Page 42 of Savannah Royals
“Would it bother you if it was someone else though?”
As he considers this, Paul grabs the knife again. He scrapes the blade to sweep the diced onion into the pan. Steam rises, filling the air with cloying humidity. “That’s a difficult question to answer, Kat. I won’t ask for anything you aren’t willing to give.”
You’re not asking, but are you expecting it nonetheless?I swallow the words, uncertain how they’ll be received. My gaze falls on a copy of the evening newspaper. The front page is open, headlines screaming.
“Ah.” Paul slides the paper down the counter. “Picked this up on my walk home. Reckon it’s wise to keep abreast of these dangerous times we live in.”
I crack a smile. It feels like only yesterday we were just a misfit crew of kids in the Combs, teaching each other how to read from scrounged newspapers. Tony’s family taught him the alphabet and phonics before he undertook his infamous stowaway journey from Cuba to America, but Spanish was his comfort language. Paul knew the alphabet as well; it proved one of few lessons that stuck after his brief stint in the orphanage. Working in tandem, they cobbled together an understanding solid enough to bring Abe and me up to speed.
I always hated the dry newspaper scraps, littered as they were with complex rhetoric and political propaganda, but the day Paul came home with a filched copy of a newly released storybook,Peter and Wendy…that was when the tide turned. For the first time, I truly lost myself in the pages of a book. We all did. And we played pretend as Peter’s—really Paul’s—Lost Boys for weeks, flying down alleys in the Catacomb tunnels, hiding in alcoves to escape Hook. I didn’t pick up a news circular for nearly a month, just turned the pages of Peter’s story until they began pulling loose from the binding. Such is the power of an imaginative tale in the hands of a child, particularly a story that resonates as more fact than fiction.
But the centerfold tale in tonight’s evening edition is not nearly so whimsical. The entire cover features a full-page story about us, the Wolfpack. Much of the text is focused on the heist at Astor Manor, but there’s also a dedicated section on identifying us.
Three men and one woman…dark-haired…early twenties…wolf tattoos on the males’ backs, left wrist tattoo on the female…Paul, surname unknown…highly dangerous…
“It continues on pages three and four.” Paul nods coolly to the notation on the corner.
“The information on our tattoos is wrong.” I point to the relevant section. The boys are tattooed on their sides, and mine is on my finger. “Except for yours, I guess.”
“Luckily, you’re the only one who gets to see me without my shirt, so I think we’re safe.”
“This doesn’t make you nervous?”
“Not really. It’s malarkey, pure speculation. It’s no different from after we pulled our last big job.”
“I suppose you’re right…”
But I chew uncertainly on the inside of my cheek as we sit down to eat. Paul pours two glasses of wine, then slides a plate in front of me, the tantalizing smell of garlic and oregano hitting me full in the face.
“Speaking of news, I’ve been meaning to ask…” Paul sinks into the adjacent chair and tosses the newspaper aside. “Have you heard anything else from the DaMolin fella? You know, the one whose familyownsthis paper?”
I smile, but my response is careful. I bring a delicate bite of chicken to my lips before answering. “Why so interested?”
“I think he might be valuable.”
“In what way?” I put my fork down.
“If we ever want to pull off another high-profile job. Perhaps at…say, Jekyll Island.”
“Andwhywould we want to do that?”
“Oh, I dunno, Kat.” He places a teasing finger to his chin, mock speculating. “Jekyll Island hosts one-sixth of the world’s total wealth during the winter. It’s where the Federal Reserve was created, the first transcontinental phone call too. The wealth there is staggering, not to mention the prestige of pulling off a job like that. It’s the Holy Grail of heists, the pièce derésistance! If I had my druthers—”
“Is your memory so short you’ve already forgotten the job wejustpulled?”
“Doll, I’m looking ahead to what’s next. What options we have going forward. The DaMolins are just that—an option. They’ve been members of the club for two decades, even built their own cottage on the grounds. A cottage where—rumor has it—the infamous DaMolin rubies are locked away. I know you’ve heard of those.” His smile turns impish.
“Of course I’ve heard of them.” I snort, then sip my wine, pondering this. Pondering him.
The Holy Grail of heists…
Paul stands from his chair. His fingers glide over my collarbone as he bends down behind me. His breath tickles my ear as he whispers, “Those rubies would look stunning around your neck.”
Shivers rise.
“Absolutely stunning. So,” he continues, his tone mesmerizing, “has he come around again, the DaMolin fella?”
The spell breaks. The legs of my chair screech as I push back. “He may have.” I grab my wineglass and head for the bedroom, hoping against hope Paul won’t follow.
