No matter how many successful missions she had accomplished, no matter how much lucrative intel she had delivered, no matter the fact that her late father had built the entire De' Albo empire, good ol' Uncle Roby never let her forget who was really in charge.
And though she spent the majority of every day rehearsing all the different languages in which she could tell him to go fuck himself, one thought of her nineteen-year- old sister was enough to put her bravado on ice.
Sasha had a real shot at a decent life. She had just started at , and she was already kicking ass, even while holding down a job at a nearby coffee shop. She would not be part of this screwed-up, bullshit con game. Not as long as Charley had the ability to keep her out of it. To keep her ignorant and safe. To keep her alive.
Get your head in the game, girl.
With an epic sigh and one more glance toward the elevator—one more pang of disappointment that the stranger from downstairs had not magically appeared—she shut down her half-starved libido and snapped into work mode.
Get in. Get the intel. Get out. And above all, do not get noticed… again.
The penthouse at the Silverblade was enormous by New York standards, a pre-war stunner with breathtaking views of Central Park and the glittering buildings that surrounded it.
The monthly maintenance fees alone were in the five- figure range, but word on the street said the current owners were tapped out, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. All their valuables would be auctioned off, the apartment sold, the family expatriating to Greece.
Charley hated kicking people when they were down, but in the words of the old family motto they had probably carve on her tombstone… "If you are not an asset, you are a liability," she muttered.
Charley already knew the floor plan, she had memorized the documents Roby had obtained from the city planning office, but now she scanned the scene, taking in the relevant details.
About forty guests, plus the host. Two people working at the bar just past the foyer, two more serving hors d'oeuvres. One security guard making the rounds, beefy but unarmed. Huge, open - plan living area set up with chairs and a small platform for the auction, artwork already on display. The private hallway roped off with theater stanchions, leading to four bedrooms and a study. No visible cameras.
The auction was set to begin soon, but for now, most of the guests mingled at the bar, blathering on about the cutthroat admissions process for Manhattan preschools and exclusive spa vacations for pets.
Reining in an eyeroll, Charley sipped her drink, projecting the cool detachment of the one - percenters surrounding her. Despite her working - class, Jersey-girl roots, it was not hard to look the part, especially with her off - the - books expense account keeping her salon - polished and stylish.
Tonight, she wore her auburn hair in a loose twist at the base of her neck, light on the makeup, and a strapless midnight blue cocktail dress tied with a simple sash around the waist.
If anyone were questioned about her later, they had remembered only a classy woman in a dark dress, a splash of tasteful yet unremarkable jewelry. Calm and unconcerned, totally in control.
The exact opposite of her reality.
The security guard headed into the living area, leaving the hallway unguarded.
Go-time.
Charley downed the last of her drink, set the glass on the bar, and slipped past the ropes undetected. She had just ducked into the master suite when her phone buzzed with four rapid fire texts.
What's happening in there?
I don't like it when you go radio silent. Caroline?
?????
The question marks at the end were the worst, the threat behind them evident.
Passive - aggressive asshole.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, a quick reassurance at the ready, but screw it. She was tired of jumping at Roby's every command, cowering before him as if she was still a little girl.
Busy, she texted.
Charley did not bother waiting for his reply. She silenced the phone, donned her gloves, and got to work.
With clinical efficiency, she searched the suite's massive oak dressers, vanity, night tables, bookcases, closets, master bathroom drawers, and medicine cabinets, looking for any information that might help.
She found a few pieces of jewelry, some antique knickknacks, plenty of prescription drugs, and bingo, a printout of the family's travel itinerary. They had been apartment hunting in Greece for two weeks at the end of the month.
The opportunity was there, just as Roby had hoped. But the score? That did not look too promising.
The other three bedrooms were sparsely appointed, and Roby was not interested in a handful of jewels and some dusty figurines. Too late, Charley realized their initial intel must have been bad. Tonight was not the first auction, it could not have been.
The massive trove of art and antiquities the crew had traced to this family were long gone, likely auctioned off in pieces over the last several weeks. All that remained was the small, somewhat odd collection in the living area.
A flood of conflicting feelings washed through Charley's heart, relief for the family, that they would not have to endure a robbery. Disgust at herself, at her crew, for doing what they did. And of course, the dread that always preceded having to face Roby empty – handed… a situation that was quickly becoming her norm.
Roby would not tolerate it. Not for long.
Tears of frustration pricked her eyes, but Charley blinked them away. There was still one more room to search, the potential goldmine otherwise known as the study. Rich people kept all kinds of important shit in there, like it was some kind of private Fort Knox no thief would ever penetrate.
For her sake, Charley hoped that was the case tonight "Saving the best for last," she whispered hopefully, turning to exit the smallest bedroom. But she could not. Towering in the doorway, a huge beast of a man blocked her path.
It was not the security guard, but a guest she had spotted at the bar earlier. Now, he was grinning at Charley like she was a prized piece of art he had won.
"Oh, hi!" she said brightly, pressing a hand to her chest to keep her heart from bursting out. "I did not see you."
Tall and imposing, with dark, malicious eyes that matched his expensive charcoal-gray suit, he folded his arms over his chest and grinned "Lost, little one?"
"No, I… I am looking for…"
"Yes," the man said, taking a few steps toward her. "Do tell me what you are looking for, here in the private bedrooms of our hosts."
The icy tone in his voice sent chills down her spine. Beyond the fact that he had busted her, there was something off about the guy.
The word unnatural popped into her head. He was too still, even when he moved. Too calm. And now he had her cornered.
"Tampons," Charley blurted out, forcing an embarrassed giggle as she reached inside her purse and gripped Beyoncé, her trusty taser. "I was looking for tampons. Don't suppose you have got any?"
The man did not flinch, and he sure was not buying her ditzy female act, either. He took another step forward, forcing her back into the bedroom. The chill in his eyes shifted to solid ice, a look of deadly determination Charley knew all too well.
Shit. She really, really did not want to tase the guy. Tasing meant causing a scene. It meant people asking questions and calling the cops. It meant getting noticed.
But she was not about to let this guy fuck with her, either. "Back off, asshole," she warned, her Jersey girl soul breaking through the refined exterior as she pointed Beyoncé at his crotch. "Or I will send you home with a stutter and a smoking dick."
He grinned and raised his hands in surrender, and for a second Charley thought it was done. But then he lunged for her, knocking her purse and weapon to the ground, crushing her upper arms in a bruising grip.