Chapter One
“Caviar, miss?” The starchy waiter blocks my path through the milling crowd, thrusting the silver tray forward.
I made the mistake of accepting once. It was my first assignment for Korsakov, and I was nervous, eager to blend into my high-society surroundings, so I accepted the ceramic spoon of tiny black balls that other guests were flocking toward like ducks to strewn bread. It took every ounce of my strength to force the slippery mouthful down my throat.
Offering a curt head shake as I snake past him, I head to the bar in the corner. My heart beats with the steady rush of adrenaline that always accompanies me on these nights. “French 75,” I order, settling in to survey the landscape of lavish floral topiaries and designer dresses. Precious jewels wink at me from every angle. For a charity event intended to raise funds to combat hunger, it’s ironic that the amount of money hanging off wrists and encircling fingers could likely feed the country’s starving for years.
These people have no clue how the other side lives, but they’ll take any opportunity to pat themselves on the back for a good deed while sipping their flutes of Moët & Chandon.
My mark stands twenty feet away, the black tuxedo he chose for tonight flattering on his trim stature, his graying hair freshly cut during his afternoon visit to the gentlemen’s club on 57th. He smiles as he watches the violinist draw her needle across the taut string, weaving a haunting tune. To the unaware, it would appear he is merely a connoisseur of fine classical music. I’ve been casing him for the last few weeks, though, and I know better.
The young musician’s eyes are closed, lost in the melody, but in between each piece, she always makes a point of meeting his steady gaze and adjusting herself in her seat, as if she can’t bear the wait until she can straddle his lap in the SoHo apartment he rents for her later tonight.
How his wife, standing ten feet away, hasn’t picked up on her husband’s taste for the doe-eyed college student, I do not understand. Or maybe she has and considers it a fair trade-off for their Upper Eastside life and the digits in her bank account.
“It is a lovely instrument, no?” A female voice laced with a smooth accent fills my ear.
“Hmm.” I hum my agreement but otherwise pay the woman no heed. I don’t talk to people while I’m working. Conversation leaves a trace, which leads to a trail, and trails that lead to me could end in a visit to the bottom of the Hudson River with a concrete block tied to my ankles.
I collect my drink, noting with disdain the smudge of graphite on my index finger. I did a poor job of washing my hands after my art class, but that is unimportant. What is important is moving to a safer vantage spot, one where no one feels compelled to talk to the solo woman by the bar.
“What is it that Viggo Korsakov is paying you to steal from that man?”
I freeze. A sinking feeling hits my gut as I turn to meet the owner of such a careless and dangerous statement. A striking woman with emerald eyes and hair the color of a freshly minted penny watches me intently. She’s unfamiliar to me. I’ve never seen her at one of these events before, and she is someone I’d remember.
It takes me a few heartbeats to gather my wits and plaster on a baffled look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her painted red lips twist in a knowing smile, as if she can hear the alarms blaring inside my head. But then she dips her chin. “I must have mistaken you for someone else.”
“Yeah. Definitely.” I shrug it off with a wooden laugh while I steal a glance around. Whoever this woman is, she’s polished and regal, and attracting curious looks from every direction. She’s the last person I should be standing next to tonight while I’m trying to remain unnoticed. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“Was it not you who took that diamond necklace at the gala in the summer?” She leans in to whisper conspiratorially, her eyes flickering with mischief. “I heard you plucked it off that woman’s neck without her notice.”
My heart hammers in my chest as I struggle to school my expression. That heist made headlines here in Manhattan. She could be guessing. “Sorry, no.”
Her brow pinches. “And was it not you who made off with that actress’s million-dollar diamond bracelet last spring?”
“Who the hell are you?” I can’t keep the shake from my voice. That she would peg me for the Cartier robbery in Chicago is far too coincidental. She can’t be a cop. Korsakov has too many of them in his pocket for us to not hear about an investigation.
Her head falls back with husky laughter. “I am not with the authorities, if that is what you are thinking. I am, how do you say … an admirer?”
She’s crazy, is what she is. And she speaks oddly, like she belongs in another era. “I’m flattered, but you’ve got the wrong girl.” I down half my drink as I scan the ballroom for the two security guards on Korsakov’s payroll. They’re supposed to be within a head-nod’s reach in case of emergency, but they’re nowhere to be seen.
As much as I want to run, I need to know how big a threat this woman is to me. Leaning into the bar, I match her coolness. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Sofie,” she offers without hesitation. Fake, I’m sure. But even fake names can become real if they’re used enough. Everyone on the street knows me only as Tee, short for Tarryn—the name of a grifter I met at a shelter when I was fifteen. She took me under her wing and taught me how to steal and not get caught. At first, it was food, books, clothes—necessities. Eventually, that turned to nail polish and hoop earrings, and then wallets stuffed with credit cards and cash. When Tarryn got busted for grand theft auto and locked away, I assumed her identity.
But I’ll play along with this act. “So, do you live in New York, Sofie?”
“No. My husband and I reside in Belgium presently. It has been some time since I’ve been here. Almost a decade, I believe.” A tiny smirk curls her lips. “Elijah has yet to visit this city of yours, but I imagine he would be beguiled by it.” She takes a long, leisurely sip of her wine. If she was at all wary or nervous about approaching me tonight, it doesn’t show. Every inch of her exudes fearless confidence. Normally, I would envy that.
Now, I’m deeply unnerved.
The violin music has ended. The brunette musician is in the corner, tucking her instrument into its case. Nearby, my mark is in conversation with another man, but the frequent glances at his watch tell me he’s trying to cut away. I’m going to miss my window if I don’t make a move soon, and I cannot miss this one.
“What would you say if I offered you double what your employer is paying you for tonight?”
Sofie startles me yet again, pulling my attention back to her. It’s pointless to keep denying that I’m the thief she has pegged me for. Someone has been feeding her solid intel, and I’ll get more information out of her if I play along. “And what is it you think I’m going to steal?”