In Milan, you don't just steal. You perform.
The Vanguard Estate was a fortress of white marble and gold leaf, perched high above the city. The air didn't just smell like money; it smelled like history. Deep espresso, expensive leather, and the kind of perfume that cost more than a year's rent in the city below.
Rich men are easy. The richer they are, the dumber they get when a pretty girl smiles at them.
That was my golden rule.
I smoothed the front of my dress. It was a custom piece, dark as wine and cut low enough to make men forget their own names. Tonight, I wasn't Val the runaway. I was Valentina, a bored daughter of the Roman elite.
I moved through the crowd like a shadow.
"Champagne, Signorina?" a waiter asked, bowing slightly.
"Grazie," I murmured, my accent perfect. I'd spent months perfecting the lilt of a girl who had spent her life between Paris and the coast.
I took a sip and scanned the room.
Target one was a shipping mogul from Naples. He was fat, loud, and wore a ring on his pinky that caught every light in the room. He was busy laughing at his own joke, his hand resting heavy on the hip of a girl who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.
I drifted past him. A gentle brush of my shoulder against his, a quick "Scusi," and the ring was gone. I didn't even look back to see the empty space on his hand.
One.
Target two was a banker with a watch that could buy a villa. I played the "clumsy girl" for him, letting him catch me as I slipped. His hands were greasy, but his Patek was flawless. I tucked it into the hidden pocket of my gown before he could even finish his "Prego."
By midnight, my pockets were heavy with the weight of stolen legacies. I should have left then. A pro always knows when the air in the room changes.
But then I saw the terrace.
Away from the violins and the fake laughter, a man stood alone. He wasn't wearing a tuxedo jacket, just a black shirt that fit him like a second skin. He was leaning against the stone railing, a crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand.
He didn't look like a banker or a politician. He looked like the man who owned the bank and the city it sat in. His dark hair was pushed back, and even from the back, his posture was a warning.
He was the "Grand Prize." The kind of man who kept his secrets behind lucked doors.
I took a breath and stepped out onto the terrace. The cold Italian night hit my skin, making the fine hairs on my arms stand up. I put on my best smile—the one that made men feel like they were the only person in the world.
Then I did my clumsy girl move
"Oh, thank you. I'm so clumsy. This floor is a death trap, isn't it?"
"The floor is fine. It's the people walking on it you should be worried about." He whispered
"Is that so? which one are you? Someone I should be worried about, or someone who can buy me a drink?" He let me go to steady myself and continued staring out the Duomo
"The moon over Milano is breathtaking tonight, don't you think?" I said, my voice like silk.
He didn't turn. He didn't even flinch. He just stared out at the lights of the Duomo in the distance.
"The moon is the only thing in this city that doesn't lie, Valentina," he said.
The sound of my name—my real name—sent a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the wind. His voice was low, and dangerous.
"How do you—"
"Go ahead," he interrupted, finally turning around. His eyes were like cold steel, cutting through my mask in a heartbeat. He didn't look at my face first. He looked at my hands. "Tell me how the ring and the watch ended up in your dress before I decide whether to throw you off this balcony or keep you."