Panic welled in my chest when I found Girardo’s stool empty. His scent of aftershave and lust still lingered. I scanned the room.
There. By the elevator. His fat fingers teased the hem of her barely-there skirt as he held the woman against the wall. His back was turned to me. Her face was buried in his chest.
I set my glass down on the counter with enough cash to cover the tip. Then I stalked forward. Silent steps came naturally, even in six-inch heels, even on the buffed marble floor. It didn’t matter. The couple was so engrossed in their pre-coital connection, I could have shifted into an elephant and trumpeted and they wouldn’t have noticed.
Stealth was my thing, so I stuck to it. A flick of the wrist, and I slid the keycard from Girardo’s pocket without missing a stride. Before the elevator doors opened, I was halfway up the stairwell.
A stark contrast to the noisy luxury of the lobby, the stairwell was cold, concrete, and quiet. Thick stone walls buffered the noise from below. The floors above were quieter, filled with lavish, empty rooms belonging to the rich gamblers who threw their money away in the first-floor casino. Girardo’s room was six fifty-three. High enough to make escape from the window difficult. Also far enough from the security that swarmed in the casino that if I happened to be caught, it would take time for them to arrive.
At the entry to the sixth floor, I stopped and listened through the thick, metal door. Heavy footsteps accompanied the dragging sound of rubber wheels on carpet, and the gentle clink of glass on metal. A food cart. Metal jingled, keys fumbled on an overfilled ring. The ding of the elevator. A gentle moan, a rustle of fabric. They were here.
“Come.” The voice was deep, his accent heavy. The woman giggled, wobbly footsteps following just behind his heavy, steady set.
As the minutes passed, I waited silently behind the door.
“Where is it?” Girardo growled.
“Let’s go in,” the woman said. “I’m ready. I want you now—”
“My keycard,” he said. “It’s fucking missing.”
“Forget it,” she said. “Let’s go to my room.”
“I’ll have to go to the desk—”
“Please,” she begged. “I’ve waited too long already.”
Again the rustle of fabric. The slobbery smacking of lips. The wheels of the cart and footfalls of the bellhop sped past.
“Yeah,” Girardo said, voice rough as gravel.
Moments later, the elevator dinged once again. And they were gone.
I moved. My window of opportunity was limited. Salvatore Girardo was likely a ten minute ride at best. As soon as he was done, he’d be back.
I glided through the hall as if I belonged there, past the cleaning lady. Six fifty-three. I used the keycard and stepped inside. The suite was covered in shades of cream, from honey-hued hardwood to the white chaise lounge. Even the bricks around the fireplace were marbled white and sand. There was an ivory grand piano and dozens of white roses. The only vibrant color to be seen was beyond the hotel walls, though through the dark, night sky, the beauty was diminished. Dark waves rippled just beyond the open glass doors to the balcony. The same view in daylight was cerulean and azure. The decor was what I had expected. As was the location of the safe—just behind the ornate mirror next to the bed.
One of the benefits of being a shifter was the enhanced hearing. I’d never met another thief who could hear the subtle clicks of the combination lock as it turned without using a tool kit. For me it was easy. I was born for this. The lock clicked in place, popping the safe door open. Inside was a stack of cash, and more importantly, the Vandervelt brooch I’d hoped for. That one little piece would not only feed me at the finest restaurants for the next five years, but afford my entire lifestyle and whims. The rumors were true. It was here, cold and heavy in my palm.
The thrill of success clouded my brain. But not enough to overpower their scent. Wolves. Shit. They were close. Why did it have to be wolves?
Before I could react, a sharp, stabbing pain pierced the back of my neck. I turned, ready to fight, ready to run. But the world spun. The room swirled in a foggy… unfocused…
Shoes, black dress shoes. Salvatore ‘The Weasel’ Girardo stood over me. The woman beside him looked terrified, her lip bloody, her wrists tied. Suit-wearing goons filed in around Girardo. Blackness shrunk my field of vision. Twinkling away. Something else, a feeling to replace everything else. Dread. Nothingness.
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Keyboard ninja, late-blooming bibliophile, proud geek, animal lover, eternal optimist, visual artist.
Keira Blackwood writes steamy paranormal romance full of suspense, action, and a dash of humor. No cheating. No cliffhangers. Always a happily-ever-after ending.
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In Deep Shift: The Protectors Unlimited Book Three Page 14