I didn’t get a taxi home.

Instead, I walked. I’d always been a walker. It helped me think. Cleared my head. It was one of my favorite things about London—how walkable the city was. I’d spent whole days wandering its alleys. Crossing its bridges and devouring its sidewalks, one stride at a time.

I gulped lungful after lungful of diesel-tinted air. But I couldn’t calm down. Couldn’t clear the logjam inside my chest and my head.

I had to crawl through the rubble, but now I’m finally getting somewhere.

This fucking woman. This caring, charismatic, well-loved woman was just putting her life back together. And I was going to obliterate it. How did that square with mom’s wish for me to make the world a better place?

Jane wasn’t supposed to be so down to earth. She wasn’t supposed to be so sexy or so smart or so good. She was better than good. She was excellent.

All of my marks—they’d been dickheads. Assholes of the highest order. Pretentious and short sighted.

Jane was anything but. And I liked her.

I liked her.

Although I was an idiot to even think I could actually make this work. Because it was impossible. Jane would be right to shut me out for pretending to be someone I’m not.

She wouldn’t hate me for being a nobody. I didn’t even think she’d hate me for stealing from her.

She’d hate me for lying. For “pulling the wool over her eyes”, as she’d said.

I knew she was going to be hurt when she learned the truth. Which meant I needed to get the theft done as quickly as possible. Get in. Get out. The less time we had together, the less pain in the end.

I wanted to spare her feelings as much as I could. I cared about her. I wanted her to keep moving on from her prick of an ex-husband. Even though the thought of her moving on with someone else made me want to die.

Several miles and a few hours later, a familiar awning came into view. The lettering on it was cracked and peeling in places.

THE SANDWICH SHO (the P had been missing for years).

Even now, with everything going on, my heart ached with pride at the sight. I remembered the day mom opened the deli. She’d beamed from behind the counter, spreading mayo on toast, ringing up customers.

A Closed sign hung in the door. But I knew Owen would be inside, cleaning up and doing prep work for the week ahead.

I dug my keys out of my pocket. My hands shook so badly that I dropped them. Owen must’ve heard me, because a beat later, the deadbolt clicked and the door opened.

He was in houndstooth chef pants and an apron, broom in hand. His eyes followed me as I stood back up.

“Oh fuck,” he said. “What happened?”

Spearing a hand through my hair, I stepped inside. I smelled bacon. The yeasty tang of bread.

The ache in my chest intensified.

“I really look that bad?”

“Dude. You look like shit.”

“Wow. Not even gonna try to sugar coat it, are you?”

He motioned to me with his free hand. “Sorry, but there’s no sugar coating this.”

He closed the door. I tossed my keys on the counter and followed him to the kitchen in the back. It was a mess. Pots and bowls were piled high in the sink; the oven was still on, and a freshly baked loaf of bread rested on the stainless steel prep table in the middle of the room. The loaf had been cut, slices of it spilling over the edge of the cutting board. Crispy bacon was cooling on a paper-towel lined plate beside it.

“Mom’s sourdough,” Owen explained, his face lighting up. “Took me all morning. Want some? I thought I’d experiment with a different riff on her BLT. I’m this close to nailing it.”

I went still. Owen was in his element. In the kitchen, bringing mom’s recipes—her memory—back to life. Because opening this shop wasn’t just her dream. It was his dream, too.

Our dream. We loved making—and eating—sandwiches as much as mom had.

Owen had been an idiot to take that loan from Jimmy. But I understood why he’d done it. He would’ve sold his soul to keep this place open.

I was selling my soul, one con at a time.

“I’m all right for now, thanks,” I said. I turned and leaned the backs of my thighs against the table. I felt weirdly tender, the way I’d felt after the fistfight I’d had with the kid who’d bullied Owen back in high school. “Smells good though.”

Owen grinned, offering me a shrug. “I was feeling motivated. I guess it just kinda got real, you know? The fact that our lives will be one hundred percent ours again. No more worrying about losing our knees or the shop. I want to hit the ground running when the time comes. We’ve been waiting so long…”

Hell, we’d been waiting years for our freedom.

“Unless some shit went down with Jane last night,” he said, eyeing me. “She’s got you in knots, I can tell. What happened?”

I shook my head. Where to even begin?

“You like her.” His grin faded. “Holy shit, Charlie, you really like her, don’t you?”

I looked at him.

He looked away. Picked up a knife and started mincing a few cloves of garlic. “Makes things complicated for you, doesn’t it?”

I blinked. Shook my head.

“No. It’ll just hurt a little when we’re done.” It would hurt a lot more than that, but whatever. “I have it under control.”

He still wouldn’t look at me. “This is five million pounds, Charlie. Life changing money.”

“I know.” The words came out sounding more defensive than I’d intended.

“Her bedroom.” Chop chop chop. “That’s where the Warhol is, right? Why didn’t you grab it while you were up there? Because if you spent the night, you had to have been…you know, in her bed.”

“Because that’s not the plan,” I clipped. “You know that.”

“What about security? Were you able to get more of a feel for what we’re up against?”

“Yes.” I drew a hand down my face. “Jane’s got a personal security detail of three officers. There’s a contingent at the gate, and seven guards make regular rounds throughout the palace complex every hour on the hour. Walls are twenty feet high in most places. Cameras at regular ten meter intervals. We’ll escape via the roof—easiest way to get over the walls and into the public gardens.”

“All right.” He gathered the minced garlic on the dull edge of his knife and dropped it into a prep bowl. Then he finally looked at me. “Thank you. For doing this. I know it’s been a long road. But we’re finally here. So close to our freedom I can taste it.”

A lump rose in my throat. I swallowed it.

“Speaking of taste, I think I’ll take you up on that BLT,” I said. “See if it’s as good as mom’s.”