Page 60 of Trailer Park Billionaire

“I hardly ever plan on knocking people out with a cutting board. So I think the chances of a next time are pretty slim,” she says, wiping sweat from her temple. Her hands are shaky. “You ever get that? The post-heist heat? The shivers from the adrenaline?”

I breathe through my nose, calming my pulse. “Sometimes,” I admit. Not tonight though. Tonight, my hand is still steady, still ready to fight that fucker with his knife.

“Yeah, me too. Do you think I hurt him? I didn’t commit any accidental murder, did I?”

I steer the RV down a busy street that eventually leads to a quieter neighborhood. “No need to worry about that. He had it coming. But also, no—he was just a little dizzy.”

“Until you knocked him out.”

A smile creeps across my lips as I glance at my bruised fist.

That did feel good.

“Do you know him?” Helena asks, her cheeks flushed.

Must be her post-heist afterglow. It suits her.

“We’ve met,” I answer vaguely, without telling her the whole truth. “Cutthroat mobster. Runs the gallery on behalf of Mr. St. Clair, mostly to launder money. No need to feel bad about that board to the head.”

We take a left, then a right. Helena watches me closely, her fingers tapping against her knee, brows drawn together. “Where are we going?” she asks, realizing we’re clearly not headed to her place—or mine.

“Somewhere safe.”

Her eyes narrow further, but she doesn’t push.

Maybe we’ve reached that rare, fleeting point where she actually trusts me now—where I’m not just another annoying rich asshole or lying con artist in her eyes.

Which would be terrible timing, since I’m about to violate that trust right away.

We pull into a familiar neighborhood and park in front of the old apartment building that once used to be some sort of factory.

Helena leans forward, peering out the window. “This is my grandpa’s building. Why are we at my grandpa’s building?”

I cut the engine and grab the wrapped paintings from between the seats. “Come on, Panda. I’ll show you.”

She’s visibly confused but follows me anyway. I lead her into the elevator and stop one level above her grandpa’s.

Then I knock on a door twice and, when no one answers, open it. “After you.”

Helena steps inside—and freezes. Her mouth falls open, her eyes flicking around the room. She’s scanning the furniture, the decorations, the boxes.

“That’s my chair. That’s my actual chair!” She whirls on me, eyes wide with, well… murder.

I nod.

“And those are my books. And my coffee table. And—” She strides across the room, rips open a drawer, and pulls out a pair of lace panties. “These are my panties!”

Behind her, Alex steps out of what I assume to be the bedroom—and then quietly retreats again when he sees Helena brandishing the underwear at me like a weapon. “Did you rob me?”

“How dare you?” I feign being insulted. “I would never rob you!” I think about how we met and what I was doing at the museum for a moment. “I would never rob you personally. Besides, no one robbed anyone.” I set the paintings down by the easel in the corner of the living room. “Your things were expertly curated and temporarily relocated.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. “You broke into my home and,” she makes air quotes, “‘relocated’ my things?”

“Technically, Alexei broke into your home. I merely initiated, oversaw, and directed the operation from afar. So if you’re looking to blame someone, blame him. Alex?—”

Alexei’s eyes peek out from behind the door, holding a look almost as murderous as Helena’s.

Her jaw tightens even more. “Why?”