I turned the medal over and over in my fingers, the textured emblem and lettering on the surface the most familiar thing in the world to me by now. I had kept it, telling myself it was a good luck charm - like most grifters, I had a superstitious streak I couldn't help, no matter how irrational I knew it was. But it was more than just a good luck charm, and I couldn't bring myself to let it go.
A voice broke through my thoughts. "Well, Ariana?"
I looked up, responding to my name. Or, rather, the name my team knew me as. They were the closest people in the world to me, and yet even they didn't know my real name.
Only Silas knew.
Standing a few feet away from me, Iver pursed his lips thoughtfully, then backed up, sinking into a chair across from me, and smoothing the pant leg of what was undoubtedly a five thousand dollar suit. If there was one thing Iver had, it was impeccable taste, and that went for everything - art, clothing, jewelry, women. He was gorgeous, and an impossible flirt. But Iver and I didn't have that spark. I hadn't had that spark with anyone but Silas.
That was the trouble with a first love, the kind that burned hot the way mine and Silas’ had. It ruined you forever, left you comparing everything else to it for the rest of your life.
It burned bright, and no one would ever measure up after that.
Even now, the memory of Silas’ hands running over my body, caressing my skin, the heat of his breath against me, sent a shiver up my spine.
"Well, what?" I asked.
“Well,” Iver said, his brow furrowed as he looked at me. “Well something, darling. Your head was somewhere, and certainly wasn't thinking about the slovenly fight promoter we’re fleecing.”
I felt a flush rise to my cheeks, uncharacteristic of me. I had learned a long time ago to hide my reactions to things-blushing was not something you wanted to do in my line of work. It was a giveaway, a potential death sentence. Instead, I laughed off Iver’s suggestion that I was distracted by something. I wasn’t distracted. I wouldn’t allow myself to be distracted by the memory of Silas.
Silas was ancient history.
“The champagne is making me flush,” I lied.
“I can see the flush,” Iver said. “But it's definitely not the champagne. The Ariana I know can handle a glass or two of champagne. But I’ll refrain from prying into your little secret just to satisfy my own curiosity. We have more pressing issues to attend to. Distraction is not an option."
"No," I repeated, mentally chastising myself. "Distraction is not an option."
"So," Iver said. "What does your gut say?"
"My gut?" I asked blankly. All I could think of was what my instincts were telling me about Silas. Go see him.
I put the thought out of my head.
"Yes, darling," Iver said, shaking his head. "Something has you rattled. What does your gut tell you about the job? About Coker?"
I shook myself back to the present. Enough with the past. That shit wasn't going to eat me alive. "My gut says we lost him. He did everything we knew he would do. He bit on the info about the television project, then rigged the fight. It's exactly what we wanted.”
“He definitely bit,” Emir spoke up from across the hotel room, where he sat at a desk with two laptops open, absorbed in some geekery. Emir was our expert in absolutely anything that involved technology. In other words, the stuff that was way over my head. “He got rid of the other fighter in a hit and run. The fighter is at Mercy General still. He's got a few broken bones, but it looks like he’ll be fine.”
"That's good," I said. "We were off when it came to that part of things. He hadn't taken someone down like that before." I felt badly, responsible for the fighter we'd gotten injured. But I told myself if it hadn’t been that fighter, it would have been someone else. Besides, we were running this entire game for the benefit of one of Roy Coker's other victims. "Except now we’re going to have to bag the whole thing.”
“Why?” Iver asked.
I straightened in my chair. “Coker’s fighter just lost. That’s the issue. We needed his guy to win.”
Iver sipped from his glass, and shrugged. “I suppose that’s how you see it,” he said.
“You're saying we should go ahead with it?” I asked. “It's too risky. We don’t take risks. Unless the mark is throwing the money at us, we don't do run the game. We don’t pursue. Coker was trying to impress us with his guy, who just got slaughtered. Now, he’s going to expect us to walk away, not pursue him. We pursue him, we’re needy. That’s the death knell for us. You know that.”
"It's a worthy cause," Oscar said from across the room where he stood, casually sipping from a crystal tumbler of scotch.
I sighed. "They're always worthy causes," I said. "And Coker is a disgusting piece of filth. I'm aware of all of that."