Page 82 of Princess of Thieves

Rob steps forward, too, pulling a few notices from the pile. “Hanson. Knight. Newman. Roberts—fuck,” he breaks off, voice thick with frustration.

“You know them?” Zayn asks, even though I suspect he knows the answer.

“Families,” Rob says. “Ones we’ve been, y’know.” He looks up, chooses his word carefully. “Helping.”

His face is a mix of pain and fury, like he’s watching his whole operation fall to dust in front of him.

“Goddammit,” Rob says, voice barely containing his emotion. “He’s doing this to bait me.”

“Don’t take it,” Will says, stepping to Rob’s side. “Seriously, this is not the time to let your damn impulse temper—”

“Yeah,” Tuck adds quietly. “Blowing up now isn’t going to help anyone.”

LJ says nothing, just places a firm hand on Rob’s shoulder.

“Relax,” Rob barks. “All y’all, relax. I’m fine.” He lowers the papers, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not gonna do anything stupid. That’s what he wants. I’m just...I’m so fucking...”

Zayn raises his hands, trying to de-escalate the tension. “Look, I can stall. I can push serving the notices off until tomorrow, maybe the day after. But after that, there’s not much I can do. Once that shit gets stuck on your door, you’ve got 30 days to pack up and leave.”

Rob exhales sharply, his frustration boiling over into resignation. “Great. Thirty days.” His voice is thick with bitterness. “Gisbourne will literally throw these people out ontheir asses if it means he can get to me. Some fucking hero of the people he is. And meanwhile, what am I supposed to do, ride around on a white horse, dropping bags of cash on people’s doorsteps? For fuck’s sake.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Tuck says.

“Not anything smart, anyway,” LJ agrees. “Nothing that won’t lead him right here.”

As they murmur about what to do next, something clicks in my mind.

Rob might be giving up, but I’m not ready to.

My mind races with an idea, one that makes perfect sense the more I think about it. Maybe it’s not entirely legal—okay, it’s definitely not legal—but this is for the greater good, right? If my father really wanted me todosomething with my life, what better way than keeping families in their homes?

I glance around the room. Everyone else is talking, animated now, trying to figure out next steps, but I’m stuck in my head, a fire of resolve burning in my chest, running through some logistics, calculating a plan.

Nobody even notices when I slip out of the kitchen.

I know what I’m going to do.

Chapter Twenty

Iglide the Mustang through the narrow, potholed streets, the engine purring like a well-fed cat.

It’s late afternoon, barely 24 hours after Zayn showed up with the keys and gave me my prized possession back. The sun’s casting a golden glow on the fringes of Nottingham, where the lots are big and unmowed and the houses sagging with the weight of the world, and I’m cloaked in LJ’s baseball cap and oversized sunglasses. A ridiculous disguise, maybe, but it does the job.

On the seat next to me is a crumpled list of addresses. The homes of the people Zayn came to warn us about. The ones on the eviction notices.

Because this is my plan.

I got up early, left with the key LJ gave me, and no one had any right to stop me—not that they’d have noticed. I drove from one side of this county to the other, zigzagging, stopping at every ATM I can find: gas stations, drugstores, laundromats, wherever. Each time, I pull out just under the limit, and far less than $10,000. Small amounts Kimmy and her supervisor will never get flagged. Each time, the balance dwindles, but hardly making a dent—I’m still well above two million total, even with the growing stack of twenties stuffed in the passenger footwell.

The stops I make aren’t anything like Rob’s house or Guy’s house or even the house I grew up in. These are small, modest homes, weathered by time and a patchwork of paychecks unable to keep up on maintenance. They’re chain-link fences and weed-studded sidewalks.

But they’re also full of life. Pink trikes upended on the walkways, surrounded by scribbling drawings in chunky chalk lines. A patio set, worn but meticulously cleaned, with the remnants of birthday streamers and balloons still wound around the chair backs. A plywood sign with a hand-painted football helmet that proclaims GO SHERWOOD SPARTANS—MATTHIAS GRANT, #27 RUNNING BACK.

These are real people. The real heart of this place, no matter what Guy Gisbourne crows about in some goddamn campaign speech. And I’m not going to let them get kicked out.

I pull up to the next address, a small house with chipped paint and a swing set in the yard, and kill the engine. It looks quiet—kids not home from school, parents still at work, driveaway empty. Quickly, I thumb through the cash, pulling out the requisite bills—$1100, enough for the back taxes and then some. I grab one of the plastic bags I snagged at the Soop-R-Mart and nestle the money inside, tie a double knot, and slip out of the car.

I cross the lawn quickly, not quite running but not strolling in, either. My heart races as I go, but it’s not fear. It’s a rush, almost like the feeling of healing someone—still so strange to think about that—but lesser, more down-to-earth.

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