Chapter 1

"Caviar, miss?" The starchy waiter blocks my path through the milling crowd, thrusting the silver tray forward.

I made the mistake of accepting once. It was my first assignment for Korsakov, and I was nervous, eager to blend into my high-society surroundings, so I accepted the ceramic spoon of tiny black balls that other guests were flocking toward like ducks to strewn bread. It took every ounce of my strength to force the slippery mouthful down my throat.

Offering a curt head shake as I snake past him, I head to the bar in the corner. My heart beats with the steady rush of adrenaline that always accompanies me on these nights. "French 75," I order, settling in to survey the landscape of lavish floral topiaries and designer dresses. Precious jewels wink at me from every angle. For a charity event intended to raise funds to combat hunger, it's ironic that the amount of money hanging off wrists and encircling fingers could likely feed the country's starving for years.

These people have no clue how the other side lives, but they'll take any opportunity to pat themselves on the back for a good deed while sipping their flutes of Moët & Chandon.

My mark stands twenty feet away, the black tuxedo he chose for tonight flattering on his trim stature, his graying hair freshly cut during his afternoon visit to the gentlemen's club on 57th.

He smiles as he watches the violinist draw her needle across the taut string, weaving a haunting tune. To the unaware, it would appear he is merely a connoisseur of fine classical music. I've been casing him for the last few weeks, though, and I know better.

The young musician’s eyes are closed, lost in the melody, but in between each piece, she always makes a point of meeting his steady gaze and adjusting herself in her seat, as if she can’t bear the wait until she can straddle his lap in the SoHo apartment he rents for her later tonight.

How his wife, standing ten feet away, hasn’t picked up on her husband’s taste for the doe-eyed college student, I do not understand. Or maybe she has and considers it a fair trade-off for their Upper Eastside life and the digits in her bank account.

“It is a lovely instrument, no?” A female voice laced with a smooth accent fills my ear.

“Hmm.” I hum my agreement but otherwise pay the woman no heed. I don’t talk to people while I’m working. Conversation leaves a trace, which leads to a trail, and trails that lead to me could end in a visit to the bottom of the Hudson River with a concrete block tied to my ankles.

I collect my drink, noting with disdain the smudge of graphite on my index finger. I did a poor job of washing my hands after my art class, but that is unimportant. What is important is moving to a safer vantage spot, one where no one feels compelled to talk to the solo woman by the bar.

“What is it that Viggo Korsakov is paying you to steal from that man?”

I freeze. A sinking feeling hits my gut as I turn to meet the owner of such a careless and dangerous statement. A striking woman with emerald eyes and hair the color of a freshly minted penny watches me intently. She’s unfamiliar to me. I’ve never seen her at one of these events before, and she is someone I’d remember.

It takes me a few heartbeats to gather my wits and plaster on a baffled look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her painted red lips twist in a knowing smile, as if she can hear the alarms blaring inside my head. But then she dips her chin. “I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

“Yeah. Definitely.” I shrug it off with a wooden laugh while I steal a glance around. Whoever this woman is, she’s polished and regal, and attracting curious looks from every direction. She’s the last person I should be standing next to tonight while I’m trying to remain unnoticed. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“Was it not you who took that diamond necklace at the gala in the summer?” She leans in to whisper conspiratorially, her eyes flickering with mischief. “I heard you plucked it off that woman’s neck without her notice.”

My heart hammers in my chest as I struggle to school my expression. That heist made headlines here in Manhattan. She could be guessing. “Sorry, no.”

Her brow pinches. “And was it not you who made off with that actress’s million-dollar diamond bracelet last spring?”

“Who the hell are you?” I can’t keep the shake from my voice. That she would peg me for the Cartier robbery in Chicago is far too coincidental. She can’t be a cop. Korsakov has too many of them in his pocket for us to not hear about an investigation.

Her head falls back with husky laughter. “I am not with the authorities, if that is what you are thinking. I am, how do you say … an admirer?”

She’s crazy, is what she is. And she speaks oddly, like she belongs in another era. “I’m flattered, but you’ve got the wrong girl.” I down half my drink as I scan the ballroom for the two security guards on Korsakov’s payroll. They’re supposed to be within a head-nod’s reach in case of emergency, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

As much as I want to run, I need to know how big a threat this woman is to me. Leaning into the bar, I match her coolness. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sofie,” she offers without hesitation. Fake, I’m sure. But even fake names can become real if they’re used enough. Everyone on the street knows me only as Tee, short for Tarryn—the name of a grifter I met at a shelter when I was fifteen. She took me under her wing and taught me how to steal and not get caught. At first, it was food, books, clothes—necessities. Eventually, that turned to nail polish and hoop earrings, and then wallets stuffed with credit cards and cash. When Tarryn got busted for grand theft auto and locked away, I assumed her identity.

But I’ll play along with this act. “So, do you live in New York, Sofie?”

“No. My husband and I reside in Belgium presently. It has been some time since I’ve been here. Almost a decade, I believe.” A tiny smirk curls her lips. “Elijah has yet to visit this city of yours, but I imagine he would be beguiled by it.” She takes a long, leisurely sip of her wine. If she was at all wary or nervous about approaching me tonight, it doesn’t show. Every inch of her exudes fearless confidence. Normally, I would envy that.

Now, I’m deeply unnerved.

The violin music has ended. The brunette musician is in the corner, tucking her instrument into its case. Nearby, my mark is in conversation with another man, but the frequent glances at his watch tell me he’s trying to cut away. I’m going to miss my window if I don’t make a move soon, and I cannot miss this one.

“What would you say if I offered you double what your employer is paying you for tonight?”

Sofie startles me yet again, pulling my attention back to her. It’s pointless to keep denying that I’m the thief she has pegged me for. Someone has been feeding her solid intel, and I’ll get more information out of her if I play along. “And what is it you think I’m going to steal?”

She shrugs, her astute gaze locked on the mirror’s reflection behind the bar. “I have no idea, and I care not. But if I were to hazard a guess, I would say those cuff links would be of significant value.”

Those cuff links are worth four hundred grand based on what the rich prick forked over at auction last year, not that I’m about to confirm her suspicions. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline.”

Her impeccably sculpted eyebrow arches. “Triple, then?”

I falter. While I didn’t start out earning much, now that I’ve proven my worth, the bundles of cash after a job well done more than pay for my living expenses. Triple that amount? Most thieves in my line of work would bite on that lure. But they’d be idiots, because no one crosses a guy like Viggo Korsakov and gets away with it.

Then again, if I don’t show up in his office tonight with those diamond-studded cuff links in hand, it’ll be my second miss in as many months. My worth to him is already on shaky ground.

“Who sent you?” Everything about this situation screams of a trap. If I weren’t literally in the middle of a take, I’d think Korsakov himself was behind this, a way of testing my trustworthiness.

Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Malachi.”

“Never heard of him.” But I’ll definitely be asking around.

She studies my face, as if I’m an object worthy of scrutiny. “I can see that you are terribly wise for your youth. And loyal. I appreciate that.”

“More like I like breathing,” I mutter through a sip. The drink was meant as a prop, but I’ll be ordering another to fill my sweaty palm soon.

“So, it is fear that keeps you with him. A need for self-preservation.”

The last decade of my life has been all about self-preservation.

Despite my veil of suspicion, I pity this woman. Whoever Malachi is, he sent her here on a fool’s errand. I lower my voice. “Maybe you should take some lessons, then, because dropping Korsakov’s name around the city like this? It’s a bad idea.”

“Mais oui, I understand he is a dangerous man.” She waves her hand dismissively, and my eyes catch the gold ring on her finger. The band is chunky and ornate, the finish antique, and the sizable white stone held within the claws holds no sparkle. I might dismiss it as a bubblegum-machine prize if this woman weren’t wearing it.

“You don’t want to get mixed up with him, believe me.” Maybe she thinks her beautiful face will buy her grace, but Korsakov is an equal-opportunity killer when someone threatens his empire.

She peers at me again with that measuring stare. “And why are you mixed up with him, then?”

“Because I don’t have a choice.” The words come out unbidden. I quietly chastise myself for allowing them to slip so easily. It makes me appear weak and fearful—nothing more than a pawn, a piece to play in someone else’s game. And I suppose I am, to some degree, though I have my own game in play too. An endgame out of this life.

“You have a binding agreement with him.” Sofie’s eyes don’t reflect any pity. If anything, I see genuine interest.

“More like a debt I’ll never be able to pay off.” I was eighteen when I lifted that diamond bauble off the wrong hand at a nightclub. I took it to the pawnshop the next day, where I hocked everything I stole, knowing Skully would pay me a fraction of its worth, but he wouldn’t ask questions. That bulky wad of cash in my pocket had me literally skipping out of the shop. It would keep me afloat for months if I was thrifty.

The next day, three men tracked me down and dragged me into a black SUV. Turns out the ring I stole belonged to Viggo Korsakov’s daughter.

I still remember standing in the warehouse office in front of the Viggo Korsakov himself, a man with pinched eyes and a cruel smile. One of the fluorescent lights above blinked, ready to give out, making the whole scenario more ominous. It took every ounce of composure to keep my limbs from trembling and my bladder from letting loose as I sang apologies and excuses, begging him not to use the meat cleaver that waited idly on a nearby table. How would I survive without my hands? Stealing was what I was good at—and I was excellent at it.

He offered me a deal instead. Skully had told him about my eye for quality, that the “merchandise” I’d been delivering over the years far outvalued the typical trinkets and trash he bought from others. Korsakov had need of a thief of my talent and profile—young, pretty, unexpected, and most surprising, without fingerprints in the criminal system. If I agreed to work for him, he would forgive me for my grievous mistake.

I’d heard enough whispers on the street about the man to know it wasn’t a choice, not if I wanted to walk out of that warehouse with my hands, so I accepted his offer.

That was three years ago, and while I don’t have my freedom, my life hasn’t been bad. Gone are the days of sleeping in youth shelters and vans, on couches, or tucked into an alcove at the public library when a night guard took pity. I now have a quaint studio apartment in Chelsea, with an exposed brick wall and south-facing window where basil and rosemary grow in pots on the sill, and my fridge is always filled with fresh fruit and meat that I paid for.

Korsakov tasked his daughter—the very one I had stolen the ring from—with transforming me from a scrappy street kid who loitered in dark corners to the pedigreed woman who could stroll into high-society charity events without earning a blink of suspicion. I no longer spend my days in search of valuables left in cars and careless fools who don’t guard their wallets and purses. Now, I lead a relatively typical life, relying on my talents only when Korsakov taps my shoulder with a ticket to one of these parties, where I blend in like a chameleon long enough to appropriate well-insured jewels from rich assholes. That’s what he calls me: his chameleon.

But in the end, I’m still a thief, one who feels more indebted to Korsakov now than I did three years ago. Short of disappearing into the night and spending the next however many years watching over my shoulder, I don’t have options. I’m stuck with him until he’s six feet under or he no longer sees value in me—which could mean I’m six feet under.

Sofie tips her glass to polish off the last of her wine before gingerly setting it on the counter. “Forgive me. I can sense that you are anxious. I shall not keep you from your task any longer. Do not do something silly, like get caught.” She winks, and as quickly as she appeared at my side, she vanishes into the crowd, leaving me rattled to my core.

“He’s pissed.” Tony drums his thick fingers against the passenger door to the tune of the sweeping windshield wipers. “Two major screw-ups in a row. My brother’s little lizard isn’t worth his trouble anymore.”

I roll my eyes at the back of the big oaf’s head, knowing he’s watching me through the side mirror and will catch it. Tony is enjoying my empty hands far too much for someone who’s supposed to be on the same team. I’m not surprised, though. He was the one safeguarding Anna the night I stole her ring. It earned him a smashed nose that healed crooked and three broken ribs, as well as a demotion in rank that he hasn’t gained back yet. He has despised me ever since, made worse on nights like tonight when he’s assigned to babysitting duty.

Tony’s opinion doesn’t matter, but I know Korsakov will not take lightly to a second miss—especially not this one. He already had a buyer lined up, and he hates reneging on a deal.

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