by Sarah Piper
She took a deep breath and started talking. Slowly at first, then all at once, the words rushing out from a deep, dark place inside she’d never before opened. The longer she spoke, the more secrets she revealed, each one more painful than the last.
She told him about her childhood, growing up with her father and the crew after her mother split. How they’d taught her the con game, and how her first big score as a teenager had made everyone proud—had made her a bona fide member of the crew.
A phantom.
Ever since that moment, Charley’s “career” had been a series of cons and heists, lies and manipulations, all of them virtually interchangeable. The only thing that had made it bearable was her passion for the art itself, the bright and colorful place she traveled to in her mind when all of life’s other doorways had been shut.
“Everything I’ve told you about my love of art is true,” Charley said now. “It’s the one thing about my work I don’t regret.”
Dorian grunted into his glass. “Is that supposed to justify it, then?”
“Of course not. I just meant—”
“Because I love the art too, Charlotte. It’s why I pay millions of dollars to acquire it legally. It’s why people all over the world buy and make and trade it—because we love it, because it tells a story, because it makes us feel less alone. Not because we want people like you to steal it from us, and then sit back and talk about it like it’s a bloody thing of reverence.”
“I’ve kept things from you,” she said. “A lot of things—really important stuff. But what I shared with you… That was real. You’re the first man I’ve ever… No one else knows those things about me. Before you, no one else had even asked.”
The admission left her naked, but Dorian seemed unaffected.
“Is this the part where you tell me I’m different?” he asked, making air quotes around the word. “That what we had was special?”
His mockery burned to the core.
“It was special,” she said. “Say whatever you want—I deserve it. But my mistakes don’t change what we shared. It was real, Dorian, no matter how quickly it happened, no matter what circumstances brought us together. You can’t go back and undo it.”
Especially after the way you looked at me in the dining room…
“You undid it for me,” he snapped.
“But I—”
“I know. You didn’t have a choice. Right?”
“I grew up thinking this was normal. And by the time I figured out it wasn’t, it was too late.”
“Newsflash, love. It’s still a choice. One you make again every time you wake up and decide to stay in the business another day.”
Charley huffed, her defenses rising. “Like you wake up every day and decide to remain a vampire?”
“I don’t have a choice about what I am.”
“Rudy owns me,” she said. “Not only is he my sole source of income, but he’s also made it very clear that this is my job for life. If I try to leave him, if I make any more mistakes, if I don’t follow through on my end of the deal, he’ll kill me. He’ll kill Sasha. So fine, maybe I do have a choice about whether or not to commit a crime. But when it comes to staying alive? To protecting my sister? Sorry—that’s not a choice.”
Dorian’s eyes blazed again, but then softened, and he looked away, taking a long sip of scotch. Charley suspected he was thinking about his own brothers—what he might be driven to do if their lives were at stake.
No matter how much he’d bickered with them—even with Gabriel—Charley knew he cared for them. She could see it in his eyes.
After a long pause, Dorian said, “So the money… How exactly does it work?”
Charley told him about the hierarchy, the payouts, how Rudy took over after her father’s death.
“He became the new boss, and he put himself in charge of everything—the books, the assets, the whole operation. We liquidated most of my father’s personal collection, but because I was so naive, a lot of that money went straight back into the operation. I live in my father’s penthouse, but I’m not paying for maintenance and upkeep—that’s all Rudy. I don’t manage my own credit cards. As pathetic and impossible as it may seem, I don’t even have a checking account.”
Charley’s face burned.
Thirty-two years old, and I’m as dependent as a child.
Dorian stared into the fireplace, his jaw clenching. “What transpired this morning? Why did your uncle attack you?”
Charley looked at him through glazed eyes, her breath catching. They were getting closer to the specifics—to her role in the planned heist of Dorian’s estate. Even after everything she’d shared, the idea of voicing those particular details left her burning with new shame.
“I screwed up my end of the deal,” she said. “Rudy… He wanted me to convince you to take me and your brothers out of town next weekend, leaving Ravenswood clear.” Dorian’s eyes widened, but Charley pressed on. “I wasn’t going to, Dorian. I told him it was too soon—that you’d get suspicious.”
“Obviously, he didn’t like that response.”
“No. He accused me of… of having feelings for you.”
Dorian raised an eyebrow, but Charley would neither confirm nor deny. What was the point? They were done. Hadn’t he made that clear enough already?
“That,” Dorian said suddenly, jabbing a finger toward her collarbone, where Rudy’s handiwork still throbbed. “That’s the kind of man you work for. The kind of man your father left you with. The kind of man who thought nothing of harming his own niece just because he didn’t get his way.”
She nodded. He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.
“So he’s making his move this weekend, then?” Dorian asked.
Charley shook her head. “I bought another two weeks. Three at the most. I said you needed time to see the acquisition through before we could get away.”
“He knows about the acquisition?”
“He knows nearly everything.”
Shuddering under his accusatory, wounded glare, Charley gave him the play-by-play—details about Travis’ surveillance of the estate, the fake interviews at FierceConnect, her own assumptions on how the actual heist would likely go down. Every detail felt like an arrow shot straight into Dorian’s heart, but she forced herself to continue, all the way to the bitter end.
“Unbelievable. Truly.” Dorian scowled and shook his head, unable to hide his disgust.
“Look, Dorian. I told you I’d come clean about the robbery. Judge me all you’d like—God knows I deserve it. But if you’re going to keep asking me questions, don’t act surprised when you hear the answers. I’m not a good person. I’m a fraud, a thief, a criminal. By all rights, I should be in prison.”
“Yes, you should be. And your uncle should be eviscerated and hung by his worthless worm of a cock from the top of the Empire State Building.”
A tiny smile broke across Charley’s face as she pictured such a perfect act of revenge.
But it didn’t last.
“Rudy’s already made arrangements to have me and my sister taken out if anything happens to him,” she said. “Besides, it’s entirely possible we’re dealing with more than just my sleazy uncle and a crew of human criminals. Right?”
“Rogozin,” Dorian whispered, the muscle on his jaw ticking. “Tell me about your connection to him, Charlotte. Please. I need to know what we’re facing here.”
Charley took a long, deep pull from her drink, steeling her nerves. She hated going back to that terrible day in her father’s car, that shady parking lot behind the pizza place and crappy apartment. But Dorian was right—she needed to put it all on the table.
She felt Dorian’s eyes on her, but she couldn’t meet them, focusing instead on the fireplace as she carved open her heart and gave voice to the story written in her scars, inside and out.
Where you off to, little girl?
Not so tough when Daddy’s not around, are ya?
Don’t str
uggle, D’Amico bitch…
She confessed it all, one painful word at a time, from the broken birthday promises to the stabbing to her stay at the hospital.
To the mystery that surrounded that day, even now.
“I don’t know who my attackers were,” she said, her throat as raw as her nerves. “At this point, I don’t even know if they were men, or demons, or something else altogether. All I know is the client’s name—Alexei Rogozin. That’s who my father and uncle went upstairs to meet. They never mentioned him again, and I never asked. I don’t know if Rogozin ever found out what’d happened to his guys, or if he was the one to send them after me in the first place. I have no idea if Rudy still deals with him or if that was their last meeting.” She took another deep drink, then shook her head. “For all I know, they’re old pals.”
Charley may have been an idiot, but she wasn’t stupid enough to believe her uncle was capable of any loyalty or compassion. Not when it came to her.
For a long time, Dorian sat in silence, staring into the flames. He didn’t move. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t even blink.
Charley closed her eyes. She couldn’t even imagine what was going through his mind.
Maybe he was thinking—just like she had thought in her own darkest moments—that she deserved everything that’d happened to her.
“Fuck!” Dorian’s outburst tore Charley from her thoughts. Her eyes flew open just as he crushed the glass in his hand. Blood and scotch dripped from his fist.
“I… need a few moments alone,” he finally said, cool and collected once again. “Please leave me, Charlotte.”
Charley was at a loss, the emotional roller coaster taking its toll. Rising to her feet, she glanced around the study, but couldn’t seem to make herself take a step. “I don’t… Where should I…”
“There are thousands upon thousands of square feet in this manor, Charlotte. Inside and out. Take your pick.”
By the time Charley returned from her exile in the rose garden, the broken glass was gone and two fresh drinks sat on the end table, one for each of them.
Dorian was back in his chair, gazing once again into the flames.
“I apologize for the outburst,” he said without looking at her. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Understandable.” Charley sighed and took her seat, pulling the blanket back over her shoulders. It was warm from the fire, the next best thing to a hug. “I dropped a few bombs on you. Nuclear bombs.”
“It had nothing to do with you, and even if it had, that’s not an excuse.” At this, he finally looked at her, his gaze trailing down to her collarbone, where Rudy’s fingerprints still stained her skin. “I know I’ve said things. I know I get… intense. I’m…” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t want you to feel threatened by me. Ever, for any reason.”
Charley sighed, resisting the urge to slip into Dorian’s arms, to curl up against his strong, muscular chest. It was her favorite spot in the world, the place where she’d felt the most safe.
Threatened? How could he even think that?
“I don’t,” she said. “I never have.”
Dorian opened his eyes and met her gaze, but his thoughts were completely veiled.
Waiting for him to speak again, she studied his face, drinking in the honey color of his eyes, his strong jaw, the perfect angle where his neck met his shoulder. She loved that spot—loved kissing it, biting it, nuzzling it, inhaling his clean, masculine scent.
She wondered now—selfishly, but there it was—if he still longed for her kiss as much as she still longed for his.
In that moment, Charley wanted to tell him all the things she’d left out of her confession, the feelings still roiling inside her. Dorian, I’m in love with you too. I can’t imagine my life—however screwed-up—without you. I’m so, so sorry, and I’ll spend forever making it up to you if you’ll just give me another chance…
“I’m out,” she said instead, surprising herself. “No matter what happens, I’m never going back to that life. I swear it, Dorian. I’m done with the con game. Whatever happens between us, I just… I want you to know that.”
His eyes flickered in the firelight, but if he had a response to her latest confession, he wasn’t sharing it.
“There’s something still bothering me about the Rogozin connection,” he said instead. “Vincent Estas.”
Charley nodded. Dorian had told her about Estas last night—the demonic art dealer connected to both the Hermes statue and the LaPorte painting. He worked for Rogozin. It couldn’t have been a coincidence.
“The big heist you told me about,” Dorian said. “When my Hermes and LaPorte were first stolen. I presume it was one of your crew’s schemes?”
“The scheme of all schemes,” Charley said.
She took a deep breath to continue, but the words kept getting stuck, caught in a tight ball at the back of her throat. Like everything else she’d shared with him today, the story of her father’s death was one she’d never spoken aloud. And now, sitting in his butter-soft leather chair, the smoky scent of the fire filling her senses, she had no idea where to begin.
Dorian sighed. “Charlotte, I want to help you and your sister. I will help you. But I need you to be honest with me. No more half-truths and cover-ups, no more sneaking around, no more lies. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
Charley nodded, her eyes filling with tears at the sudden compassion thickening his voice. She didn’t deserve to take comfort in it, but she couldn’t help it. She felt so safe with Dorian, so protected. No matter how badly she’d fucked things up, he was a vampire of his word, and he was going to help her.
Even if he no longer wanted her in his life.
“My father… He was murdered,” she whispered, so softly she wasn’t even sure Dorian had heard. But his eyes changed in an instant, their fierce determination replaced with a deep, dark sadness. It was as though he could literally feel her pain—like she’d blown it away on a breath, only to have it land on his heart.
She shivered at the way he looked at her. At the power of her desire for him, still so real and intense.
Dorian offered no words, just a silence for which Charley was grateful. She didn’t need apologies or sympathy, and Dorian seemed to sense as much.
Charley closed her eyes, trying to put the pieces of the story in order.
It’s the perfect heist, baby girl. You go your whole life looking for a setup like this one, and we got it right here. We fuckin’ got it.
Her father’s words echoed, the memory of his sly smile lancing her heart. He’d been so certain it would go off without a hitch. Bones had officially christened it the One Night Stand—in and out, no strings attached—and the whole crew had pulled together to make it happen. They’d left nothing to chance.
It had been perfect too. Right up until the end.
Now, the more Charley thought about the whys and hows of that final imperfection, the more it confused her. Her father, betraying his own crew? Betraying his daughter without a word of warning? It had never made sense, but Rudy was always so sure. The other guys had been shocked at first, but eventually, they bought into Rudy’s theory too.
Charley had always attributed her own lingering doubts to the haze of grief that had enveloped her after her father’s death, and the fact that she’d been much too close to him in life to see the truth. By the time her head had cleared, Sasha had come into her life, and the past no longer mattered. Only the future.
Sasha’s future.
But now, after five years, it was starting to matter again.
Solving the mystery of the botched heist suddenly felt like the most important thing in the world.
Charley’s mind spun as she reviewed the facts.
Seventy million dollars in stolen art, boosted without a hitch, ferried away in a van that made it all the way through the Holland Tunnel, only to be stolen again somewhere on the Jersey side.
An uncle who’d taken over operations immediately, insisting his own brother had betrayed them.
The art itself vanishing without a trace, then resurfacing years later in the home of Dorian Redthorne—Rudy’s latest mark.
And never another word about the new guy—the one Rudy had walked away from with no talk of retribution, despite the fact that he’d allegedly whacked Rudy’s brother and made off with the score.
In retrospect, it all looked too easy, too neat.
And Vincent Estas—the art dealer who’d sold at least two of the pieces from the missing cache—was a demon working for the same demon connected to a former client whose men had nearly raped and killed Charley.
“Charlotte,” Dorian said softly, bringing her back to the moment. “Tell me what happened to your father, love.”
She opened her eyes, took a steadying gulp of her drink, and started at the beginning.
“It was supposed to be the perfect heist…”
Chapter Thirteen
Fury tore through Dorian’s chest like a blade, threatening to obliterate the last of his composure. He forced himself to remain outwardly calm, but inside was a war zone.
On one side of the battle sat Charlotte’s betrayal—an enemy that had been festering in his heart since last night and had only gotten worse with her confessions.
She’d utterly played him. She’d spun her silky web, and he’d walked right into it. One kiss, one taste of her exquisite flesh, and he was eating out of her hand, ready to believe anything that had passed between her delicate lips. In trusting her, he’d put his entire estate, his closely guarded secrets, and his brothers’ lives on the line.
It wouldn’t happen again. He wouldn’t allow it.
But on the other side of the trenches, an even darker enemy lurked, one whose very name left Dorian shaking with rage: Rudy, the piece-of-shit uncle who’d so brutally marked her. Who’d threatened the lives of Charlotte and her sister. Who’d been doing it—and probably much worse—for years.