Page 130 of Stealing Blinds

“What?” Sylvie gasped.

“Ahh,” Vargas murmured. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Palmer. I assumed you were present for this friendly chat.”

“I would have disclosed everyone in the room, but it seemed like we weren’t doing the forthright thing anymore,” Axel retorted.

“Things have been a little shaky over here, but noted.” Vargas groaned because the man had been tangled in some shit, much of it cleaning up his dead fellow agent’s cases, so his penchant for keeping things quiet, even from us, was expected. “The guy you’re working for, Miss Palmer, planned to kill you and take the keys for himself. I’m guessing he didn’t appreciate your Noire alliance. But from what I could tell, the men were instructed to have all three keys in their possession first, so maybe it would’ve been a negotiation. We would have considered moving in once they extracted you, but things seemed to resolve themselves.”

A chill skittered over Sylvie, maybe because Vargas was aware of how that night had ended, or maybe because she remembered how close those assholes had gotten to her. But me? My blood boiled at his use of considered. The FBI—corrupt or not—always played it that way. Small fish sacrificed for the whales.

“Jesus,” Sylvie hissed. “E probably assumed I had all the keys on me, in case I needed to compare them. I didn’t, but … it just keeps getting worse.”

“Sorry to call in the middle of the night,” Axel said in preparation to hang up, grinning when Vargas didn’t correct him about it only being dinner time on the East Coast. “One more thing though. Are you still looking after Glines’s widow, Lemon?”

Vargas was quiet for a beat. “Always.”

“It’s good to have you nearby.” Axel spun his luck on his watch as he signed off. “We’ll be in touch.”

Sylvie spiraling is understandable, and yet as we meld with the Minds of Our Time’s guests, she masks it like a pro, shining as bright as the glint off the waves. She’s currently debating hidden meanings from famous paintings with a museum owner, who is fascinated by her take.

The waiter cruises by, marking the midpoint of the meal by filling waters and drinks and asking if we need anything.

“Oui.” Zara beams, ordering another cherry croissant in French because as a polyglot, she can’t help but slip into the language. “Je voudrais un croissant aux cerses, s’il vous plait.”

Axel chuckles, adoring his wife’s cherry obsession and her influence on others. Three other people at the table, who were using English up to this point, wield their language skills, and Zara smiles to herself.

Maddox and Tessa share a strawberry crêpe while she discusses spicy art with the twenty-something daughter of one of our members.

And Jax’s lips tilt into an enthusiastic grin as he slides his chair back with more oomph than he traditionally expels—outside of his acrobatic ventures. “What’s up, man?”

I swivel to see who he’s talking to, catching sight of Tatum Riesling, the Hollywood producer and bestower of the flamethrower.

“Christ, mate,” Tatum bellows in his English accent, chuckling and raking his hand through his shaggy brown hair. “You are everywhere.”

“Just not usually … where you are,” Jax returns. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Yeah, well, you know”—Tatum raises his index finger to his mouth with sarcasm—“hush-hush. My neighbor brought me.”

Jax slants his head, soaking that in. “Bodhi?”

“Nah, mate.” Tatum claps Jax on the back. “But he said you were a hell of a dinner companion. High praise from a monk. And Holt Moss. I hear you roasted a fucking duck for them with the flamethrower. Epic.”

That garners the attention and laughter from our whole family. The duck, the monk, and Holt Moss, who is an A-list actor that Jax failed to mention in his flamethrower saga.

I stand and fling my arms out, aghast. “You cheated, bro. You didn’t state prior experience when we made s’mores.”

Tatum clasps his hands as his head falls back with a howl that ricochets off every surface of this outdoor dining space and awakens the boring guests. With all eyes fixed there, it provides a perfect window for me to swipe a key card I need off a nearby attendee.

“I knew I gave it to the right guy. Fuck.” He waves apologetically to all the tables. “Sorry.” Turning back, he flips his hand between us and Maddox. “I gotta get into some trouble with you lot this weekend.”

Jax’s face breaks into that terrifying mastermind grin, glancing at me to see if I’m on the same page, and once he gets the go-ahead, he lays it out. “Let’s … get drinks.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Tatum roars as he checks his watch and breaks into a jog. “I’m off to fly a kite. It’s a metaphor for resilience or something. Find me after.”

I peer at Sylvie, who’s sipping her coffee and drinking in our well-directed mayhem, and I wink at my breathtaking bandit. A heist, like this, where you’re fraternizing with the very people you’re robbing, comes down to a million tiny details falling into place.

And the final passenger on our ship just came in.

SYLVIE