The congressman could be a presidential hopeful. We wished him all the best in his future campaigns.

Unfortunately, Karin would have to turn over the big payout from that asshole to service our debt.

Her blond brows drew together. “What about him?”

Benji perked up too. He was instrumental in badgers. He’d earned his nickname “the Eye” from his remarkable camera work.

“My string of bad luck, or whatever, seems to be over.” I got up, knocked on the wood of my desk, then returned. “If I start roping guys and you bag the congressman, maybe we . . . shouldn’t run Dmitri.”

“What?” the three exclaimed in unison.

I played with the sash on my robe. “We might be able to scrounge up enough if Mom and Dad make good on their art scam. And Nigel could reconnect. Plus there’s the watch I lifted.” From a genuinely nice woman. If I felt this shitty about that, I couldn’t imagine what playing with Dmitri’s feelings would do to me.

In a scandalized tone, Karin said, “You like him.”

“Or maybe I’m thinking about our own rules? No sins, no in. We have a code, remember?” In all my life, we’d never broken it. “What has the Russian done to merit a financial punishment and a helping of pain? We prey on vulnerabilities, not the vulnerable.”

Benji scratched his head. “Why would you consider a brilliant and handsome BDSM billionaire vulnerable?”

“Call it grift sense.”

“He simply hasn’t shown you his sins yet,” Karin said, disturbingly confident. “Give him time. Sins always out. I guarantee he’s part of the ninety-seven percent.”

Like the father of her kid?

She was right. I knew better. You’d think I would’ve learned after all the lying, two-timing scrotes I’d encountered in the grift. Hell, my own ex-fiancé should’ve taught me.

“The point is moot anyway.” Karin sighed. “Dmitri could be pure as driven snow, and we’d still have to target him. Hon, think of the alternative.”

Three months ago, we’d swindled a drug-trafficking couple from overseas for a cool million, our largest take to date. We’d spent ages doing foundation work, yet no amount of research would’ve revealed that the woman was an untouchable. The lovechild of a cartel kingpin.

In lieu of an outright execution, the man had allowed us to repay the score in full—while owing six million in interest.

Karin had banked one and a half of it with her nonstop badgers. My parents’ art scheme might net us five hundred. I would contribute two fifty. We had less than three weeks left to pull together the rest.

If we failed . . . That kingpin enjoyed necklacing: shoving a gasoline-soaked tire around a victim’s chest and arms, then lighting it on fire. He’d threatened to do that to the primary on the con—my dad.

Pete said, “Vice, it’s life or death. You have to break the code.”

Dad was the bighearted rock of the family, nicknamed Gentleman Joe because he could mingle with the upper crust—but also because he had a kind smile and was a softie for a grifter.

My mom and dad were freaking symbiotic. If anything happened to him, I’d lose both parents.

Our only other option was to rabbit. The problem with that? We had dozens of people at Sunday dinner. Would everyone in our extended family go into hiding? What if someone wanted to remain?

To the grave. “You’re right. When the Russian calls tomorrow, I’ll do what I need to do.”

CHAPTER 9

As I skulked in platform high-heeled boots and a party dress through the dark, I could have sworn I was being watched.

I narrowed my eyes and surveyed the murky brush around our prop house, a.k.a. the badger den. I strained to hear, but A2B continued to wheeze and rattle long after I’d turned off the ignition.

For months, I’d been feeling paranoid like this. Probably because I was jinxed.

Dmitri hadn’t called today, had written me only one cold line of text.

DSevastyan: I will contact you tomorrow.

My sixth busted mark.

At the back door, I glanced over my shoulder again, unable to shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Maybe one of the cartel’s henchmen was following me until we paid.

Surely it couldn’t be Brett. . . .

I slipped inside and headed toward the camera room. Recording equipment crowded the small area. Benji was already here, manning a desk with a mic and several monitors. The screens played streams from video cameras all around the exterior—and interior—of the house, but I didn’t spot anyone outside.

Benji swiveled around in his chair. “I thought you were meeting us later.” Like me, he was dressed up to go out afterward. His stovepipe pants and fitted jacket accentuated his tall frame. He’d shaved his lean face.

“Got stir-crazy.” I couldn’t stand my lonely apartment any longer.

Earlier, Pete had texted me not to come in, that the VIP lounge was dead.

Vice: I can still take a shift.

P3X: We’ll celebrate tonight and let off steam. Tomorrow huge group of Canadian high rollers.

Trying not to appear desperate for news on Dmitri, I’d asked about Nigel.

P3X: He checked out.

Seriously?? Vice: Dmitri? How could a one-word text be so pathetic?

P3X: No one’s come down from the penthouse. Not a peep from them. But I know he’ll call you.

Vice: Two tears in a bucket, motherfuck it.

I dropped my false-bottomed purse on the couch, then plopped down beside it. I would’ve gone biking in Red Rock Canyon today to burn off some energy, but A2B might not have made it back, and I’d worried about spotty telephone reception. Not that I’d needed to.