Page 20 of Diamond Don

The Italian did not take A.J.’s offense lightly. He refused to accept her apology, even after she returned the stolen money and offered to help improve his meager electronic security measures free of charge.

For a dark moment, we feared the worst would happen to her. We know there are dire consequences to harming the mafia’s interests, so we try to stay out of their path at all costs.

In the end, he agreed to spare A.J.’s life in return for her services. He was enticed to show her mercy once he learned about her identity, and he was even eager to do so once he realized her connection to me—one of the few occasions we regretted making a name for ourselves within our exclusive circles.

At first, A.J. and I agreed to do his bidding until her debt was repaid—with all due interest, of course. However, we quickly realized that this debt would never be satisfied, and the man clearly planned to keep us under his thumb indefinitely.

It is part of my nature to resent being controlled and manipulated. Still, my urgency in extinguishing the man’s leverage over us doesn’t stem just from my personal issues with our unfortunate situation.

I have lost countless nights of sleep, worrying myself sick about what will happen to A.J. and me once the old man’s demands grow too outrageous for us to satisfy.

I fear he will force us into an impossible position that will land us either dead or in jail. Or that he will demand something so immoral and unthinkable from us that we will have no option but to refuse him.

Above all else, I dread the day when we will no longer have any use for him. It is only a matter of time before that time comes.

A.J. and I aren’t precisely civilians and know a thing or two about self-preservation. Still, we are very aware of our shortcomings compared to many players in our slice of the criminal underworld.

At the end of the day, we are just two white-collar con artists. Our street smarts might be above average, but we aren’t equipped with the skill set needed to take on a mob boss who has no qualms about killing us.

A.J. and I are running out of time. We must find a way out of our unfortunate situation soon or risk an unthinkable fate.

For this reason, we have been desperately pursuing even the slightest leads, hoping to gain any leverage over our blackmailer.

Coincidentally, around the time my sense of urgency reached new, unbearable heights, our friend Alana overheard one of her boyfriends—a soldier in the Irish mafia—joke about an old rumor about the stronzo.

At first, we thoroughly disregarded the tale because it was too good to be true. But the more we learned about it, the more we realized it couldn’t be unfounded gossip. It became clear that this secret—often disguised as outlandish fiction—could be our way out of the terror the man has been wrecking in our lives.

When the old mobster ordered me to steal the Flame of Mir, the world’s most famous diamond, from the Metropolitan Museum during a high-profile event with little notice, I was initially prepared to resist. I refused his outrageous demand until I realized this task’s sheer recklessness and audacity could work in our favor.

If I delivered such a valuable prize to him after the entire world learned of its disappearance, he would have no choice but to lie low and give us some reprieve. It would be the heist of the century, but it could give us enough time to get the proof we need to uncover the secret.

I was highly successful in the first part of my plan. Now that it’s time to close the deal, I must keep my head in the game and stay out of trouble.

Mainly of the tall, dark, and handsome variety.

During the past week, in the rare instances when I had a moment or two of free time, I did my best to focus on taking care of myself. God knows I haven’t had the chance to do so in the past few months.

I took A.J. to the nicest spa in town. We enjoyed deep tissue massages that didn’t even begin to dissipate the tension I have been carrying in my whole body. We treated ourselves to fresh haircuts and even got cute manicures and pedicures. Every inch of us was mercilessly waxed, plucked, exfoliated, and moisturized.

Maybe if I looked my best, I would also feel at my best.

Perhaps keeping busy would help keep a certain man off my mind.

Much to my chagrin, it’s been utterly pointless—I can’t stop thinking about Nik.

Infuriatingly, everything reminds me of him and of the mind-blowing pleasure I inconveniently found in his arms.

If I’m out and about and spot a tall guy with glossy, dark hair, the most aggravating flutter starts in my abdomen. It always begins in the pit of my stomach before climbing to the left side of my chest. That’s when my heart threatens to burst out of my chest for a breathless instant until I realize the guy isn’t Nikolai.

I have even found myself unfavorably comparing other male voices to his. More than once, I will try to relax by listening to music or one of my favorite podcasts and end up woolgathering about how much deeper and raspier his voice sounded in comparison.

Even during my luxurious massage at the upscale spa, I had to refrain from groaning in frustration. There was just no comfort or relaxation in it for me, knowing I would never get to feel his skilled hands on my flesh again.

In a moment of weakness, I succumbed to sniffing the velvet fabric of the dress I wore to the gala. It was an embarrassing attempt to get a fix of the scent of his skin. Even a week after the party, I can’t make myself take it to the dry cleaner.

The night after the heist, I opened a deliciously expensive bottle of Cheval Blank wine I lifted years ago from a vapid French businessman who fancied himself in love with me. I was saving the Bordeaux for a special occasion but needed the pick-me-up from drinking something prohibitively expensive. Unfortunately, the alcohol only made me crave the taste of Nikolai’s lips more.

I have conceded my defeat. Nik may be out of sight, but keeping him out of my mind is virtually impossible. His hold over me remains irresistible.

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