Page 1 of Captured Heart

Prologue

Aleksandras

Five years ago...

The soft chime above the jewelry store door announces my arrival. My polished leather shoes echo against the tiled floor as I step inside, my eyes discreetly scanning every inch of the place. Cameras: two in the corners, one directly above the entrance. Security beams: hidden in the glass displays, their faint shimmer barely perceptible unless you’re looking for them. I’m always looking.

The store screams wealth. Gleaming marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and display cases so spotless they might as well not exist. It’s a world away from where I grew up. Places like this didn’t exist in Richmond. Back there, you didn’t have shining surfaces and quiet ambiance. You had bars on windows, cash-only signs, and customers sizing each other up, wondering who might make a move first.

I adjust my tie, a cheap knockoff that looks like a million bucks when paired with a well-fitted suit. At twenty-one, I’ve learned appearances are everything. A suit makes me older. Wealthier. Trustworthy. People don’t ask questions when you look the part.

It’s not just about how I look, though. It’s how I sound. I clear my throat to smooth out the rough edges of my usual tone, shedding the clipped, fast cadence of the streets I grew up on. The right words, spoken the right way, can open doors you didn’teven know existed. I wasn’t born with it. Sophistication isn’t something many people pick up in Richmond. It’s a skill I had to learn the hard way, just like everything else.

“Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you with anything today?” A sales assistant appears, her bright smile warm and inviting. She’s about my age, maybe a year or two older, but polished in a way that says she’s never had to scrape for anything.

“Yes, I’m looking for a necklace for my fiancé.” I soften my voice, layering in just the right touch of sincerity. “Something elegant, with an emerald. It brings out her eyes.”

I watch as her expression shifts, her shoulders relaxing. The mention of a fiancé makes me less of a threat and also makes her believe I’m older than I am. The way I said it—smooth, calm, like I have money to burn—makes me worth her time.

“Well, you’re in luck. We just got a few new pieces in.” She motions me toward a section closer to the corner. “Let me get them.”

I follow, maintaining the perfect balance of interest and detachment, my gaze flicking over the jewelry while my mind calculates angles, distances, and weaknesses. She doesn’t notice. Why would she? To her, I’m just another wealthy customer with an eye for emeralds.

She goes to her office at the back of the store and returns with a tray of necklaces, each one more dazzling than the last. The one Victor wants is unmistakable, a delicate gold chain with an emerald pendant surrounded by tiny diamonds. I feign casual interest, leaning in slightly as if I’m captivated.

“How much?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

She names a price that would make any sane person blanch. Nodding thoughtfully, I pretend to weigh my options. I watch her every move as she places the necklace back in its velvet-lined case with the others and takes them back to her office. I noteevery detail. Where she stores it, how she locks it, the subtle flick of her wrist as she keys in the security code.

“Thank you for your time,” I say, flashing her a charming smile. “I’ll be back later to get it.”

It’s not a lie. I just leave the vital details up to her imagination, small things likewhenI’ll be back andhowI intend to get it.

IT’S ALMOST ELEVENp.m. The air inside the abandoned warehouse is heavy with dust and decay, the kind of place where secrets thrive and sunlight never reaches. The faint creak of old metal beams and the scurry of rats in the shadows are the only sounds, apart from the low murmur of voices around me.

Victor has a thing for places like this. He says they’re perfect. Off the grid and forgotten by the world. Good cover for illegal dealings, hideouts, or stashing people and things he doesn’t want found. Looking around, I can’t disagree. The crumbling walls and broken windows scream desolation, the perfect backdrop for the night’s work.

I sit on an overturned crate, the faint glow of a single hanging bulb illuminating the blueprint I’ve spread across my lap. The paper is worn, creased from hours of study, every line and mark etched not just on the page, but in my mind.

Bowman (not his real name) leans against a rusted support beam, arms crossed, his sharp features cast in shadow. Smith (not his real name either) is perched on a nearby stack of pallets, idly flipping a knife in one hand, the metallicsnickof the blade grating my last fucking nerve.

The two rookies hover near the far wall, their faces pale and their postures stiff, like they’re afraid the building itself might collapse on them. It’s understandable. They’re new, and they have no idea what to expect.

“Alright, listen up,” I say, my voice cutting through the stagnant air. “This is how it’s gonna go down.”

I lay the blueprint flat on the crate, my finger tracing the jewelry store’s layout. I’ve planned this out to the last detail because there’s so much riding on tonight.

This heist isn’t just about a payout. It’s about time. About life.

I picture my mother when I left our small apartment earlier, her frail hands clutching the edges of the bedsheet, her breathing shallow and labored. The oxygen tank by her bedside hissed faintly, a constant reminder of the emphysema that’s been slowly stealing her life away. Her eyes were sunken but still holding on to hope. I looked into those eyes tonight and promised her that I’d fix this.

Her treatment’s overdue. Oxygen therapy, inhalers, and the pulmonary rehab sessions the doctors insist she needs to keep her lungs functioning. The clinic won’t administer any of it until I pay off the outstanding balance. There’s no room for error tonight. No mishaps, no rookie mistakes.

If we mess this up, I won’t just lose the money. I’ll loseher.

The weight of those consequences presses down on my shoulders, but I shove it aside. This isn’t the time for emotions. Emotions can get us caught, get us killed.

The dim flashlight glints off Bowman’s face, his features locked in concentration. Smith leans back, cracking his knuckles rhythmically. And the two rookies are still as statues, their pale faces screaming inexperience.

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