This bar is… different.
No flashing lights. No sticky floors or beer-stained menus. Just soft jazz, dim lighting, and a quiet hum of expensive cologne. There's a hush to it, the kind that only exists in places where every bottle costs more than someone's monthly salary.
A dozen men, all suits and silence, sip whiskey and nurse secrets. My con radar pings like a metal detector over buried gold.
This isn't a dive. It's a den.
I slide into a corner booth and scope the room. The checklist in my mind lights up: Rolexes. Solitude. Liquor. No wedding rings.
Perfect.
My eyes land on a man at the bar, half-shadowed and poised. One hand cradles a whiskey glass. A silver watch flashes beneath his cuff. Broad shoulders. Sharp suit. The kind of mark who's either going to fall for me in ten minutes… or bury me in a shallow grave.
I grin.
Time to find out which.
I shove my suitcase under a table near the entrance, take a breath, and head for the bar like I own the damn place. Strutting in boots that weren't made for seduction isn't easy, but I make it work. That's the thing about grifting—you don't need stilettos or a perfect smile. You just need to sell the illusion.
The moment I step into the light of the bar, it's like slipping into an old costume. I don't need a script. I've lived this scene a hundred times before. Some girls chose college; I chose cons. For me, there was no scholarship or savings account—just a talent for reading people and a strong stomach for whiskey I couldn't afford.
Tonight's a performance. My last one. A farewell show before I walk off stage and never look back.
Act One: Pick the mark.
He's already at the bar. Suited, silent, whiskey in hand. Expensive watch. Broad shoulders. Not looking for attention, which makes him perfect. The uninterested ones always are. I don't look his way as I take the seat two over, just toss my coat off my shoulders in that slow, practiced way. My sweater and jeans are tucked away in my purse, and beneath the coat, I'm wearing a stolen green satin dress that fits like I poured myself into it.
I know he notices. I feel it, that invisible flicker of heat brushing my skin. A glance that lands like a spotlight.
I slide into the barstool and flash the bartender a smile. I don't recognize him at first, but after a beat, it clicks. Dan. Davens High. Used to let me copy his physics homework. He recognizes me too, but I give a small shake of my head. Now isn't the time for reunions.
He gets the message and leans in. "What can I get you?"
I glance down at the mark's drink and tilt my chin. "I'll have what he's having."
It lands heavy in the air between us. The silence is sharp enough to slice through bone. Dan clears his throat and reaches for a bottle.
I wait.
This is the part where the guy next to me usually says something smug, something predictable. A tired line about women and whiskey. That's when I'd toss back a line of my own and the dance would begin.
But this guy?
Nothing.
Not a word. Not a look. Just… silence.
My curiosity wins. I turn toward him, ready to adjust the plan, and—Jesus.
He's beautiful. Not just attractive in the conventional way—no, he's got the kind of face that makes you forget your own name. Carved cheekbones, black hair, olive skin, and eyes so green they make emeralds feel self-conscious.
And then he opens his mouth.
"I'm not interested."
I blink. "I'm sorry?"
"Apology accepted."
My lips part, but no sound comes out. He doesn't even look at me. Just unlocks his phone and starts tapping out some corporate email like I'm invisible.
Embarrassment flares hot under my skin. Then annoyance. I've been brushed off before, sure, but never mid-grift. That's like flubbing your lines before Act One even finishes.
"I'm not hitting on you," I mutter.
"Sure."
The smugness in that single syllable scrapes across my nerves. I grit my teeth. "Honestly, I'd rather shit in my hands and clap."
His fingers pause on the screen. He lifts his gaze and catches mine in the mirror behind the bar.
"I'm sorry?"
I arch a brow. "Apology accepted."
There's a beat of silence. Then, he sets his phone down with the precision of a man used to control. "Say that again."
His tone is lazy, almost polite, but it rolls down my spine like thunder on the horizon. I meet his gaze—calm, collected, laced with something dangerous—and I don't flinch.
"I said," I repeat slowly, "I'd rather shit in my hands and clap."
A smile—barely there—tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Is that right?"
"Mm-hmm."
He nods, takes a sip of his drink, and goes back to ignoring me. Just like that.
The bartender slides my whiskey across the counter. I grip the glass and blink down at it.
This was not the plan.
Dan keeps his distance, wisely, but I can feel his eyes flicking toward us. I know he's eavesdropping, and honestly, I don't blame him. This is either a trainwreck or the start of something truly spectacular.
My mark stays silent, his phone lighting up with texts, his thumb never missing a beat. I can't take it. The rejection isn't what stings—it's the fact that he didn't even play the game.
Then, finally, he speaks.
"That whiskey? It's a hundred bucks."
I frown. "A hundred?"
"Not including VAT."
He doesn't even glance my way as he says it. My pride takes a nosedive straight into my stomach. I glance at Dan, who's definitely pretending to clean the bar now, and wonder if I can trade the whiskey for something less humiliating—like tap water.
I hate whiskey, anyway. Always have. But I raise the glass, toast the man beside me, and knock it back like a challenge.
Regret hits instantly. It burns all the way down. My vision blurs, and memories I've buried deep claw their way to the surface. Blood. Screams. The taste of fear and copper. I slam the glass down and suck in a breath that doesn't quite clear the weight pressing on my lungs.
"Don't choke," the man says dryly.
I glare at him through watery eyes. "Why do you care? You said you weren't interested."
He checks the time. "I'm not. That's just what people say when someone's choking."
Dan returns with a glass of water. I gulp it like salvation.
A thick silence settles between us, broken only by jazz floating through the speakers and the sound of his pen scratching across paper. He's already moved on, buried in contracts and spreadsheets.
I should leave. I should cut my losses and get out before I dig myself deeper.
But I don't.
I'm stuck.
Then a man in another suit appears beside him, drops off a stack of folders, mutters something I don't catch, and disappears again.
I glance at the pile of documents. The whiskey. The phone. The confidence. He's clearly important. Probably loaded. Possibly untouchable.
Perfect.
He catches me watching him in the mirror.
"How much?"
I frown. "What?"
"To go away," he says. "How much?"
Anger bubbles up like boiling water. He thinks I'm a street-level hustler. A nuisance. Something to be paid off.
He tosses a few bills on the bar. "That'll cover your drink."
I stare at them.
"Plus VAT?" I ask sweetly.
Another hundred joins the pile.
"Tip?"
A third.
"You're still here," he murmurs, eyes never leaving his document. "Why is that?"
I don't answer. Instead, I slide closer, pressing against the bar at his side. The heat coming off him makes my skin prickle. Slowly, I trail my finger toward his wrist.
"I don't want your money," I whisper. "I want your necklace".
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and the calm in his eyes shifts into something sharp.
"You want my necklace".
I nod.
He laughs once, low and disbelieving. "You're insane."
"Maybe."
He turns back to his work.
I slam my hand down on the paper. "What if I win it?"
He blinks.
"A bet," I clarify. "A game of my choosing."
He studies me. I can see the moment something inside him clicks—the moment the game changes.
"Fine," he says at last, voice like velvet over a blade. "Let's play."
"What's the bet?" he asks, voice smooth enough to sign billion-dollar deals and drop panties in a heartbeat. I smirk. "A game of my choosing."
He strokes his jaw, his cufflink flashing. "Odds?"
"Ten-to-one."
"You made that up."
I shrug, lashes fluttering. "Maybe."
His gaze lingers too long, heat crackling between us—until his phone buzzes. One glance at the screen—Alec—and he murmurs, "Excuse me," before slipping into the shadows, call pressed to his ear.
As soon as he's gone, I grab my water—only to find Dan staring at me, the fake smile gone.
"What?"
He leans in, eyes darting nervously. "Have you been locked up the last three years?"
"Uh… no. Why?"
He jerks his chin toward the hallway. "Because only a lunatic would try to run game on Luciano Kings."
Kings.
Well, shit.