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W ITH PANACHE, I PULL THE ONLY OTHER ITEM OUT OF THE ENVELOPE from Leonie.

It’s an old photograph I feel certain no other member of the Owens family received. “There was no note with my invitation,” I explain, placing the glossy card on the coffee table. “Only this.”

Everyone leans in.

Family photos make extraordinary liars. In the image included with my invitation, we look… happy. Welcoming. United.

The Owens family is gathered in the courtyard of Volenvell Castle, diamond-dusted in winter frost. On either side of me, my parents hold five-year-old Olivia’s hands. My father is grinning for once, dashing like his name evokes. My mom looks relieved dinner is over.

Grandmother Leonie stands in front, regal in the way only wealth demands—not even real royalty.

She’s stunning in an emerald coat and red lipstick, her dark brown hair untouched by gray.

I recognize some of the relatives with us, not others.

My uncle holds my cousin Mia. Even my grandfather Andrew Owens is present despite his divorce from Leonie.

I don’t remember the night in question, obviously. I probably wasn’t enjoying myself.

In the hotel room, I let everyone examine the photograph. I’m not here to reminisce—or whatever the word for unhappy reminiscence is.

“A sentimental flourish paired with a tacit request,” I elaborate. “Her family, reunited. A welcome home .”

I pause, permitting everyone to understand the weighty dynastic premise of our heist, until I drop the reverence.

“Whatever,” I go on. “I would have thrown out the photo—except for what’s in the background.”

I point to the large round door set in the stone wall behind my family, the outline only faintly visible in the faded, dark image.

“I was only a child the first time I was here, but a child doesn’t forget the stories of the family dungeon,” I say softly. “The adults would use them as playful threats. Clear your plates. No running in the halls. Or we’ll send you to the dungeon. ”

“Charming,” Tom comments.

“I cried every night,” I say. “I was so scared of the stories. Children left in the dungeon or whatever. Stuff my aunt and uncle would say. My cousins made fun of me mercilessly. Little Olivia, wailing for her parents in the night.”

Even Kevin has quieted now. He watches me, clock forgotten in his hands, with unusual empathy on his frat-boy features.

I remember how Mitchum Webber, my father’s selfish, heartless lawyer, spoke to his son during Dash’s wedding.

I don’t doubt Kevin Webber’s childhood holds menacing memories of his own.

“Finally, my fears got so bad something needed to be done,” I continue. “My father had Leonie open the dungeon so he could show me what was really inside. There were no chains, no cages. In fact, it wasn’t even a dungeon. Leonie had converted it,” I say, “into a vault.”

I spare everyone the details of the walk into the courtyard, Dash’s hand on my shoulder.

You need to see something , he’d said. With every small footstep to the wide rounded door, five-year-old me racked her memory for what she’d done to finally deserve the imprisonment she expected.

Had I not finished my filet mignon? Had I stomped mud onto the hundred-year-old carpet?

In the rounded doorway, my frantic heart rate slowed. I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. Comfort, I realized. Not control.

“ See? my dad said. There’s nothing to be afraid of here ,” I recount to my crew. “ It’s only our fortune. ”

I remember the shiny silver door. The way he knelt at my side. So rare for him to show such paternal kindness. I remember my tears drying on my face in the winter morning. I didn’t know what a fortune was, so Dash had explained.

Gold and diamonds, Olivia. Enough to buy anything you could want.

I had understood that.

For the rest of the stay, whenever my cousins threatened me with the dungeon, I didn’t cry. I imagined myself sitting inside the shiny door with my father.

With everything .

I pull myself from the memory, feeling suddenly the homecoming in my heist. I’m returning once more to raid the hallways of my own history. Not in Rhode Island—no, I’m venturing even deeper into the heart of my family’s darkness.

“With this photo, my grandmother didn’t succeed in playing on my nostalgia. She only reminded me of what’s locked away in Volenvell Castle,” I say. “The perfect mark. The vault. Leonie has lived her life in isolation. Skeptical of institutions or outsiders—including banks.”

The silence in the room feels vacuum pressurized now. Were Kevin to knock something else over, I’m guessing even the imperturbable Grace would startle.

I recognize the change. The shift in the room from interest to quiet hunger.

While everyone knew we were pulling a job in Switzerland, no one knew the details.

Not even Jackson. During the first heist, I didn’t reveal my plans until I had to, not sure who I could count on or if anyone would get cold feet.

This time, I didn’t share for the exact opposite reason—I didn’t need to. Everyone in this room trusts me. There will be no cold feet in the Swiss snow.

“My grandmother keeps a large amount of her fortune secure in diamonds and gold bullion bars in the vault she installed in Volenvell’s dungeon,” I continue.

“Our cover is her party, where we will use the distraction of celebration to get inside the vault and get the goods out, leaving no trace of ourselves. When my grandmother finds her fortune is missing, well”—I pause for the poetry—“she’ll have an entire castle-full of her own family as suspects. ”

Kevin claps his hands on his knees in enthusiasm. “And then we celebrate in Paris!” he exclaims.

“And then,” I correct, “we go home and don’t spend suspicious amounts of money.”

“And then we celebrate in my parents’ basement!” Kevin says, undeterred.

Jackson and Deonte laugh. Tom shakes his head affectionately. Even Grace—who is now probably wondering why the hell I hired Kevin—cracks a smile.

I decide to let the moment linger. Yes, we’re here to make millions of dollars, not fond memories of our Swiss group hang.

Nevertheless, I haven’t forgotten the unplanned moments of the wedding heist. Cranking Tom’s heist playlist in our getaway car. Ensuring everyone, even those put in a timeout in the parking lot by their dads, sampled some of Deonte’s wedding cake. Dancing in celebration of our impossible score.

In the unguarded privacy of the hotel room, I let them be friends, not just chess pieces.

“Bishop, let’s worry about celebrating after we pull this off,” I say when it’s time to move on. “Between now and then, we have our work cut out for us.”