Ricky rolls his eyes. I’m sure that kind of shit’s child’s play to him—hell, it’d be child’s play for me too, if I wanted to take five minutes to do it. Which I don’t, and that’s why I pay Rickster.

Even as I slide the cash across the table, my phone’s already out, already pressed against my ear.

“Jax?” the female voice purrs at the other end of the line.

“Rachel!” I grin like she can actually see me. “Wanna go to a party?”

two

Heist Prep

Every good thief knows the key to success is planning and preparation.

A great thief knows there’s a little creativity blended in too.

“Pest control, that’s right.” I offer the man perched at the window my very best Jax grin, and tug at the brim of my ball cap.

It’s a beige, boxy thing that matches my beige, boxy uniform. The whole ensemble makes me look seventeen, but hey, youth sells innocence. I drum my fingers against the gatekeeper’s clipboard—one, two, three, four—keeping time with the ever-ticking clock in my head.