Page 4 of Savannah Royals
With that, the headmistress takes her leave.
I try to hide my annoyance. It’s not like I alwayssulk in the corner. I’ve been plenty sociable in the past. My position here is invaluable. I’ve met dozens of marks at these parties, relayed countless inside tips to Paul. It’s why he planted me here in the first place, finagling my interview with his silver tongue three years ago.
Infiltrate their ranks, Kat, he told me.You become one of them, thenwebecome one of them. Just think what we can do, working from the inside.
He was right. Paul’s tenacity and cunning nature have combined with my newfound status and skills to open doors ushering the Wolfpack into a golden era. Today, my Royals are the premier, most feared gang ever to transcend the bayou. The first to reach the upper crest of Savannah society. Everyone knows the Wolfpack now.
We keep our operation small, just the four of us. No leaks. No loose lips. As our leader, Paul’s reputation is relatively well known, but very, very few know his face. Even fewer know mine—the notorious Cat Burglar—or Abe’s or Tony’s. We stay invisible, secretly and obsessively controlling every aspect of every job. It’s quality over quantity that sets us apart. The quality of the heist itself, the quality of the loot. Selectivity is the name of the game.
It is, oddly enough, the same principle many of my classmates apply to screening their future prospects. The bigger the fish, the better. I admire the irony as my fellow fourth-years continue swarming the trifecta.
I brush cool fingers across my pounding head. I’m just not up for it. Not today, when we’re less than a month away from hitting our biggest mark yet. Not today, when I’m so exhausted I can hardly—
“You look like you could use this almost as much as I can,” a voice interrupts my thoughts.
I drop my hand to my lap and snap my eyes up. Big fish.
It’s one of the trifecta. The blond guy Florence was just gabbing up. I furtively slide my gaze across the room, and sure enough, she’s watching him closely.
“I’ll make you a deal,” the man continues. “I’ll give you this”—he waves a china teacup under my nose—“if you let me hide here with you for ten minutes.”
“I don’t particularly like tea.”
“It’s not tea.”
He smiles, and despite myself, I’m intrigued. It’s a world-class smile. The kind that stops traffic.
“It’s French espresso.”
“Where’d you getthat?” I lean forward, doubly intrigued now.
“The kitchens. They’ve been sneaking me treats since I learned where to get them two decades ago. Just don’t rat me out to my mom, okay?”
I follow his head bob to our benefactress, Lady Genevieve DaMolin. She and Headmistress Helena are thick as thieves, but Lady Genevieve calls the shots. It’shername that’s ultimately synonymous with Telfair.
“I see.” I nod. “So you’re from…the DaMolin family, then?”
A strange flicker crosses his face, but he nods. I continue running my gaze over him, my brow furrowing as I try to remember his name. The two other members of the trifecta I know quite well.
Target: Daniel Dufour, age twenty-two. Grandson of the late, great, interminably wealthy financier J.P. Morgan. Undergraduate business studies degree from Harvard. Founding family of the elite Jekyll Island Club, themost exclusive society for millionaires in the world, just off the coast of Georgia. Marriage status: eligible, highly eligible.
Target: Harrison “Harry” Astor, age twenty-six. Recent West Point graduate, risen to the rank of major in the Great War. Nephew of the tragically deceased John Jacob Astor, lost to us just a few years ago in the sinking of the RMS Titanic. Family are real estate tycoons with holdings up and down the East Coast, including the pertinently noteworthy Astor Manor at 447 Bull Street, Savannah, Georgia. Marriage status: eligible, highly eligible.
But this one, this DaMolin fella, isn’t here often. He looks a little different too. His hair is slightly longer than most men wear theirs, waving over his ears to the nape of his neck. Not perfectly tamed and manicured.
I cast around the back of my mind for his name. I’m certain I’ve talked to him before. I must have. Once or twice. Probably.
“I’m Matthew,” he finally offers, putting me out of my misery. “Matthew DaMolin.”
“Katarina Quinn,” I reply. And because I do want that espresso, I kick out a chair with my foot. “Sit, I’ll hide you.”
“Thanks.” He slides one of his two teacups to me before taking a big gulp from his own. After he swallows, he leans back to rest his head against the wall. He closes his eyes, his lashes casting dark shadows in the hollows beneath his lids.
I know why I’m so tired, but why is he?
I bite my tongue. Asking a question would invite conversation. And inviting conversation could lead to banter. And from banter, it’s on to flirting…and that’s just not a journey I’m interested in taking this morning.
“I beg your pardon.” He lifts his head and turns guiltily. “I’m being terribly rude, aren’t I? Where are you from, Miss Katarina?”
