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The tinkling of china teacups and high-pitched peals of girlish laughter are almost more than I can bear. My head is positively pounding. The morning sunlight streaming through thick glass windows has pushed me into a seat at a corner table, deep in shadow.

Which—who am I jesting?—is where I prefer to be at these trivial events.

I sag slightly in the corset under my morning gown, but Headmistress Helena’s hawk eyes land on me.

I right myself, crossing my legs at the ankle beneath the table.

For good measure, I paste on a soft, bland smile.

The headmistress gives a curt nod before moving on.

I sigh and relax my posture again. I’m coming off another long night with the Royals—publicly known and feared as the Wolfpack—casing Astor Manor for the umpteenth time.

How many more nights we gonna do this, Paul? Tony asked, flipping his dark hair.

As long as it takes. We’ll only get one shot.

My eyes track my classmates as they mingle through the brightly lit tearoom.

They swarm the visiting young men like bees to a honeycomb, their buzz a bit louder than usual because the entire trifecta is here—the eligible sons of the Morgan, Astor, and DaMolin families.

Three American dynasties under one roof.

It’s a feeding frenzy here today, I muse, fanning myself in my corner. Lionesses on the hunt .

But with just under a year left at Telfair Academy, a premier boarding and collegiate finishing school for young ladies of the American South, I suppose I understand why.

I absentmindedly drum my fingers as Florence Vanderbilt, head bitch in our class, gabs at the blond guy.

They’re a perfect pair, both yellow-haired and blue-eyed.

A matching set of Anglo porcelain dolls.

She laughs coquettishly at something he says and rests her hand on his forearm.

His gaze flickers briefly to her hand, then away.

I chuckle to myself, amused by both her transparency and his disinterest.

“Miss Quinn.” Headmistress Helena is back. “Why don’t you talk to some of the young men? It’s one of the first open houses of the season, and—”

“I shall. I’m just taking a short respite,” I reply, trying to shut her lecture down before she can really pick up steam.

“I understand you’re very fulfilled by your apprenticeship with Raymond,” she begins carefully, tucking a lock of salt-and-pepper hair behind her ear.

“Yes, ma’am.” I lift my hand to examine the many rings on my fingers, all but one crafted by my own hands in the back room of Ray’s jewelry shop.

“But you should take advantage of every opportunity the Academy offers,” she says, undeterred.

“Perchance not every opportunity is right for every lady.” I narrow my eyes.

She laughs. “Pray tell, Katarina, how would you even know, sitting here, sulking in the corner?”

I don’t deign to respond. After all, I can hardly tell her I already have someone waiting for me.

Someone I sneak out to see half the nights of the week while the other girls sleep in their feathery beds, virginal and blissfully unaware.

Dreams of sugarplums and fairy dust and rich boys have never been my own.

It’s the adrenaline-filled rush of a good con and a stolen moment in the dead of the night I crave.

With Paul.

“You might be surprised, Katarina. You think you have it all figured out, that you already know where you’re headed, but you shouldn’t ignore the opportunities around you for the sake of stubbornness.”

With that, the headmistress takes her leave.

I try to hide my annoyance. It’s not like I always sulk in the corner .

I’ve been plenty sociable in the past. My position here is invaluable.

I’ve met dozens of marks at these parties, relayed countless inside tips to Paul.

It’s why he planted me here in the first place, finagling my interview with his silver tongue three years ago.

Infiltrate their ranks, Kat , he told me. You become one of them, then we become one of them. Just think what we can do, working from the inside .

He was right. Paul’s tenacity and cunning nature have combined with my newfound status and skills to open doors ushering the Wolfpack into a golden era.

Today, my Royals are the premier, most feared gang ever to transcend the bayou.

The first to reach the upper crest of Savannah society. Everyone knows the Wolfpack now.

We keep our operation small, just the four of us.

No leaks. No loose lips. As our leader, Paul’s reputation is relatively well known, but very, very few know his face.

Even fewer know mine—the notorious Cat Burglar—or Abe’s or Tony’s.

We stay invisible, secretly and obsessively controlling every aspect of every job.

It’s quality over quantity that sets us apart.

The quality of the heist itself, the quality of the loot. Selectivity is the name of the game.

It is, oddly enough, the same principle many of my classmates apply to screening their future prospects. The bigger the fish, the better. I admire the irony as my fellow fourth-years continue swarming the trifecta .

I brush cool fingers across my pounding head. I’m just not up for it. Not today, when we’re less than a month away from hitting our biggest mark yet. Not today, when I’m so exhausted I can hardly—

“You look like you could use this almost as much as I can,” a voice interrupts my thoughts.

I drop my hand to my lap and snap my eyes up. Big fish.

It’s one of the trifecta. The blond guy Florence was just gabbing up. I furtively slide my gaze across the room, and sure enough, she’s watching him closely.

“I’ll make you a deal,” the man continues. “I’ll give you this”—he waves a china teacup under my nose—“if you let me hide here with you for ten minutes.”

“I don’t particularly like tea.”

“It’s not tea.”

He smiles, and despite myself, I’m intrigued. It’s a world-class smile. The kind that stops traffic.

“It’s French espresso.”

“Where’d you get that ?” I lean forward, doubly intrigued now.

“The kitchens. They’ve been sneaking me treats since I learned where to get them two decades ago. Just don’t rat me out to my mom, okay?”

I follow his head bob to our benefactress, Lady Genevieve DaMolin. She and Headmistress Helena are thick as thieves, but Lady Genevieve calls the shots. It’s her name that’s ultimately synonymous with Telfair.

“I see.” I nod. “So you’re from…the DaMolin family, then?”

A strange flicker crosses his face, but he nods. I continue running my gaze over him, my brow furrowing as I try to remember his name. The two other members of the trifecta I know quite well.

Target: Daniel Dufour, age twenty-two. Grandson of the late, great, interminably wealthy financier J.P.

Morgan. Undergraduate business studies degree from Harvard.

Founding family of the elite Jekyll Island Club, the most exclusive society for millionaires in the world, just off the coast of Georgia.

Marriage status: eligible, highly eligible.

Target: Harrison “Harry” Astor, age twenty-six.

Recent West Point graduate, risen to the rank of major in the Great War.

Nephew of the tragically deceased John Jacob Astor, lost to us just a few years ago in the sinking of the RMS Titanic.

Family are real estate tycoons with holdings up and down the East Coast, including the pertinently noteworthy Astor Manor at 447 Bull Street, Savannah, Georgia.

Marriage status: eligible, highly eligible.

But this one, this DaMolin fella, isn’t here often. He looks a little different too. His hair is slightly longer than most men wear theirs, waving over his ears to the nape of his neck. Not perfectly tamed and manicured.

I cast around the back of my mind for his name. I’m certain I’ve talked to him before. I must have. Once or twice. Probably.

“I’m Matthew,” he finally offers, putting me out of my misery. “Matthew DaMolin.”

“Katarina Quinn,” I reply. And because I do want that espresso, I kick out a chair with my foot. “Sit, I’ll hide you.”

“Thanks.” He slides one of his two teacups to me before taking a big gulp from his own. After he swallows, he leans back to rest his head against the wall. He closes his eyes, his lashes casting dark shadows in the hollows beneath his lids.

I know why I’m so tired, but why is he?

I bite my tongue. Asking a question would invite conversation. And inviting conversation could lead to banter. And from banter, it’s on to flirting…and that’s just not a journey I’m interested in taking this morning.

“I beg your pardon.” He lifts his head and turns guiltily. “I’m being terribly rude, aren’t I? Where are you from, Miss Katarina?”

“You’re not rude.” I almost laugh at him. Almost. “You’re tired, I’m tired. We can just sit together.” Quietly .

“Why are you tired?”

“I don’t know, Mr. DaMolin.” I slip the tiniest bit of suggestion into my tone, just enough to, hopefully, do the trick. “Why are you?”

“Because I worked last night at the hospital. I’m a physician. So for the record, it’s either Matthew or Dr. DaMolin. Preferably Matthew, but you may take your pick.”

“Oh.” That clams me right up.

Being a physician is a good job, but it’s notoriously brutal.

Not only do you have to be smart, but the hours are long.

Sometimes excruciatingly so. They do decently well for their families, but it’s hard work.

And it’s certainly not the usual position men who visit the Academy strive for.

The majority label themselves as businessmen, entrepreneurs, or for the truly elite, philanthropists.

All of which is code for “my family is rich, and I am too.”

Well, not everyone . Perhaps I’m being harsh. Plenty of middle-class gentlemen mingle with us, but they aren’t big fish. Not like this guy.

“I told you mine, now let’s hear yours.” He smiles faintly, waiting.