Page 16

“Paul?” I slam the door of his city flat.

“In the kitchen, doll.”

“What are you doing?” I’m taken aback as I enter the room. “It smells amazing in here.”

Paul pauses over a saucepan. “I’m trying something new—cooking.”

“What? I didn’t even know you could cook.” I lean around him. Two small chicken breasts sizzle in a pan, smothered in a simmering, deliciously creamy sauce. There’s an uncorked bottle of wine on the counter, flanked by two glasses.

“I don’t usually bother,” Paul begins, “but Abe mentioned something about you needing some good romancing…”

Sensing danger, I cross my arms. My green eyes flick to his. “What exactly did the traitor say?”

“Relax, Kat.” He laughs. “I’m not mad. Abe didn’t tattle. I saw the hickey.”

“Oh.” I gnaw on my lip. “I’m sorry, it was my fault. He wanted to rest, and I…I told him I was bored.”

Paul turns to dice an onion, light glinting off the blade of his chef’s knife.

His eyes are downcast when he finally speaks.

“Doll.” He sighs, the endearment punctuated by a heavy, thudding slice of the knife.

“We’ve never talked about exclusivity, have we?

I understand you—who you are, what you need.

And sometimes, where Abe is concerned, you just can’t seem to help yourself. ”

I look closely at Paul before I reply. His tone is neutral, but his grip on the knife is tight, white-knuckled.

Paul and I have never laid down any formal rules where our relationship is concerned.

After nearly ten years together, founded and grounded in hell itself, there’s a certain level of implicit understanding.

The door may be open, but at the end of the day, we always come home to each other.

We’ve both had our share of fleeting flirtations and dalliances with marks, but they mean very little when two people are bonded the way Paul and I are.

Abe is the rare exception, and our trust with him is absolute, forged in the same fire that welded Paul and me together.

“Would you prefer I try though?” I finally ask. Abe has been a rotating player in our bedroom for years, but I’d be lying if I said he came without strings. I’m not opposed to exclusivity with Paul, but I want to hear the words from him. For him to ask.

Paul shrugs and turns back to mind the stove. “I love the way you are, Kat. You’re impulsive and passionate, and you chase adventures. It’s why we’re so good together…because I’m built exactly the same way. Abe doesn’t bother me.”

“Would it bother you if it was someone else though?”

As he considers this, Paul grabs the knife again. He scrapes the blade to sweep the diced onion into the pan. Steam rises, filling the air with cloying humidity. “That’s a difficult question to answer, Kat. I won’t ask for anything you aren’t willing to give.”

You’re not asking, but are you expecting it nonetheless? I swallow the words, uncertain how they’ll be received. My gaze falls on a copy of the evening newspaper. The front page is open, headlines screaming .

“Ah.” Paul slides the paper down the counter. “Picked this up on my walk home. Reckon it’s wise to keep abreast of these dangerous times we live in.”

I crack a smile. It feels like only yesterday we were just a misfit crew of kids in the Combs, teaching each other how to read from scrounged newspapers.

Tony’s family taught him the alphabet and phonics before he undertook his infamous stowaway journey from Cuba to America, but Spanish was his comfort language.

Paul knew the alphabet as well; it proved one of few lessons that stuck after his brief stint in the orphanage.

Working in tandem, they cobbled together an understanding solid enough to bring Abe and me up to speed.

I always hated the dry newspaper scraps, littered as they were with complex rhetoric and political propaganda, but the day Paul came home with a filched copy of a newly released storybook, Peter and Wendy …

that was when the tide turned. For the first time, I truly lost myself in the pages of a book.

We all did. And we played pretend as Peter’s—really Paul’s—Lost Boys for weeks, flying down alleys in the Catacomb tunnels, hiding in alcoves to escape Hook.

I didn’t pick up a news circular for nearly a month, just turned the pages of Peter’s story until they began pulling loose from the binding.

Such is the power of an imaginative tale in the hands of a child, particularly a story that resonates as more fact than fiction.

But the centerfold tale in tonight’s evening edition is not nearly so whimsical. The entire cover features a full-page story about us, the Wolfpack. Much of the text is focused on the heist at Astor Manor, but there’s also a dedicated section on identifying us.

Three men and one woman…dark-haired…early twenties…wolf tattoos on the males’ backs, left wrist tattoo on the female…Paul, surname unknown…highly dangerous…

“It continues on pages three and four.” Paul nods coolly to the notation on the corner .

“The information on our tattoos is wrong.” I point to the relevant section. The boys are tattooed on their sides, and mine is on my finger. “Except for yours, I guess.”

“Luckily, you’re the only one who gets to see me without my shirt, so I think we’re safe.”

“This doesn’t make you nervous?”

“Not really. It’s malarkey, pure speculation. It’s no different from after we pulled our last big job.”

“I suppose you’re right…”

But I chew uncertainly on the inside of my cheek as we sit down to eat. Paul pours two glasses of wine, then slides a plate in front of me, the tantalizing smell of garlic and oregano hitting me full in the face.

“Speaking of news, I’ve been meaning to ask…” Paul sinks into the adjacent chair and tosses the newspaper aside. “Have you heard anything else from the DaMolin fella? You know, the one whose family owns this paper?”

I smile, but my response is careful. I bring a delicate bite of chicken to my lips before answering. “Why so interested?”

“I think he might be valuable.”

“In what way?” I put my fork down.

“If we ever want to pull off another high-profile job. Perhaps at…say, Jekyll Island.”

“And why would we want to do that?”

“Oh, I dunno, Kat.” He places a teasing finger to his chin, mock speculating.

“Jekyll Island hosts one-sixth of the world’s total wealth during the winter.

It’s where the Federal Reserve was created, the first transcontinental phone call too.

The wealth there is staggering, not to mention the prestige of pulling off a job like that.

It’s the Holy Grail of heists, the pièce de résistance! If I had my druthers—”

“Is your memory so short you’ve already forgotten the job we just pulled?”

“Doll, I’m looking ahead to what’s next.

What options we have going forward. The DaMolins are just that—an option.

They’ve been members of the club for two decades, even built their own cottage on the grounds.

A cottage where—rumor has it—the infamous DaMolin rubies are locked away.

I know you’ve heard of those.” His smile turns impish.

“Of course I’ve heard of them.” I snort, then sip my wine, pondering this. Pondering him.

The Holy Grail of heists…

Paul stands from his chair. His fingers glide over my collarbone as he bends down behind me. His breath tickles my ear as he whispers, “Those rubies would look stunning around your neck.”

Shivers rise.

“Absolutely stunning. So,” he continues, his tone mesmerizing, “has he come around again, the DaMolin fella?”

The spell breaks. The legs of my chair screech as I push back. “He may have.” I grab my wineglass and head for the bedroom, hoping against hope Paul won’t follow.

“ May have?” To my chagrin, he’s right on my heels. “Why are you being coy?”

“I’m not being coy.” I sit on the bed. “He may have come around on Wednesday. You may have had Abe tail him for two days last week. It’s all very mysterious, isn’t it?”

“You and Abe talk too much.”

“We talk because we know when your wheels are turning, Paul, and I’m not sure I like where they’re headed. I need a break for a little while. Please.”

“Okay.” He raises his hands. “We’ll take a break. I’m just saying, in the meantime—”

“Do my job?” I narrow my eyes.

He snorts. “Come on, Kat. I’m making the same suggestion I’ve made a dozen times before. Why’re you getting so defensive about it today? Is he interested or not?”

I place my wineglass on the bedside table with a decisive thud. A dollop of liquid sloshes onto the wood.

“He’s interested.” Frankly, I wish it would bother Paul a little more.

“Good. Keep him that way.”

I forcibly withhold an eye roll as I yank open the drawer, searching for something to mop up the spill. As the drawer slides out, however, it’s not napkins I see first. It’s a revolver.

I freeze.

Paul hates guns. He enforces a strict no-gun policy among the gangs in the bayou.

At least, he tries to. He says real men don’t fight with guns, only cowards do.

In the Wolfpack, we only brandish knives.

The other gangs know the rules, but there are always heaters floating around the bayou.

Much like the threat of Prohibition, nothing stops the black market.

But if Paul catches one of the underlings with the weapon, he’ll flay them alive.

“Paul.” I find my voice. “Why do you have a gun?”

He’s quick with a response, almost rehearsed. “For protection.”

“You never had a gun in the bayou loft, and it’s far less safe than here. I think this”—I pull the revolver out, feeling its deadly weight in my hands—“makes you a hypocrite.”

“It doesn’t make me a hypocrite.” He takes the gun and tucks it back inside the drawer.

“I think it might,” I reply. “It certainly might make you a hypocrite.”

He sighs again and sinks onto the bed beside me. “No, it makes me just like everybody else.”

“Since when have we aimed to be like everybody else?”

“Kat, I decide what risks I’m willing to take. At this apartment, I’m usually alone or with only you. So yes, I keep a gun here. To protect me…and to protect you. It’s not like I’m out trolling the streets of the bayou, packing heat.”

I listen patiently as he explains.

“I’m a wanted man, remember? Everyone in Savannah is hunting wolves these days. We have to be smart.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it, doll.” He rises from the bed and crosses the room, then hovers uncertainly in the doorway. “Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you, Paul,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself. “It just worries me you think you need a gun. It tells me—even more emphatically—we should lay low for a while. The Astor Manor job is the stuff of legend. We need to let it breathe. Take a break.”

Paul doesn’t reply, and I look carefully at him, closing the distance between us. My gaze glides over every inch of his achingly familiar face, stuttering over a new mark.

“Speaking of Astor Manor, seems the guards put up quite the fight.” I brush my finger across the cut above his eyebrow. “How’d this happen?”

“One of ’em had a switchblade.”

“I worry about you,” I admit, staring at the wound, “on jobs when we’re not together.”

He looks away. “Doesn’t seem like you were too worried while you were in the closet with Abe.”

“You said you weren’t mad about that.” I swat his arm.

“You’re right, that wasn’t fair.” He tosses me a sheepish grin. “I worry too.” He reaches for my right hand. Slowly, he traces my queen of diamonds tattoo. “A king is nothing without his queen, you know. You’re not ducking out on me, right?”

“Never.” Because I love him the way I breathe, since the beginning, without thought. The way the Spanish moss hangs from the trees, organically, inseparable. The way starry-eyed Wendy loved Peter .

Completely.

And that’s when I finally kiss him, kiss him long and sweet.

And I don’t stop for hours. Not until after the lights go down and the sun sets.

Not until we stumble into his bed and shed our clothes.

Not until his eyes drift shut and his breathing slackens as he wraps me from behind.

Not even then, really. Because then I slide his right hand off my shoulder and drag it to my lips, gently kissing his king of diamonds tattoo.

And that’s how I finally fall asleep, with my lips resting softly on his finger…and the tantalizing imagined weight of heirloom rubies around my neck.