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My regular phone buzzes with a text from Kira asking if I'm working tonight. Sweet, funny Kira who's become a real friend—as real as the circumstances allow.
More than anyone else, she tries to hang out with me outside of work, but there’s always an excuse at the tip of my tongue. She’s just another person I'll have to leave behind when this all goes sideways.
Because it will go sideways. That's the thing about cons—they always end.
I slip into the bedroom to get dressed, my movements silent from years of practice.
Stefano's in his home office now, handling whatever business keeps Chicago's underworld running smoothly. I can hear his muffled voice through the walls. He’s saying something about dock schedules and security rotations.
The sound makes my chest tight. He trusts me enough to let me overhear these conversations. Trusts me in his home, his bed, his life.
And I'm about to prove exactly why he shouldn't.
My fingers hover over the keypad of my burner phone. What exactly am I planning to say?
Sorry, your intel was wrong. The club's clean. Please give me my payout anyway?
The Fioris don't work that way. They'll want something for their investment in me.
But maybe I can give them just enough to satisfy them without destroying everything Stefano's built.
I type out a message.
>> Need to meet. Have information about Wednesday deliveries.
It's not exactly a lie. There are deliveries every Wednesday—completely legitimate alcohol shipments that keep the club running. The Fioris don't need to know that part.
I just need them to think I'm delivering on our deal.
Buy time.
That's what my mother always said—when a con goes sideways, buy time and look for exits.
The response comes faster than I expected.
>> Usual place. One hour.
My heart pounds against my ribs. One hour.
Sixty minutes to figure out how to play this without getting anyone killed. Without losing everything.
Including Stefano?a traitorous voice whispers in my head.
I push the thought away, focusing on logistics. I'll need an excuse to leave the penthouse. Something that won't make Stefano suspicious. Something that...
The bathroom door has never looked so inviting.
I barely make it in time.
The nausea hits like a tidal wave—sudden, violent, and completely unavoidable.
One moment, I'm planning my meet with the Fioris, the next, I'm on my knees in Stefano's ridiculously expensive bathroom, reacquainting myself with this morning's coffee.
The marble floor is cold against my legs as I grip the toilet bowl, my knuckles white.
"This isn't happening," I mutter between heaves. "This can't be happening."
I rest my forehead against the cool porcelain, trying to steady my breathing, thinking of all those first nights with Stefano, when we were too caught up in each other to think about protection.