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ONE
MAGDALENA
The necklace is ugly under the bright fluorescent light.
A mess of emeralds, sapphires, rubies, diamonds—pink, yellow, white, black—in a handcrafted filagree setting.
Extremely ugly and worth an absolute fortune.
I trace a finger along the complex line of gems.
If you turn the overhead lights off and display the necklace under candlelight or gas flame, preferably clasped around the slender throat of a woman only wearing the gems, it’s exquisite.
Because that’s what it’s made for, adorning naked flesh.
A woman would look phenomenal in this and absolutely nothing else.
I’m tempted to find a lover who’ll appreciate that and wear it for him.
I’m fucking tempted to slide the necklace into my personal collection in the vault here in Harriet’s basement workshop and tell the buyer it’s lost to time.
I pick it up, and I swear it almost vibrates for me.
“Dang. Down, girl.” Harry, my best friend and partner in crime, plucks the necklace from my hand, and holds it up to the light. She shakes her head.
We’re in the basement workshop of her store, where the stolen gems—as well as legit ones—are kept. It’s no bat cave. It’s a little soulless, but it does its job. She’s got all the tools for examining and re-cutting the stones, as well as setting them. The normal set up for a middle-of-the-road jeweler in the diamond district of Delacroix City. No one would think there are hundreds of millions of dollars in art and jewels sequestered down here.
It’s after five, so the store’s closed and we’re down here, in the non-descript, fluorescent hell hole where no jewel looks its best.
But it’s a great space for a jeweler, and an even better one for a fencer.
“Give me that,” I say.
She shakes her head, weighing the piece in her hand. “I know that look. Your brain wants to lead us to landing a price on our heads. You’re practically drooling.”
“Ours?” I look at her, raising a brow. “Who the fuck said I’d share?”
Harry pulls out a black velvet folding cloth and places the necklace in the middle, rolls it, and then picks up a basic tennis bracelet from a display cushion and tray. She bats those baby blues. “Ours.”
“I stole it,” I say, watching as she puts the cloth-wrapped jewels in the base of a large, plain bracelet box. She places a velvet-lined piece of cardboard in with the tennis bracelet and display cushion on top. A small sigh escapes me.
Harry slides me a look. “And you’re the best goddamn thief around, Magdalena. But you have a problem. You’re like a pyromaniac.”
“I’m not into flames, Harry.”
“Pyromaniacs are drawn to flame, and you’re drawn to jewels. Left unfettered…” She trails off. She leans on the workbench, snapping the black velvet lined lid into place, shutting the bracelet box up and fixing it with a dark gray bow. She swings the work light up to hit my face. “They get into trouble.”
“What are you trying to say?” I slap the light away, so its pool of light hits the floor beyond the bench. The overheads are more than enough light if we’re not gazing at the necklace I stole in the early hours of the morning.
“I’m saying that your pretty, little, glittering obsession with jewels would get you dead if you didn’t have me to keep you in check.”
“You want an award, Harry?” I deadpan her, but she straightens and places the basic bracelet box into a black paper bag, which is a felony in my book. They deserve much better.
“C’mon, Lena. You’d last two seconds trying to rip off the maniac client, Anwar, who wants this.” Harry continues to commit crimes by shoving that bag into a generic black carry one. “You’re dying to keep it.”
I look at her. “I could fence it for a higher price.”
“No one else but me could fence this and live. You know that.”
