Page 164 of Corrupted Heart

Dimitra caught me, because of course she did. I gave her the same rationalization I’d given myself. It made her smile, but she still made me bring the Snickers bar back and apologize to the gift shop clerk who probably didn’t give a shit anyway.

But there was a lesson for me in that, courtesy of Ya-ya. And it was that even if we’re a family of criminals, and even though I’d probably grow up to steal more shit, it was important to remember that every action has a reaction.

Every theft, no matter what you’re taking, has a victim. So if you’re going to steal, make sure the victim deserves it.

Okay, probably not common grandmotherly words of wisdom, but I took them to heart. Since then, I’ve stolen a lot of shit: TVs, jewelry, sneakers—Hades and I stole a fuckton of Nikes when we were younger—cars, and more. But I always made sure that when I stole, I stole from someone who probably deserved to get their shit yoinked.

In this case, I’d say Death almost certainly deserves to get fucked over now and then, wouldn’t you?

I’ve never stolen my own life back from Death’s icy grip before. But then, I’ve never had a partner in crime to assist me in that before.

I’m glad I did, when it came down to it.

Because there’s something else I stole: her heart. And I don’t care who finds out, or has a problem with it.

I’m never giving it back. Ever.

It’s sunny out when I leave Mt. Sinai two weeks after my fall into the Hudson. I got a punctured lung from the bullet, plus a fun little variety pack of a broken arm, four cracked ribs, split head, broken nose, lacerated spleen, punctured kidney, and bruises like someone went at me with a grudge and a baseball bat from the fall itself.

But I’m alive.

And I’ve got Bianca by my side.

...Grumbling for me to get back in the goddamn wheelchair.

“They give it to you for a reason!” she mutters.

“Yeah, to milk sympathy from your friends and family,” I grin.

She rolls her eyes. “You did just fall off a fucking building, you know.”

“So did you.”

She gives me a withering look. “I dove off. There’s a difference.”

“Diving’s just falling with style.”

She giggles, biting her lip as she looks up into my bruised face.

“Fine,” she sighs. “But if you’re not going to sit in the wheelchair, at least humor me and sit in that.”

I frown. “In what?”

She holds up a key fob and pushes the button. A car beeps.

“That.”

Curious, I turn.

Holy. Shit.

My jaw drops a little, my eyes wide as I stare at the gleaming black 1980 Defender 110. It even has the Euro specs with the steering wheel on the right hand side.

Stunned, I turn back to her. “What?”

She grins. “Don’t thank me. Thank Hades. He flew in some sort of Land Rover experts from the UK, and he’s spent the last two weeks straight with the three of them rebuilding it.”

I gape at her. “This is the one you blew up? That was in, like, fragments.”

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