by Elodie Colt
“The Van Cleef & Arpels necklace.”
I flash her a calculating glance. She’s speaking of the Van Cleef & Arpels necklace—a piece I’ve wanted to acquire for years but never got my hands on. For the most part, their designs are too minimalistic for my taste, but that piece caught my eye the moment I spotted it in a magazine. Astoundingly, it’s a custom-made jewel based on a sketch the buyer drew. The 4.5-carat diamond necklace cost a shocking five-thousand dollars back in the 1960s. Now, it’s worth about two-hundred-thousand.
Aiko smirks, knowing she’s caught my attention.
I level a frigid stare at her. “And what do you want in return?”
She drags a finger over her lower lip. “How about the Asscher-cut ring displayed in your storefront?”
I bark out a laugh. I should have known she wouldn’t settle for anything less than the famous, five-carat Asscher cut.
“Why, aren’t you happy with the one I put on your finger? Last time you strutted down Brighton Beach boulevard, it sparkled on your hand in all its glory.”
Her eye twitches if only for a second. “I like to remember how it felt to wear it, back when we were still…”
She trails off when I shake my head and bites her lip. I frown at her. Her words sound truly genuine. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s still not over our relationship. The thought triggers a jolt of compassion inside me, but I quickly chase the sensation away. What she ruined can’t be fixed.
I set my drink aside. “So… How do I come by the Van Cleef necklace?”
She rises to her feet and circles the sofa, halting next to me. “I’ll get it at the Las Vegas Antique Jewelry & Watch Show next week. Bring the Asscher-cut ring, and we’ll do the trade on site.”
“Who said anything about me going to Vegas?”
She chuckles, taking two steps closer and entering my personal space. “Oh, save yourself the antics, Nathan. We both know you’ll be there.”
Of course, I will be there. If there’s one jewelry event I haven’t missed since I was old enough to gamble, it’s the yearly jewelry show in Vegas.
I don’t say anything as she blinks up at me with her huge doe eyes, waiting for her next move. Her gaze drops to my lips pressed into a thin slash, the loud breaths through my nose the only sound in the room. Tentatively, she lifts her hand to place it onto my cheek, but before it can make contact with my skin, I grab her wrist, daring her to get closer. She doesn’t flinch, always eager for a challenge, and her eyes smolder before she crashes her mouth against mine. The small amount of alcohol in my system slows me down, my brain sluggish and unable to produce a coherent thought as her breasts squish my chest. My dick jerks to attention inside my suit pants, and I groan in annoyance, a sound that prompts her to yank her hand from my grip and bury it in my hair.
What the fuck are you doing? I yell inside my head, directing the question at myself as well as the only body part that’s suddenly rod straight. Memories of our wedding night slam into me from all sides, and before I know what’s happening, I spin her around and rock her up against the wall. My dick is desperate. Angry even. I haven’t let him drive home for too long, and now he’s making up for it, almost tearing a hole through my pants and poking Aiko’s hip.
You’re a cheater just like her.
Six seconds. That’s how long it takes for Ella’s face to pop up in my memory.
Instantly, my mind draws a blank, and I rip my lips from Aiko’s. She gives me a befuddled look when I let my hand vanish in her cleavage where I know she likes to store a couple of business cards. I pull one out and read the name printed on the glossy paper. Not meeting her questioning gaze, I retrieve a pen from my chest pocket, click it, and blot out the surname.
“You’ve got two weeks to change your name,” I declare, my voice laced with a lethal edge. “You’re not a Crawford anymore.”
Stunned, she watches as I stuff the card back in between her breasts before she regains her dignity, locks her jaw, and shoulders past me in a hurry to leave my office.
“See you in Vegas,” she says when she opens the door, all business again. “And don’t forget to bring the ring.”
But just as she makes her big exit with her ass on fire, she slams straight into Vincent who was in the process of entering, and stumbles back a step. He frowns down at her, his expression full of contempt.
Aiko clears her throat before she utters an ice-cold, “Vincent.”
“Aiko,” he replies with just as much malice dripping from his voice.
She rolls her shoulders and blazes past him without a second glance, leaving him gaping after her.
“What the hell was she doing here?” he asks when he closes the door behind him.
I wipe a hand down my face. “Trying to get me to hand over the Asscher-cut ring from our new collection in exchange for a Van Cleef necklace. We’re going to make the change in Las Vegas next week.”
Nodding, he walks over to me with a rueful expression on his face.
I shake my head, sending him a warning look. “Uh-uh. I’m not in the mood to rehash our shit-ton of family problems, and I don’t want to hear your lame excuses about—”
“Wayde found something,” he slices into my speech.
I straighten in alert, my teeth clicking shut.
“Luka sent Ella messages.” Inserating a pause, he adds, “After we chased him out of the city.”
The breath whooshes out of my lungs, and I sag down onto the sofa. “He’s still onto her,” I mutter, feeling my face draining of all color.
He clasps his hands behind his back. “Yes. Wayde says there’s a possibility that Luka came back.”
“But how? I thought your friends at the NYPD were on him. They tracked his every move.”
“That guy can switch identities faster than I can change my suits. We both know he’s too smart for his own good.”
I hang my head, making a tent with my fingers around my nose. Jesus Christ. I told Ella she was safe. That her stalker wasn’t an issue anymore.
‘There is no together as long as he’s still alive,’ were her words before she disappeared on me. She knew he would come back. She fucking knew. And I didn’t listen.
Slapping my hands onto my thighs, I rise in one thunderous movement. “I have to find her.”
“I know,” Vincent says in a grave tone and takes a few steps closer to me. His gaze is on the cloudless sky outside the window.
“Maybe Wayde can—”
“He’s not the right guy for this job. You need someone in the field. Someone without a string of convictions. Someone who’s not on Luka Sokolov’s radar.” Slowly, his head turns to me. “How far are you willing to go?”
I utter a dark chuckle, scratching a spot on my nose with the back of my thumbnail. “Is that a trick question?”
He keeps his face blank. “I know someone who can help you. We can meet him in Vegas.”
I narrow my eyes at him. We had that conversation a few months ago…
‘I may have blurred the lines, but I won’t blow them up,’ I told him, eager to keep my moral compass in place.
Well, I guess things have changed.
Because I’m about to blast away every line that ever existed.
7
Nathan
Las Vegas.
For most, America’s playground.
For me, another gigantic Silent Sins room—just the opposite of dark. An excessive dreamland for adults, segregated from the outside world, and built for the sole purpose to indulge in your desires. You can be and do whatever you want, but walk out the door, and you’ll find yourself in the middle of no-man’s-land.
I don’t want Vincent anywhere near this place. He’s always had a knack for gambling, and gathering from the way his eyes lit up when our limousine passed yet another flashy casino, I’ll have to keep him on a tight leash before he wastes away at a Blackjack table and goes all-in with his last month’s salary.
We are in matching attire today—both in
a black three-piece with shiny lapels, polished shoes, and perfectly groomed hair. I loosen my bowtie to keep it from squeezing my Adam’s apple. The white shirt underneath my suit jacket sticks to my skin, sweaty on my back and armpits despite the air conditioning cooling down the building to South Pole temperature.
Vincent grins like a five-year-old who just received ten scoops of ice cream when we join the crowd at the Las Vegas convention center. Three million square feet of modern architecture with more exhibit halls than you can explore in a day, and about as many security guards as the White House. Everything is big, extravagant, and glittery, made for the sole purpose to show off the wealth of the upper crust that hovers like a bad smell in the air.
The first hour flies by in a blur. Some brown-nosing here, some swapping business cards there, and always posing for the next reporter fishing out his camera. The whole elite has gathered here—rich businessmen with escorts, renowned politicians with trophy wives, and glitzy starlets from the Hollywood horizon. They have all come to spend their millions on gems that needed a dozen poor men to sweat blood and unearth them from the pits of the most hazardous mines. By the time we’re done soft-soaping about half of the attendants, my wrist hurts from all the handshaking, and my face stings from flashing smiles nonstop.
Usually, I enjoy this show. There’s no better place to find the rarest gems and most extraordinary jewels. But today, not even Beyoncé’s five-million, emerald cut diamond engagement ring in a platinum split-shank setting could stir my blood.
Fumbling with my pendant, I cast a glance at my watch. Hopefully, the auction will be over in two hours. I still have to meet with Aiko for the trade.
“The auction is about to start,” Vincent says, nodding to the grand entrance where six security guys are busy channeling the crowd through the door. “Let’s go.”
Sighing, I follow Vincent into the colossal hall packed with hundreds of plush, wine-red seats, and I roll my eyes when the old lady in front of me needs a whole minute to place her butt down.
When we reach our row, Vincent extends a hand to let me go first. I glance at the number on the golden plate attached to the backrest and grimace.
“Very funny,” I mutter, parking my ass on seat number six in the sixth row.
He chuckles, sitting down next to me. “Not my doing, I swear. Brooke booked the tickets.”
Entwining my hands, I scan the people occupying the rows in front of us. I’m not surprised to find Aiko in one of the VIP spots, trying to catch my gaze with an uncertain smile. I give her a glassy stare before I pull the event brochure from my breast pocket and fake interest in flipping through the pages.
Throughout the next two hours, I try to keep my focus on the lots and the auctioneer who’s sweating like mad underneath the bright spotlights and uses a tissue every three seconds to dab his slick forehead. Vincent acquires a pretty Harry Winston Burma Ruby diamond ring and some more pieces that make him a million dollars poorer in a matter of minutes while I expand our watch collection with smaller investments in Rolex, Breitling, and Piaget—also six-hundred thousand in total, but who’s counting, right?
When the auction is over, we sign the papers and arrange for the goods to be shipped to the gallery.
“What the heck is that?” I nod to the gold (yes, gold, not golden) credit card Vincent swipes over the scanner. “The Black Card not fancy enough for you anymore?”
Grinning, he taps a knuckle on the flashy piece. “An exclusive credit card from Russia’s Sberbank Kazakhstan.”
“There are diamonds on it,” I grumble with a nod to the gems embedded in the material.
“Yep, twenty-six to be exact, 0.17 carat. Whoever wants to rob me would be sixty-thousand dollars richer just by nicking the card.”
I shake my head as we make our way back into the grand hall. “How did you get your hands on that one?”
“Sanzhar Sharipova. I’ve promised him a private gallery tour with Nick next week.”
“Yeah, Brooke told me he’s going to visit—”
“Nathan Crawford,” a female voice drawls from behind me, and I turn around.
A woman in a dark-blue sheath dress with a camera in her hands approaches us, a mass of caramel, wavy hair flowing around her shoulders. The sight of her leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. Camille Anderson—bold, tenacious, and annoyingly resourceful. She’s as nosy as Susan’s old Chihuahua, always snooping around for the next scandal to publish in her crap-ass tabloid. She has made fucking me over a habit ever since I gave her a knock-back.
“And the famous Vincent Crawford,” she adds with a confident smile. “Camille Anderson, reporter at the New York Post.”
Vincent regards her for a moment. “Your name sounds familiar. Have we done an interview before?”
“Nope,” I throw in, clasping my hands behind my back and rocking on my heels. “She wrote that extensive story about me attacking a guy and attempting to steal his watch.”
Her brown, wide-set eyes veer over to me, but she keeps her smile plastered on her pretty face. “Come on, Nathan. You knew the consequences before you bopped a beer bottle over his head in public. Instagram is ruthless.”
“But I didn’t pick his pockets,” I argue, adamant to make my point here. “The story you wrote was bullshit.”
Vincent clasps my elbow from behind, squeezing it in warning.
She shrugs. “People love family dramas. You know, like father, like son…”
My hands clench, but before I can tell her where to stick her fucking tabloid, Vincent beats me to it.
“People also love family reunions,” he says, pulling me closer. “How about you write a story about that? If I like it, I might consider sending you a bracelet with real diamonds on it.” He nods to the fake bangle on her wrist. “A piece from Tiffany, perhaps?”
She pouts, considering his offer for a moment before she snaps a picture of the two of us smiling into the camera. The flash of light is still branded into my retinas when Aiko joins our trio, edging closer to me as if eager to feature in the next picture.
A slow, triumphant smile builds on Camille’s face. “Oh, I didn’t know you two were still an item.”
She lifts her camera again, but I snatch out my hand and lower it.
“We aren’t,” I declare before something scandal-worthy bubbles out of Aiko’s mouth. “If you’d excuse us, we have some business to discuss.”
I shoot Vincent a look, silently communicating to lend me a hand and see to it that Camille doesn’t fill an entire Pinterest board with pictures of us. We retreat to a somewhat quiet corner behind the Cartier booth at the end of the hall.
“Don’t make such a face,” Aiko says when I unfurl a scowl. “I wasn’t about to ruin your reputation or anything.”
She places a hand on her hip, the Harry Winston danglers on her ears swinging with the movement. She’s wearing a cherry-red mermaid dress adorned with sequins in the shape of leaves. A pretty piece if it weren’t for the fact that it reminds me of Ella’s Halloween costume.
I nod to the clutch in her hand. “You’ve got the Van Cleef necklace?”
Her lips flatline for a moment before she opens the zipper of her Prada clutch and retrieves a rectangular, black box the size of my hand. I take it and peek inside. 4.5 carat sparkle back at me, attached to a pretty, twisted chain. Lifting my chin, I snap it shut.
Aiko cocks her head. “Why do you look as if you’ve expected to find a fake piece in there? Don’t you trust me on this?”
My stare is flinty when I fish out a velvet box from my suit pocket, this one a tenth in size of the one Aiko just handed over.
“You literally screwed all over my trust three years ago.” I press the box into her hand.
“Nathan, I—”
She stops when I crane my neck to peek over her shoulder. A familiar mop of gray hair caught my eye, and I mumble a goodbye, not giving Aiko the time of the day.
Carl is busy pouring on the charm, the pretty blonde next to him laughing
and suggestively jutting out her chest when I butt into their conversation.
I grab his shoulder, my fingers clawing into his light-gray silk suit. “We need to talk.”
My commanding tone leaves no room for objections, and the distraught look on his face tells me he knows that I have to pick a bone with him. After mumbling an excuse to the blonde, we retreat into a quiet corner, away from the commotion.
“Explain,” I gruff out.
Sighing, he pushes up his glasses. “My hands were tied, Nathan. I promised Vincent to keep it under wraps.”
“Are you serious?” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low. “He was in prison for more than a decade, leaving his family to fend for themselves. You were there. You know what I went through when the job as CEO of Crawford Crescent was thrown into my face. Best buddies or not, after that shit he pulled, I figured your loyalty was to me.”
“Don’t put the blame on me, Nathan. Vincent was crushed when he found out about that child, knowing he would never get to see it. It wasn’t exactly a secret he wanted to share in jail, and as the years went by, it vanished into oblivion.”
I shake my head, averting my gaze.
“I wanted to tell you,” he adds. “But then you would have told Nick, and he would have told Brooke. It would have broken her heart.”
“Well, you can cut the act now. Brooke has known from the beginning.”
Carl blinks at me. “What?”
“Who do you think told me? She knew about his child. The woman he’d knocked up sent her a letter after she found out that Vincent was married. She wanted Brooke to know that her husband had been cheating on her and left him with the child he was never going to meet.”
Carl goes completely still, his shoulders slumping. Judging from his glassy eyes, it just hit him that the woman he’s been secretly in love with for years had been loyal to a man who’s broken her heart so many times, it’s a wonder she’s still got some pieces left inside her chest.
His daunted look takes the wind from my sails, and I sigh.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go.” I slap his back. “Stop shouldering Vincent’s burdens. I respect your friendship, but you don’t owe him anything.”