Page 10 of The One-Night Heist

Whether or not this one was built with superstition in mind, it appeared the Luxford family compound was still a few floors down from the top, and that tickled me to no end.

Sorry, Moneybags, but only the evilest villains are allowed at the tippy top.

Giancarlo Luxford didn’t strike me as a villain personally, but he was still a billionaire. If there was one thing I despised with every inch of my soul, it was anyone who’d been lucky enough to have everything handed to them on a silver platter.

Maybe I’ll take home a silver platter of my own tonight.

As a keepsake.

Glancing down at my phone, I scrolled through the brief text exchange that ultimately brought me here.

Is this a black tie affair? Because the only tux I own is imprinted on a pair of incredibly tight briefs.

Moneybags

You may dress however you please, but there will be photographers.

His reply had simultaneously surprised and annoyed me, because not only had he not taken the bait of my teasing, he’d somehow known exactly what to say to make me put in effort.

Rude.

I could have just not acknowledged Giancarlo’s initial voicemail—because who the hell leaves a voicemail?—but being invited to step inside a famously old money apartment building for an exclusive event had been too tempting an offer to ignore.

And we all know the hors d’oeuvres will be top tier.

That the man extending the invitation was also a tasty treat sealed the deal, even if a peasant like me had no chance of getting anywhere near his gilded bedroom.

It’s probably for the best.

My dick might turn to gold upon entry.

I didn’t want to think too hard about my dick entering… anywhere, because I was already questioning my—questionable—morals by willingly agreeing to hang with the uber rich.

But there’s just something about this particular golden boy…

Finishing off my cigarette, I flicked it into the street just as a delivery van pulled up to the curb. I vaguely recognized the floral and plant design company logo on the side, but all that mattered was them getting me in through the service entrance.

Since no way in hell am I walking in the front door with the black tie crowd.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t clean up good when I wanted to. I was currently looking sharp in one of the nicest things I owned—a light grey, Calvin Klein slim-fit suit I’d convinced the FBI to bankroll when I needed to look respectable while playing the fence during sting operations. I’d wanted vintage Tom Ford for Gucci, but Agent Markel—he of the forever wrinkled beige suit—had the nerve to tell me I wouldn’t look “natural” wearing it.

If anyone could pull off a single-breasted, velvet suit jacket in dark violet it would be me, thank you very much.

The issue was that, even if I was wearing off-the-runway couture, I would never fit in with this crowd. An entire bottle of Sauvage Dior couldn’t mask the smell of low-income from the noses of those bred to sniff it out.

It’s not gonna stop me from crashing the party though.

Those hors d’oeuvres are calling my name.

I waited until the delivery crew started wheeling a large flatbed cart full of floral arrangements and houseplants toward the back entrance to sidle up to a cute, stocky guy about my age.

“Hey…” I offered up my best “aw, shucks” smile, knowing the gap in my teeth played in my favor. “Can I sneak in with you? My wife just sashayed in through the front and the last thing I need is to watch her throw herself at the doorman yet again.”

“Your wife is sleeping with the doorman, bro?” Plant Boy hissed, eyes widening from behind the wall of greenery.

I leaned in close as we walked through the door together, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Well, I don’t have proof… yet. I hired a private investigator who’s tailing her as we speak.”

“Dang,” another underpaid member of the crew cut in as we all clambered onto the janky service elevator. “Is the doorman hot?”