Page 43 of The One-Night Heist

There was no confirmation of fiancée status, but one particular paparazzi shot caught my eye. Giano and Anastasia were facing each other, staring so deeply into the other's eyes, I felt like I was intruding on a private moment. Her perfectly manicured hand was cupping his face and I couldn’t help noticing the obnoxiously large diamond ring glittering on her finger.

It doesn’t mean anything, Rowen.

Hot girls love shiny shit.

Anastasia Bosco was the dictionary definition of conventionally hot—all long legs and flowing blonde highlights along with the criminally high cheekbones and naturally striking facial features of an Eastern European aristocrat.

In other words, the perfect match for a blue blood like Giancarlo Luxford.

With a huff, I tossed my phone back on the bedside table and stomped into the kitchen to make myself a pot of watered-down coffee. Then, I stomped back to the bedroom to retrieve my phone, so I could continue torturing myself via Google while the pot brewed.

Yeah, yeah, masochistic tendencies and all that.

What I quickly learned was that the gala had been held in honor of Giano’s late mother, who’d died of complications from Lymphoma. A weird tightness appeared in my chest as I realized I hadn’t known how his mother passed away until this moment, so then I made it worse by Googling how his father died as well.

Private plane crash when Giano was eight.

Yikes.

Now I was big mad because empathy was crowding out my righteous anger, so I pounded as much crappy coffee as humanly possible and dressed in all-black “office clothes” to match my mood.

Funeral ready.

I splurged on a cab uptown, knowing I could make the Feds pay me back for it as a work expense. It was a public service to everyone, really, because the longer I stewed on the train, the higher the likelihood of me causing a scene upon arrival.

I’ll probably still cause a scene, let’s be real.

Upon arrival, I noticed zero police activity near the service entrance. This didn’t mean they weren’t reviewing security footage inside, but when I easily got past the doorman in the lobby—who wasn’t hot at all, thank you very much—I breathed a little easier.

I’d been tempted to skip showing up at all, not only because of my ridiculously hurt feelings but because the last time I returned to the scene of the crime, it didn’t work out so well for me.

Don’t think about getting caught, Rowen.

You can’t…

Unluckily for everyone, pettiness had won out in the end. I wanted Giano to have to see my face while he lied to the cops. I wanted him sweating in the full suit he’d no doubt be dressed in while standing next to his supermodel girlfriend-fiancée and remembering how eagerly he dropped to his knees for me.

It’s just business after all.

I also knew it would look more suspicious if I didn’t make an appearance as the FBI’s token felon, so I strode into the already overcrowded—and brightly lit—apartment like my dick was exactly as big as Giano remembered it.

Here I fucking am!

“Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Markel muttered to another faceless Fed, as if I hadn’t needed to traverse the entire island to arrive uptown. “Get over here, Quincy, so I can brief you on what we know so far.”

“I’d rather talk to the source, thanks.” Knowing my actual boss was out of town, I swept past the agents and aimed for the man I hadn’t been able to get out of my head, ignoring whatever Markel whispered that earned him a snicker from his police posse.

Probably something about how I’m worthless trash.

The usual.

“Mr. Luxford,” I greeted my billionaire in a clipped, businesslike tone, while pointedly ignoring the sniffling supermodel hanging on his arm.

“Mr. Quincy,” he replied, his eyes lighting up, making my stomach flip. “It’s good to see you again, despite the circumstances.”

You made your own bed, Moneybags.

“W-who is this, Gianechka?” Anastasia Bosco cut in, and it took everything in me to not throw my dumb little police notebook at her pretty little head.