The Perfect Con (A Bad Boy Romance Novel) (Bad Boy Confessions Book 1) (12 page)

W
hen I left
the house that Wednesday, I told Max and Gabe that I was going to run some errands in town. To inspect some product from Javier, our forger; to pick up another few burner phones; to have a lunchtime conversation with a buyer, Damian. But all of that was a lie. Damian was still off fencing in Paris. We had plenty of burner phones. Javier had completely flaked off this week.

No. I went straight to the museum. Straight to the third floor.

Straight to the Heart of Icarus.

I needed to think.

I couldn’t be this guy. I was supposed to be terrifying. On my first real job, thirteen years ago, we’d made almost one million fencing some convincing forgeries, but an accidental smudge had ruined the score and almost gotten the artist killed—first by the infuriated buyer, and then, later, by me. Our first job ended up costing us money on top of the investment, because I tore apart a beautifully furnished office that night. Some men wouldn’t even do business with me. They said my temper made me a liability.

So I guess demanding perfection is a liability now. I guess being protective of your investment is a liability.

Hell, back in 2014, a small job had gone poorly—almost everything lost—and the guys on that campaign all chipped in to try to cover up their failure, pretending they had gone ahead and sold the score without me. That was the fear I inspired.

And now this.

This wasn’t me.

I didn’t get soft. I didn’t give anyone breaks. I didn’t change my mind and back down.

When I trashed that office during my first score, I didn’t look around at the wreckage, take a deep breath, and apologize. I had to be pulled out of there, still trying to rip things off the walls, by one of the other guys.

And now here I was, thinking about Sofi Castillo. The perfect revenge, the perfect con, transformed into the perfect woman.

But how long would she remain so pure?

How long until she, like everything in the world, became a disappointment? She would do what every woman eventually did: take care of herself and leave. After this score was over? After the next score? As soon as it no longer served her best interest, she’d cut ties. It was sheer Business 101.

I stared into the black core of the topaz chunk. Failure. Inevitable failure. Sofi—the myth of the perfect woman—would fall apart, given time.

I winced. I was stupid to have come here. Any minute now, Max, our associate, would be making the call to Cyrus. And that would be that. All the wondering would be over. The only thing left to do would be to finish the set-up. To get my precious revenge. To quell my wrath.

As the sun set, it fell in sharp, clear beams, cutting across the museum floor and spearing the center of the Heart, filling it, bright and golden.

It also illuminated one slim, feminine handprint on the glass.

Sofi’s handprint.

I thought of her words as she had pressed her palm to that glass, as endeared as if she knew the story from personal experience. Happiness. Risk. Sacrifice. She was on the side of Icarus. She wanted to fly until her wings burned. She wanted that—and I was ready to give it to her, scared to let go of who I was, who I had always been.

Scared to think, What if?

Too scared to fly.

As the sunlight faded from the window pane, the topaz darkened again, its center deepening to black, and it took the illuminated handprint with it, leaving me staring at my own reflection on the glass.

I swallowed and turned, striding quickly away from the display. I pulled out my cell and called Max’s burner, but got no answer. Next, I tried Gabe (contact name SO LAZY): voicemail. Shit. He must’ve already been driving. I went into my text messages and sent one to SO LAZY: “I want to call it off. Don’t give me any shit on this. Is Max still there? Has he made the call? CALL IT OFF.”

Then I galloped down the museum stairwell and back out into the sun.

If I had decided to stay with the plan, I knew what would’ve happened. I would’ve felt cold. Black. Alone. I would’ve watched Sofi fade over the horizon, and I wouldn’t have felt any better, even if Ronaldo had collapsed on my doorstep, beating his breast. I wouldn’t have felt any better, even knowing that she was the one who worked with Spider—behind my back—on that score. She hadn’t known that it was me she was double-crossing. She’d only known about the so-called interior designer, Dominic del Papas.

It wasn’t her fault. It was—well, it was her fault, but damn it, I didn’t give a shit, I wanted to be happy. What would make me happier? Sofi, or two million dollars? Not even two million dollars. Just revenge.

Anyway, it was an easy solution to the problem. The world was full of money. My bank account had a decent chunk of it. But I’d never held a woman like her before in my life. The very day that we’d met, we’d had the best sex I could ever remember. When we were together, and our clothes were off, it was like gripping a rocket. Gripping a rocket and hoping you could survive blasting off—again and again and again.

She made me feel like the Heart of Icarus at sunset, and I couldn’t let that feeling go to hang on to my old ways. Even if I lost some of Gabe’s respect (which, of course, I held in such high regard); even if some of the other guys made fun of me for going soft; it wouldn’t matter. I would have Sofi. My revenge wouldn’t be revenge—it would just be another failure, and for this one, the only person I’d be able to beat to a pulp would be myself.

In the car, I tried to call Gabe again, but no luck. No texts back, either. I pulled into our drive and strode—well, bolted—inside.

“Max?” I called through the house. “Max, are you here?”

I found him in the rec room, receiving a massage from one of the maids. I wasn’t sure of her name—Daniela? Rita?—but the expression on her face when I entered the room told me that she knew she wasn’t supposed to be in here with him. Her shirt was half-unbuttoned. I’d probably walked in at the commencement of a happy ending. “Excuse me, Sir,” she gasped, taking a step away from the table.

But she didn’t need to worry about her job right now. My knuckles were focusing on a different target. “This is what you’re doing when you’re not answering your fucking phone?” I snapped at him. “Treating yourself to massages with our maids?”

Max sat up quickly. The maid scurried to exit.

“You don’t have to go, Dani,” Max called, holding out his hand, and she turned around with an anguished expression, but she didn’t stop moving. He clenched his jaw and looked at me. “Sorry about that, man,” he murmured. “You know how it is. Sometimes it’s harder to separate business and pleasure than it used to be.”

Business and pleasure.
Like it was nothing. Like it was fucking nothing. As if what was happening between Sofi and I could be likened to some cheap handjob from the maid.

I strode to the massage table and snatched the collar of Max’s shirt as if it was the most natural, gracious gesture in the world. My eyes filled with relish at the sight of alarm fluttering in Max’s gaze. “There is no comparison between our problems,” I promised him. “Do you realize that you stay at the Battista home because you are an employee? Your only responsibility is to
be there
for the Battista house when we need you! What if I couldn’t have found you here! What if your ass had actually been working, and made the goddamn call before I could tell you—”

“But,” Max pursed his lips, and his eyebrows twisted with sympathy. The expression—particularly coming from someone whose collar I was gripping—was disconcerting. Even though I was the one supporting him, even though I was the one who controlled this house…he pitied me. Our eye contact broke and Max redirected his eyes, grim, to the floor. “But I already did it.”

“Did what?” I demanded. “Didn’t you get my messages? I tried to call you!”

“What messages?” Max looked up to me, and I was so seriously tempted to punch him in the face, even though I knew that it wouldn’t change anything—and it wasn’t really Max. “I made the call, Leo. I left the tip with de Silva. Hours ago, dude.”

My shoulders sagged, and a vital energy seeped away from me. My hands and feet were suddenly chilled. The energy that Sofi had inspired within me, a little something that made breathing easier, made colors brighter, and made traffic slightly less infuriating—it seeped away. My hand slid from his rumpled collar.

“Why?” Max asked. A half smile kinked up the side of his mouth. “Does this have something to do with that sexy little fox coming by earlier?” He shook his head like he didn’t believe it. “Surprisingly soft for an old hand, Leo.”

I’d never wanted to hit somebody so bad—but then Sofi fluttered through my mind.
I can be your little chill pill.
I took a deep breath. It was going to be all right.

Max pulled up and glared at me, but said nothing. “She came looking for you while you were gone, an hour or two ago,” he muttered. “Think she’s feeling jittery about the score.”

I had to hide my elation at the news. Sofi was having her doubts about this score. Maybe I wouldn’t have to say anything to her at all about how this had all been my idea. I could see her disappointment and betrayal in my mind’s eye.
“So…the lagoon? The car? The beach? That was all just a trick,” she would spit out. “I knew it. I knew it! God dammit, Madeline tried to warn me. How could I be so stupid?”
And it might not matter to her that I was ready to tell the truth a few days late. I would join a pantheon of duplicitous pricks in her mind. And she’d run away. She’d go home again. Which was still better than jail for God only knows how long.

“Don’t worry, boss,” Max muttered, smoothing his wrinkled collar. “I’m pretty sure Gabe convinced her.”

* * *

D
amn
. I’d been really clear that we never used our personal cell phones to contact anyone involved in the campaign about anything we couldn’t explain away easily—yet I really, really wanted to fucking text her. She couldn’t hope to understand what I wanted to say, since this was none of her business (technically), but now that Max had left the tip with Cyrus, the game had entered a new, critical stage. The putz was probably already gathering as much evidence on her as he could. We had to tread lightly, or, even better, stop walking altogether.

I blazed a trail from my place to hers, zigzagging from one lane to the next to catch the green lights. When I hit her driveway, I careened to the garage, slammed on the brakes, and bolted to the front door, pounding three knocks into the wood.

The door swung open and fuck, there she was. All my desperation and mania fizzled a little, becoming a sad sense of peace. I couldn’t lose her. Her hair was loose and damp from a shower, face so fresh without a stitch of makeup. I wanted to touch her. She was wearing a sheer pink number with black lace playing around on the fringes, some sort of short one piece. Jesus fuck, I wasn’t ready for this. I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t.

A sunny smile spread over her lips. “Hey,” she chirped. “I didn’t think I was going to get the chance to see you today.”

I deflated. Here goes. “I, uh, had a busy day,” I told her. Another lie. So many lies. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, of course.” Sofi gestured for me to enter the foyer. I took a deep breath and entered.

“Where’s that harpy of a best friend you have?” I asked, peering deeper into the house.

“Are you kidding, it’s only seven,” Sofi scoffed. “She’s asleep. I expect she’ll be in fighting shape within the hour, though.” She tilted her head to the side and reconsidered. “Two, at the most.”

I turned back to her and surveyed her fully. “But you’re all dressed for bed,” I crooned.

“Kind of,” she said. “This is my dress romper.”

“Dress romper,” I repeated, trying out the new words on my tongue. “Amazing.”

She took my hand as she swept past me, as if it was just the most natural thing in the world, and tugged me up the stairway, to her room. The gauzy fabric of that romper thing shimmered and lilted across her taut, fleshy ass, swaying right in my face, and I forgot about the Heart of Icarus, forgot about Cyrus de Silva. As soon as this conversation was over, I was going to put my hand over her mouth and bring her to climax until her voice gave out. We could leave the damn romper thing on.

I mentally rallied the troops to maintain their focus on the battlefield.

But before we’d even made it in the doorway, she twisted and grinned up at me, beckoning. “So,” she leered, shooting up onto the tip of her toes and lulling flirtatiously back and forth. She collapsed against the bedroom door and it swung open, dumping us inside. “Whatcha wanna do, Leo?” She wedged her tongue between her front teeth and bit it. It was obvious what she thought I was here for—and I wished she was right.

I took a breath and expelled, “We need to talk.”

I didn’t think my face revealed that it was bad news, but it must have. The flirtatious simper drained away from her face, and her feet fell flat to the floor again. Her eyebrows settled low and she stretched to close the door quietly.

“What’s going on?” she whispered.

“I don’t know if it’s the best idea to go through with this job,” I breathed.