It Started With a Heist

Chapter 15

EMMA

In our world, loyalty is a currency often wasted, faith an investment rarely worth the risk. It always comes down to you and the people you want something from. The question isn't if you can trust them—it's whether you can outsmart them before they outsmart you.

I have always been good at this. Too good. Lying, cheating, using people for my own gain—it came naturally. Guilt rarely found its way in. I would tell myself no one really got hurt. My marks were usually filthy rich, the kind of people who would barely notice the loss. Maybe their pride took a hit, but that was it.

But this game was different. This time, I wasn't just bending the rules—I was breaking them, shattering them, cutting someone deeper than I ever had before. With every move I made, the blade twisted further.

And backing off wasn't an option anymore. Not after what happened with Eric. The stakes had never been more high, and now it was a matter of him or us.

Frustrated, I slammed my brush and palette onto the table, yanked a page from my sketchbook, and tore it in half before tossing it into the trash. Painting used to be my refuge, the one place where I could clear my mind. But lately, even that had turned on me.

Ever since Eric's close call—the one that nearly landed him in jail—I hadn't been able to finish a single piece, not even a quick sketch. Everything I painted devolved into chaos, a perfect reflection of my fractured thoughts. The only thing I could draw with any consistency was a pair of jade-green eyes that seemed to haunt every canvas.

I sighed, staring at the latest unfinished mess in front of me. I was losing it. There was no other explanation. At least Eric wasn't around to see me fall apart.

Speaking of Eric, he hadn't been the same since that disaster. Guilt and anger had consumed him, especially after Jake had outsmarted him. I didn't have to say "I told you so." He couldn't stand the unspoken truth himself.

To regroup, Eric decided to head to Greece, where my parents were staying. He said he needed space to clear his head and come back stronger. He had invited me to join him, but I had declined. One of us had to stay behind—to hold the line, to keep the game in play.

I glanced at the clock and sighed. The day was slipping away, and I still had too much to do. The paint stains on my hands were a reminder of the chaos I had created—both on the canvas and in my head. A shower was overdue, and with my plans to meet Jake in Brooklyn, driving wasn't an option. The subway would have to do.

The warmth of the Saturday afternoon filtered through my windows as I rummaged through my closet. After some deliberation, I settled on a casual outfit—black pants, a black tank top, and a white shirt to break the monotony. A little light makeup, and I was ready to face the day.

At the subway station, I bought a ticket and found a seat amidst the weekend crowd. My mind kept drifting to Jake—to the text he had sent saying he was already at the restaurant and excited to see me.

A jumble of emotions churned in my chest: anticipation, anxiety, and something I couldn't quite name. Was I excited to see him, too?

I glanced at my phone and saw his follow-up message, confirming our reservation at Grimaldi's Pizzeria. At least the food might distract me from the storm raging in my head. Or so I hoped.

When I arrived at Grimaldi's, I spotted Jake immediately. He sat at a corner table, his gray t-shirt hugging his frame, paired with jeans and an olive-field jacket that added a touch of rugged charm to his appearance.

As soon as he saw me, his green eyes lit up, and a warm smile spread across his face. He waved, and despite my nerves, I found myself smiling back as I walked over.