Chapter -1 The Heist
The rain hammered against the penthouse windows as Detective Maya Reeves pressed herself against the marble column, her Glock 19 steady in her hands. Behind her, the city sparkled like scattered jewels—beautiful, deadly, indifferent.
"NYPD! Come out with your hands up!"
Silence answered her. Only the storm's fury and her own thundering heartbeat.
She'd been tracking the Ghost for three years. Three years of dead ends, cold leads, and crime scenes too clean to be real. The most prolific art thief in New York history, responsible for over fifty million in stolen goods. And tonight, finally, she had him cornered.
A shadow moved in the darkness.
Maya spun, weapon raised—and froze.
The man standing before her was nothing like she'd imagined. Mid-thirties, sharp jawline, dark eyes that gleamed with dangerous intelligence. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, not a drop of rain on him despite the open skylight above.
"Detective Reeves." His voice was smooth as aged whiskey. "I was wondering when you'd catch up."
"Hands where I can see them, slowly."
He complied, smiling like this was all a game. "You're making a mistake."
"The only mistake was you getting sloppy." Maya's eyes flicked to the canvas propped against the wall—Monet's Water Lilies, stolen from the Met two nights ago. "You're under arrest for—"
The penthouse exploded.
Not literally—but close enough. Armed men in tactical gear burst through every entrance, automatic weapons raised. Not NYPD. Not even close.
"GET DOWN!" the lead operative shouted.
Maya's training kicked in. She dove behind a marble counter as gunfire erupted, shattering priceless artwork and crystal chandeliers. Her mind raced. Who were these people?
Strong hands grabbed her, yanking her sideways. The Ghost—his body covering hers as bullets tore through the space where she'd been standing.
"What the hell—" she gasped.
"Bratva," he hissed, pulling her toward a hidden doorway. "Russian mob. They're not here for the painting."
"I'm not going anywhere with you!"
"Then you'll die in the next thirty seconds. Your choice, Detective."
Another spray of gunfire made the decision for her.
They ran.
The Ghost knew the building like his own mind—every corridor, every secret passage. Maya's cop instincts screamed at her to resist, but survival won out. They burst onto a service stairwell, footsteps thundering behind them.
"Why are the Russians after you?" Maya demanded between breaths.
"Not me." He vaulted over a railing, landing on the floor below with catlike grace. "You."
"What?"
"Your father, Detective. He took something that belonged to them. And now they want it back."
Maya's blood ran cold. Her father had been dead for five years—killed in what was ruled a random mugging. "You're lying."
"I wish I was." They burst onto the roof. Rain lashed at them as he pulled out a grappling gun. "Your father was deep undercover, investigating the Bratva's diamond smuggling operation. He disappeared with evidence that could bring down their entire network."
"How do you know—"
He wrapped an arm around her waist, and she realized what he was about to do.
"Wait, don't you dare—"
They jumped.
The grappling line sang as they swung across the gap between buildings, landing hard on the adjacent rooftop. Maya's ears rang, her body pressed against his from the impact.
For one breathless moment, their eyes locked. Rain streamed down his face, and she saw something unexpected there—not the cold calculation of a criminal, but genuine fear.
"Who are you really?" she whispered.
"Someone who's been trying to finish your father's mission." He released her, stepping back. "And someone who's about to make you the most wanted woman in New York."
Before she could respond, he pulled out a small device and pressed it. Back at the penthouse, something detonated—a controlled explosion that would destroy evidence but leave the building standing.
"You just made me an accessory!" Maya's hand went to her gun, but he was already moving toward the fire escape.
"Your father hid the evidence somewhere. The Bratva thinks you know where." He paused, looking back at her. "They'll torture you for information you don't have, then kill you anyway. Or..."
"Or what?"
"Or you work with me. We find the evidence together, expose the Bratva, and clear both our names."
"I don't even know your real name!"
He smiled—dangerous, devastating. "Dante Cross. And for what it's worth, Detective..." His eyes softened. "I'm sorry about your father. He was a good man."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the rain and shadows.
Maya stood alone on the rooftop, sirens wailing in the distance, her entire world turned upside down. She should call it in. Should report everything.
Instead, she looked at the business card he'd somehow slipped into her pocket.
A phone number. Nothing else.
She had forty-eight hours before Internal Affairs started asking questions about the explosion. Forty-eight hours to decide if she trusted a master thief over her own department.
Maya pulled out her phone and dialed.
He answered on the first ring.
"I'm in," she said. "But if you're lying to me—"
"You'll arrest me yourself. I know." She could hear the smile in his voice. "Meet me at the warehouse on Pier 47. Midnight. Come alone."
The line went dead.
Maya looked out at the glittering city, rain mixing with something else on her cheeks. Her father's face flashed through her mind—his laugh, his pride when she'd joined the force, his secrets.
"I'm going to find the truth, Dad," she whispered. "No matter what it costs."
She had no idea she'd just made a deal with the devil.
Or that she was already falling for him.