Page 112 of Heart of Thieves

When the crime lord breaks the skin, when the blood stains my jacket, when the pain is sharp enough to draw bolts of electric adrenaline through me, I laugh.

Thanks to the moonshard magic thrumming through my veins, my body will repair itself. Limbs will regrow, skin will mend.

Hopefully St. James will tire, and when he does, I’ll make a break for it.

I just pray it won’t be too late.

CHAPTER FORTY

LOLA

By the time the taxi turns onto the street where my father’s house stands proudly on the side of the hill, I’m shaking. Enzo is still holding my hand, and he squeezes it every few moments, but whether it’s to calm my nerves or out of frustration for how much I clearly care about Nic, I cannot tell. The emotions from his heart are still muted enough that they’re difficult to decipher.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers before handing the driver a small pile of plats and helping me out of the cab.

I stare at the iron gate with its gold finials, the gargoyles on pedestals on either side of the drive, the carefully trimmed hedges that line the fifteen-foot-high marble wall that stretches acres in either direction.

The cab rolls away, leaving us alone and quiet on the polished drive.

“Have you been here before?” Enzo asks.

I cannot breathe. My heart gargles in the back of my throat. All I manage is a small shake of the head.

A thousand times I imagined coming here, but it was supposed to be with my father by my side, the two of us riding in the back of one of his sleek motorcars with a tuxedoed driver in the front seat. It was supposed to be during broad daylight, when I could take in the vibrant colors of the foliage that lined the drive. It was supposed to be the beginning of a new chapter in my life where I no longer had to be kept hidden away, where I got to be a daughter, where I got to exist.

But tonight, it is cold and dark, and, if we’re lucky, we’ll get in and out without running into my father at all.

I move forward, but Enzo’s grip tightens, and he nods at a small security booth near the front gate. Wordlessly, he presses some voratium between our palms once more, pulling my corporeality away so we disappear in unison. Again, it feels weaker than usual, so I add my own flow of magic to accomplish it, praying he doesn’t notice.

Together, we approach the gate and forge through, toppling into the grass on the other side. Enzo lands on top of me, and our hands break apart at the impact, bodies returning to physicality at once.

“You need,” I groan, shoving him off of me, “to go easier on the pastries, Enz.”

He scoffs, offended. “I am pure muscle.”

We scramble to our feet to face the mansion in the distance. It’s a bright white monstrosity with peaked black roofs and windows glimmering in spotlights. The expansive lawn stretches before it, lush and expertly trimmed, adorned with periodic weeping willows whose limbs rustle in the nighttime breeze.

The breath catches in my throat. It’s like a palace, exactly as Father described. I imagine kicking a ball on this lawn, climbing the limbs on these branches, learning to operate a motorcar on this drive—maybe even the motorcar that’s parked near the entrance. I can almost see Father laughing in the passenger seat, warning me to brake before I crash into the house.

“You all right?” Enzo whispers.

I don’t answer. He knows I’m not. Our heart is full of pain—pain he knows he had a part in causing. Because this life might have been mine, this world might one day have belonged to me, if not for him.

But I cannot be upset with him anymore. Not truly. Part of me knows, deep down, that I never would have kicked a ball on this lawn or climbed that tree or learned to drive here. Father showed me who he was the other day. Who he’s always been.

That man would have kept me locked up forever.

I should be grateful to Enzo. He freed me. Opened my eyes, in a roundabout way.

But he didn’t mean to, and that’s the part that stings like a shard of glass embedded far too deep.

I don’t meet his gaze—I don’t know if I could. The regret and the shame simmering alongside my hurt is too intense. I don’t want to pity him, and I certainly don’t want to comfort him. Instead, I clear my throat and say, “Let’s go.”

He pauses as though he means to speak, but I shake my head before he can.

“Please, don’t.”

Enzo nods. “Okay.”