I didn't want to pick up the call. In my world, a 3:00 AM phone call never brought good news.
"Speak," I whispered.
"The De Rossi vault," the voice on the other end crackled. It was my handler, a man who traded in secrets and misery. "How long will it take for you to get me the ledger and a prototype inside? Steal them. And while you're inside the estate, you have a secondary objective. Terminate the heir. Kill Lucien De Rossi."
My heart stopped. "I...I will. I need time, that's a suicide mission. Their security is—"
"I don't care about the security, Charlène. And neither does the debt you owe," he snarled. "If you fail, the shipments of Leo's medication stop. The technicians for his machines won't show up tomorrow. The devil knows what will happen to your brother then. He won't live to see the sunrise."
The line went dead.
My handler had me in a vice. It wasn't just the cost of the vials—though at fifty thousand dollars a month, they were bleeding me dry. It was the access. The serum Leo needed was a restricted prototype, owned by a pharmaceutical titan the handler had on a leash.
Without the handler, the vials stopped shipping. Without the vials, Leo's nervous system would shut down in forty-eight hours
I was rich in stolen cash, but I was a pauper in power.
I sank to my knees, the phone slipping from my hand and hitting the rug. I felt like I was suffocating. I had spent years killing monsters to keep my brother alive, but Lucien De Rossi... he was something else. The rumors in the underworld weren't just about his power; they were about his nature. They said he was a demon in a designer suit. How do you kill something that isn't human?
"How long, Charlène?"
The weak, raspy voice made me jump. I turned, my eyes blurring with tears.
Leo was standing in the doorway, his thin frame silhouetted by the dim hallway light. He was pale, his skin almost translucent, holding onto the doorframe so hard his knuckles were white. He looked like a ghost already.
"Leo, you should be in bed," I choked out, wiping my eyes frantically.
"How long are you going to... to do this?" he stammered, his voice trembling with effort. "Stealing. Killing. Putting your life in the fire for me? You're better than this. You're a good person, Char. You don't have to... to be a criminal for a dead man walking."
"Don't say that," I snapped, standing up. "You're not dying. I won't let you."
"It's inevitable," he whispered, a pained smile touching his lips. "Stop... before the fire consumes you too."
Suddenly, his face contorted. He clutched his stomach, a guttural scream of agony tearing from his throat.
"Leo!"
He collapsed before I could reach him. I dived across the floor, catching his head before it hit the hardwood. He was shaking, his eyes rolling back as the machines in the next room began to wail an alarm.
"Leo! Wake up! Look at me!" I screamed, pulling his limp body against my chest. I rocked him, my tears falling onto his cold forehead. "Please, don't leave me. Not yet."
I held him until the seizure passed.
I looked at the monitors. The medicine was almost gone. I had the money to pay for more, but he wouldn't take my money—he wanted Lucien De Rossi's head.
I wiped my eyes, my gaze turning toward the hallway. I couldn't kill Lucien tonight; I didn't even know where he slept yet. But I could steal the Star of Paris.
If I had a diamond that famous, a jewel that the whole world was watching, I could use it as a trade. I could bypass the Broker and find a new supplier on the dark web who valued the stone more than they valued my boss's loyalty.
It was a desperate, dangerous gamble. But looking at Leo's pale face, I knew I didn't have a choice.
I had already taken Leo to his room.
I walked into my bedroom and pulled open the bottom drawer of my vanity. There it was
—my mask.
It was a jeweled veil, that draped over the bridge of my nose and hung down to my chin.
I gripped my key, walking towards the door. I slid the key into the lock and closed my eyes, picturing the high-security vault of the Lumière Gallery in the heart of Paris.
Twist. Sigh.
I stepped through.
I was standing inside the main display room. The gallery was dark, save for the single, piercing spotlight hitting the pedestal in the center.
There it was. The Star of Paris. It wasn't just a diamond; it was a 100-carat teardrop of pure light, rumored to have been stolen from a royal crown centuries ago.
I didn't need to worry about the floor sensors; my key had dropped me right next to the glass.
I pulled out a small, high-frequency glass cutter. My hands were steady, even as my heart screamed for Leo. One cut. One grab. One escape.
I felt the glass give way. I reached in, my fingers inches from the cold fire of the diamond.
A voice came from behind me, "It's beautiful, isn't it?"