Day in the story: 9th September (Tuesday)
It was supposed to be easy. A clean job. In and out, no mess. But nope—here I was, three seconds away from getting caught. Classy, right?
The party? High society nonsense. An auction. Glimmering dresses, fake smiles, champagne flutes clinking like bad jazz. Just a bunch of rich folks throwing money at glitter and calling it culture—at least, that's how she pitched it. "Easy pickings," she said. "No heat." Yeah? Well, guess who showed up? The FBI. And the City's Mob. Both. At the same damn time. I mean, seriously—what are the odds?
Can't a girl get one night off from cosmic irony?
Anyway—name's Alexandra May. Though if you ask the guy who hired me, I'm Jess Hare. Little nod to Jessica Rabbit, if you're into that kind of thing. I've always loved rabbits—clever little survivors, fast on their feet and impossible to pin down. At the party, though? I was waitress Claudia. Tight blonde bun, fake accent, trays of overpriced drinks. You get the picture.
Here's the thing: I didn't exactly choose to become a thief. Life sort of... nudged me. But I did make one clear decision—I wasn't gonna be the same person while doing it. Different name, different face, different story every time. It helps, you know? Keeps the lines blurry between who I am and who I have to be.
However, as I mentioned, I was about three seconds away from getting caught—and I'd like to return to that moment to explain. There was this lady—Eveline de Marco—whose necklace I "borrowed" while she was in the toilet. Apparently, she's from those de Marcos. I didn't even know that was a thing until the rest of them showed up, all sharp suits and heavier shadows. And Mr. De Marco? Yeah, a couple of FBI agents—dressed like someone's idea of "blend in"—were not-so-subtly hinting he's some mid-level mafia boss.
Perfect. Just fucking great.
Anyway, the theft itself? Surprisingly easy. Like I said, I got into the ladies' restroom through a little maneuver earlier—I'd opened the window ahead of time, assuming she'd need to pee eventually. Guess I wasn't wrong.
There were guards posted, sure. But I slipped right past by using the men's room instead, climbed out the window, and swung back in through the one I'd prepped. No alarms, no drama. Just me and a little bit of luck.
She was surprisingly nice, Eveline. Real talkative. Seemed like she actually gave a damn. I spun her this story about being bullied by the other staff—told her I was hiding in there, crying, just trying to make it through the night. And you know what? She bought it. Hugged me, even. Real warm. The kind that makes you forget, just for a second, what you're really doing there.
And when she let go? The necklace didn't come with her.
She didn't notice—until about three seconds ago.
I saw her do it—one hand stroking her neck, the other pointing right in my direction. Could she be any more obvious? It was like she was starring in her own mob drama.
That was my cue. I wasn't sticking around to find out what little tale she spun for the goons in suits. I turned straight toward the kitchen, ready to vanish.
"Excuse me. Where the hell do you think you're going, Claudia?"
Ugh. Him.
My shift supervisor for the night—official title: waiter-in-chief; unofficial one: professional dick. I sometimes wondered if he got hazard pay for being that consistently insufferable.
"You're excused," I shot back, cool as ice.
That alone made his eyebrows knot like he'd smelled something bad, but I wasn't done. I'd been waiting for this moment.
"I need to head to the kitchen. I heard your balls might be there."
Boom. The look on his face? Worth every second. He snapped like a mousetrap—quick, loud, all teeth and temper. Lunged at me like he actually thought he could stop me.
But I'm small—5'5" compared to his 6'2"—and faster than I look. I ducked under his grab and slipped past him like I'd done it a dozen times before. He stumbled, still fuming, making just enough of a scene to draw attention and chaos.
Which to be honest, worked in my favor.
Or at least, that's what I thought.
I shoved through the big double doors like I had every right to, and just like that—I was in the kitchen. Chaos. Controlled, overheated, slightly frantic - chaos. A dozen cooks barking at each other, pots clanging, steam rising. At least twenty other waiters and waitresses rushed around in the same black-and-white getup I had on. And just like me? Every single one looked like they had somewhere more important to be.
I weaved through them like I was stitching my own getaway into the fabric of the room. Smooth, fast, not drawing too much attention but never slowing down. Near the far end, I spotted it—a second door leading out to the delivery lane. Perfect.
I pushed through it just as the kitchen doors behind me flung open again. Someone was hot on my heels—either Mr. Dick from hell or the mafia muscle. Maybe both.
No time to find out.
The second I was outside, I ripped down the zipper on that ridiculous dress. Underneath, I had on a tight black sports suit—sleek, silent, and made for running. Tucked into the lining was a tiny hidden pouch, and inside it? Eveline's necklace, still warm from where I'd slipped it off her neck. I bolted.
The alley was too bright for comfort, lit up like a stage I never auditioned for. I didn't make it more than thirty meters before three guys in sharp suits stepped into view, right at the mouth of the exit.
Fantastic. There went escape route number one.
I didn't hesitate. Jumped, planted a foot against the brick wall, launched myself up, and grabbed the loose end of a fire escape. My fingers caught metal, rough and cold. I hauled myself up and started climbing like the building owed me something.
Below, I could hear my pursuers yelling—more than just the first batch now. The ones who'd tailed me from the party linked up with the suited trio and were stacking up, trying to reach the fire escape. Idiots. But persistent ones.
By the time I reached the rooftop, my lungs were burning and the wind bit harder, but I didn't stop to celebrate. I was too high up to be sure, but I'd bet good money some of those new arrivals down there were FBI, trying to figure out what the hell just hit their joint operation.
And me? I was still not caught.
Yet.
Of course, my luck hadn't been entirely on my side up until now. A lot of it was because I'd been here before, scouting every inch of this roof before I even accepted the job. Multiple escape routes. That's how I roll. But even the best prep can go sideways.
And yeah, I could feel it—my luck was about to turn.
I sprinted across the roof, leaping over vents and dodging steel rods—God knows what they were even for, but they weren't slowing me down. The other end of the roof was coming up fast. I reached it, jumped, pulled myself over onto a higher wall, and from there, vaulted myself to the next building. I landed in a roll to absorb the impact, my feet finding the ground quickly so I could keep running.
And then I froze.
Two figures stood against the edge, their pistols aimed right at me.
"Freeze!"
Of course. Law enforcement. Great. The FBI must've set up snipers on this roof, just in case things went south. And guess what? My luck? Definitely south.
I raised my hands, staying calm, scanning the roof quickly. These guys weren't chasing me—they were just there to observe the gala. If things got real, they'd take the shot. But they hadn't made any moves to secure the roof or anything—thankfully, because I saw the rope. My escape rope, still coiled up against the other edge, one end fastened to a metal pipe sticking out of the building.
I didn't have time to second-guess myself. I had a route. I just needed to get to it.
"Move away from the edge!" another shout. "Come closer to me!"
Why all the shouting? I could hear them just fine if they spoke like normal human beings.
"I can hear you, man," I said, way softer than he did, easing toward the center of the roof. But I pivoted—subtly—toward the rope. My plan was still alive: bail as soon as the goons showed up on the roof I'd just jumped from. But I needed to stay free until then. No cuffs, no tight corners.
The guy approaching me had his pistol leveled at what I guessed was either my chest or head—it was hard to tell from my angle. His partner had already settled back in at the edge, rifle braced and ready. Two pairs of eyes on me. Could've been worse. Still, I needed their attention to shift, even just a little. A glance. A thought. Something.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," I said, soft and sweet, sliding into my innocent-girl act like it was custom-made. "I was just practicing parkour. I didn't know anyone would be up here. Usually no one is."
Voice light. Shoulders tucked. Eyes wide. My body language did most of the talking.
He didn't lower the gun, but I saw the tension slip from his shoulders. That was something. A maybe. A thread.
"Why are you running around at night? You're not supposed to be up here," he said. "Come over. I'll call someone to pick you up."
That told me something. If he was serious about calling it in, then maybe I was wrong about the FBI joining the mob downstairs. These two definitely hadn't been briefed on anything happening.
I was still piecing that together when I heard the footsteps—fast, heavy—hitting the edge of the roof behind me. The agent noticed them too, glanced over.
That was all I needed.
I bolted, slipping behind a rooftop service hatch for cover. My feet barely stopped moving—I dropped, slid across the surface, grabbed the end of my rope, rolled toward the edge, clipped it to the hook on my belt, and jumped.
Shots rang out behind me—sharp cracks slicing through the air—but they missed, I think. Maybe.
Thing is, you don't always feel the hit right away. Not when adrenaline's in the driver's seat. It keeps your body going long past the point where you should stop. I knew that from experience—unfortunately.
But I was still moving. And as long as I was moving, I wasn't caught.
Yet.
The rope ended right where I'd measured it—just short of the open window of an abandoned apartment. Not a perfect line, though. I had to shimmy across the ledge a bit to reach it, since I couldn't hook the rope in a straight drop.
As I slid sideways along the building's skin, I heard someone—probably rooftop guy—hit the edge behind me. Then came more shouting, probably the agents arguing with the mob muscle. A few shots fired. Lovely. Just keeps getting better, doesn't it?
Then came the sirens. Red-and-blue lights started to paint the street below, and the soundtrack? As shrill and grating as you'd expect.
I finally made it to the window, unclipped the rope, and slipped inside. Dusty air, peeling wallpaper, and a musty silence welcomed me—my kind of temporary haven. I headed straight for the old dresser I'd stashed clothes in earlier and pulled out my casual wear: a worn T-shirt, faded jeans, and a jacket with a hand-painted iceberg on the back. Forgot to mention—when I'm not swiping necklaces or dodging bullets, I'm an art student. Big-time enthusiast. Life costs money, though, and it turns out "starving artist" isn't as romantic when you're actually starving. No family. No trust fund. Just hustle.
I tossed the blonde wig into the drawer like it personally offended me. My own hair—short, brown, and wavy—finally breathed. A swipe of makeup remover erased the sugary-sweet blonde mask I'd painted on earlier. My freckles came back. So did my real eyes, once the blue contacts were out—hazel, sharp, and mine.
I slipped on a baseball cap, slung a small purse over my shoulder, swapped the waitress shoes for my worn-in sneakers, and stepped into the hallway—just another nobody in the city.
I moved fast. The more chaotic this whole situation got, the higher the odds I'd run into something I hadn't prepared for. And considering how many things had already gone sideways in record time, I wasn't feeling lucky.
I hit the stairwell and dropped down a level. Then another. Just two more and I'd be clear—except no, of course not. Five cops were already storming up. Probably backup for whatever mess was unfolding on the roof. Would they let me go if I played innocent? Maybe. But most likely, I'd end up cuffed and questioned, and that was something I planned to avoid at all costs.
I ducked into the hallway on this floor and ran toward the opposite end. That's when an old man opened his door to peek out, no doubt curious about the ruckus. He could be my undoing… or my shot at disappearing. Well, no reward without risk.
"Excuse me, good man," I said in my smoothest, sultriest tone.
"What do you want?" he barked, squinting at me through a mess of greasy hair.
"I'm a working girl. Was called here by someone a few floors up, but with the cops showing up…" I let the sentence hang suggestively. "If you let me in, I'll give it to you for free."
He was maybe fifty, wearing a stained T-shirt stretched over a generous belly, and house slippers. But his eyes lit up like a teenager's. Poor guy. Still had a full head of hair though—good for him, I guess.
"Free? For real?" he asked, sucking in his gut.
I nodded and smiled sweetly.
"Come in then!" he grinned, opening the door wider. I slipped inside fast, and he locked it behind us.
His apartment was the disaster I expected—three crusty plates on the table, garbage near the couch, and some old soap opera blaring on the TV. A single naked bulb swung from the ceiling like it was contemplating ending it all. Mood matched mine.
"How do you wanna do this?" he asked, already pulling off his shirt.
I sighed. "However you like, honey. But I'd love it if you took a shower first, okay?"
I crossed to the window and peeked out—no fire escape. Just the main street, two cop cars, flashing lights, and a couple officers standing around.
"Sure, whatever you like, babe!" he said, enthusiasm almost making me pity him.
"You need a little help getting it ready?" I asked, playing the part.
"What do you mean?"
"I've got a Viagra. Makes everything better, sweetie." I smiled wide.
He hesitated, insecurity flashing across his face.
"Eh... sure, babe."
I pulled the little blue pill from my purse—a fast-acting sedative disguised as Viagra—and handed it over. He popped it dry, no hesitation. Perfect. He'd be out in two minutes, tops.
"Take your shower, handsome. I'll be waiting."
He grinned and shuffled off. I checked my watch. One minute later, he was back, still towel-damp, walking a little too straight. Okay, unexpected. But I played along, led him toward the bed in the corner, helped him lie down all seductive-like—and, right on cue, he was out cold.
I tossed a blanket over him and turned just in time to hear a knock.
I crept to the door and peeked through the peephole. Cops. Of course.
I opened the door slowly.
"Good evening, ma'am. May we check your apartment? We're searching for a suspect," said one, polite but firm.
"Sure," I said with a smile. "But my boyfriend's sleeping." I gestured toward the snoring lump in the bed. "Heavy sleeper. Please try not to wake him?"
The officer nodded and did a quick sweep—tiny place, just a bathroom, kitchenette, and the mess of a main room. He seemed satisfied, nodded again, and started to leave.
"Mind if I head out?" I asked.
He paused, turning back. "Bit hectic out there, ma'am. Incident at the auction house nearby. We're locking things down. Where are you going?"
"Downtown. I've got a shift. Boss is a jerk, I'll catch hell if I'm late."
I gave him my best pitiful shrug. He cracked a smile.
"I get it. Rick!" he called down the hallway. "Escort this lady downstairs and come back up."
A loud sigh echoed from somewhere—poor Rick, probably stuck with everyone's grunt work. He appeared anyway, young and already tired of life, and led me toward the exit.
The chaos outside had only gotten worse. Fire trucks screamed toward the auction house, more squad cars flooding in, ambulances pulling up—whatever had gone down over there, it was way bigger than a missing necklace.
Rick explained the situation to another officer near the barricade. They waved me through.
I kept walking, calm, casual. A block away, my getaway driver should've been waiting. Time to disappear again.
I walked up to one of the parked cars, adjusting the side mirror until it pointed right at my face. I pulled out my makeup kit from my purse, steadying my hands as I began to work. My usual round face was too soft, too recognizable—no, I needed sharp angles, more defined. I made my skin fairer, erasing every freckle, and I darkened the brows a touch, turning them redder, more dramatic. My eyes widened, creating that look of innocent allure, and then a nice strong swipe of red lipstick—bold and sultry, the perfect finishing touch to make my lips look fuller.
The final transformation came with the red wig, which I slid on effortlessly. In minutes, Jess Hare was born, from the inside out.
I reached into my now much emptier purse and put the necklace there—a thing of beauty. Pearls with silver linings, shaped like a dragon cradling its precious white eggs. I tucked it carefully inside the purse, just in reach of the paralyzer hidden at the bottom. I always kept it close, just in case my usual ploy didn't work. It never hurt to be prepared for the unexpected.
I rushed toward the car—my ride, though I'd never worked with this guy before. He was someone my employer had arranged, keeping my natural face a secret. He was supposed to get me out of trouble if things went sideways, and judging by how the night had been going, it seemed I could really use his help.
The black Camaro was parked, the window rolled down, and the faint smell of smoke wafted out. Ugh—God, I hated the smell. And the dark, completely blacked-out windows at the back didn't help either. It made me feel trapped, unsafe. I immediately pivoted, intending to keep my distance—no more than twenty feet from the car. But before I could turn away completely, I heard a voice.
"Get inside, thief."
The word thief hissed from his lips, like it was the dirtiest thing in the world. Great. To make matters worse, he pressed a gun to my stomach. Damn it. I had no choice now. I turned, resigned, and moved toward the car. He opened the door and shoved me inside.
Well, so much for my escape. Not the mob, not the FBI, not the cops—but the guy who hired me. Damn, Lex. You've got to stay more vigilant, girl.
The guy with the gun slid in next to me, and the driver started the car, merging into light nighttime traffic. The gun never wavered, pointed right at me the entire time.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.
"Boss wants the necklace right away." The gunman's words were flat, cold. He was a well-built guy, dressed casually in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a brown jacket.
"What necklace?" I played dumb, hoping to buy some time.
"Don't play dumb," he snapped. So much for that tactic. "We saw the fallout from your escape. You've got it, right?"
I raised my hands in mock surrender. "Let me check, I might've lost it on the way." I reached for my purse. He watched me closely, eyes narrowed, gun still trained on me, but the safety was still on. A rookie mistake.
"Don't do anything stupid, or I'll shoot you right here."
"Sure, sure," I said, my voice almost too calm. I reached into the purse, slowly, deliberately. When I pulled out the necklace, I held it up for him to see. His eyes lit up for a moment, the tension in his posture easing. Then, with the other hand, I drew the paralyzer, just out of his sight.
In one swift motion, I jabbed the prongs into his left arm, unleashing a burst of electricity. His body jerked as the current shot through him. He dropped the gun, his body spasming from the shock. The driver glanced around in time for me to slam the butt of the paralyzer into his temple, using all the force I had.
The car swerved violently as the driver lost control, the tires screeching against the pavement. We slammed against the railing, the car tumbling and rolling off the grass sidewalk, until we finally collided with a tree.
I braced myself, my body small and compact, buckled up and ready for the impact. I tightened my grip on the front seat, and the crash hit.
When the world finally stopped spinning, I unbuckled my seatbelt, feeling bruised but thankful that I'd emerged relatively unscathed. I grabbed the gun from the unconscious man's lap and quickly exited the wrecked car, tucking the necklace back into my hidden pocket.
I hobbled away from the wreck, making for the nearest pedestrian crossing. Cars on the main road had already stopped, drivers stepping out, craning their necks to see what the hell had just happened. Phones were out—no doubt someone was calling the authorities already.
That's why the gunshot caught me completely off guard.
The crack split the air, and I felt the bullet whistle past my ear. I dropped instantly, ducking behind the tree I'd just passed. Screams erupted from the bystanders as they bolted for cover, jumping back into their cars and slamming doors.
The driver. He'd woken up. And apparently, he'd decided that I wasn't worth keeping alive.
I peeked from behind the trunk. There were more trees ahead of me, lining the road, but reaching them would mean running—something I couldn't manage in my current state. My legs trembled with the adrenaline crash, pain blooming across my side. I scanned the area, trying to assess my options.
To the left: another road, sloped slightly upward—out of reach.
Ahead: the pedestrian crossing, about thirty feet away. Too far.
My hand brushed over the pistol I'd taken—safety still on. I clicked it off, the small red dot glowing like a warning light.
I didn't want to kill him. But if it came down to him or me, I knew who I'd choose.
I heard his steps coming closer—slow, uneven. He was limping too. We matched in that way. For a few seconds, it was just the soft crunch of his shoes on the grass, then... nothing.
I waited, holding my breath.
A muffled grunt. A thud. Silence.
I dared a quick glance and then another, longer one. He was down, collapsed in the grass, pistol just out of reach. One hand clutched his side, his shirt soaked with blood. The grass around him was already turning a dark red.
I approached slowly, kicked the gun away with one foot, then checked his pulse. Faint, but there. He wasn't dead. Not yet.
Good. I wasn't looking to add murder to my résumé tonight.
I didn't wait. I turned and made for the crossing, limping across just as the wail of sirens split the night air. The cops had arrived.
I melted between the buildings and slipped away, heading for the metro. Each step hurt like hell, but I was still moving. Still breathing. Still free.
--
I reached my apartment about an hour and a half later. The limp had eased up a little, but I still took the elevator—no way I was tackling stairs after tonight. It was just past 1 AM when I quietly unlocked the door. I didn't want to wake my roommates.
I lived with Peter and Sophie. Peter and I went way back—we met in the orphanage as kids and became siblings in everything but blood. Sophie came into the picture in high school. Somehow, all three of us ended up at the same university.
Peter got in on a scholarship—he ruled the swimming pool like he'd been born in water. Sophie's parents were loaded, so tuition was never a problem for her. As for me... I got in the only way I could. Sticky fingers and a talent for slipping through cracks. Only Peter knew the full truth about that part of me.
Of course he wasn't sleeping—Peter never did when he knew I was out on a job, even if I told him, it was just waitressing. He sat on the couch, the sharp lines of his jaw lit by the cold blue glow of his phone screen. As soon as he saw me, he stood up without a word and helped me sit down, careful with how I moved.
"Lex," he said, voice low but firm, "what the hell happened at the auction house? I kept calling, but then I found your phone in your room."
Right. I had told him I'd be working the gala—just another catering gig, nothing special. No mention of Jess Hare or my 'hobby.' But the second he saw the red wig and that face I painted on, he knew.
"What are they saying?" I asked, pulling the wig off and tossing it to the side.
"The news is calling it a shootout—mafia and the police. Apparently, they were after some mob boss who dipped early. There's mention of a fire starting in the kitchen too." He paused. "You involved in any of that?"
I leaned back, exhaling. "I might've heard some shots... and yeah, some of that might have been my fault." No point in lying to Peter. He never lied to me.
"Damn," he muttered, already filling the kettle. "You okay? You look like hell."
"I had an unexpected roller-coaster ride out of a moving car."
He shot me a look but kept silent. We both came from hard places—he knew the value of silence when words couldn't fix anything. He'd been lucky lately with his swimming; all that hard work finally paying off.
"I'll be fine by tomorrow," I said, even if that was a stretch. Of course, that also depended on whether the guy who sent me into this whole mess wasn't planning to tie up loose ends.
I felt bruised, battered, and exhausted—and it seemed the price would be paid in a different currency than I'd anticipated. Still, all things considered, it had been a solid night.
Ten out of ten.
Would not recommend.