Prologue
4 Months Ago…
The tapestry hanging on the wall looked like any ordinary rug to Killian’s eyes. Smaller than he’d expected, and like something in those big box home improvement stores. The designs on the carpet were geometrical and archaic—a large diamond in the middle woven with brown, black, and red threads, surrounded by smaller diamonds in similar colors. The border followed the same color scheme but had a floral pattern (or what looked like flowers to his untrained eyes). Frankly, Killian didn’t know what the fuss was about. But the rug was apparently important enough to warrant a display room in the Portland Museum of Art and for the Mornavian government to hire him to steal it.
This was his first job alone. Usually, he worked with his mentor and adoptive father, Archie Leacham, and his siblings, doing whatever jobs the older man had found for them. Corporate espionage, surveillance, protection and security, and major heists now and then—there was no job too big for their merry little family of professional thieves, hackers, and mercenaries. As long as no one got hurt or killed, they did it. It was what they were trained to do and what they were good at.
However, wanting to expand his skills as a master thief and spread his wings, Killian had decided he would try to do this one without them; after all, the current Mornavian president, Bogdan Martinov, had met him personally and pleaded his case. Archie had been quite proud he’d decided to strike out on his own, and offered advice whenever he needed it. Quinn was only too happy to take off and go backpacking in Europe, but not before helping him get set up with a few tech things, mainly his cover and background. Connor…well, he wasn’t sure when he’d use his last brother’s unique set of skills, but Killian knew that if he needed someone’s face bashed in or leg broken, he could count on him. And his sister, Meredith? Well—
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” came a voice from behind, interrupting his thoughts.
The hairs on his arms rose, the prickling sensation startling his inner wolf. As a Lycan shifter, the wolf was part of him. He was grateful for the speedy healing and enhanced senses, but the wolf didn’t always make its presence obvious. Now the animal perked up, something it rarely did. Only when it was warning him of something important. Or of danger. He’d learned to trust it over the years.
Killian turned around, and for a moment he thought he had imagined the voice, as there was no one behind him. But, looking down, he saw a petite woman staring up at him in wonder, her large, violet eyes widening. He swallowed a gulp as his eyes traced over the rest of her features. Her gorgeous face with high cheekbones and milky white skin. Silvery hair was pinned up on top of her head, though a few tendrils softened her face and brushed against her delicate collarbones.
Her pink lips parted, and his keen senses picked up the slightest gasp. And her perfume? Cinnamon, sugar, and freshly-baked pastry. Such an unusual choice for a woman, one he’d never smelled before.
“It certainly is…” He grasped for words, losing his composure for a split second. “Interesting.”
She laughed, her voice tinkling like little silver bells. “I know it can be a bit underwhelming, especially with all the promotion and press it’s been getting. But I assure you, there’s more to the Gastlava Tapestry than meets the eye.” Her lovely face brightened, her cheeks coloring with excitement.
“Oh really?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard about it? And the controversy behind it?”
Of course he had. That was why he was here, and why he was going to steal the rug. But something about the woman, the eagerness in her eyes, made him want to make sure she stayed right where she was standing. “No, I haven’t. Do tell.”
“Well,” she began, pursing her lips. “The Gastlava Tapestry is one of the oldest known woven works in existence. It was excavated in 1941 in what is now the modern Mornavia in the Balkan mountains,” she explained. “The tapestry itself was dated back to the fifth century BC. It’s quite unique, not just for its age, but also the unusual pattern of the border. Back then, weavers weren’t very skilled, but if you look at rugs from around the same time, few of them had such intricate designs or bold colors. The weaver must have been very talented or used a special loom that was—” She flushed again, and this time it wasn’t with excitement. “Sorry, I tend to babble on about this.”
“It’s alright,” he replied. “Please, go on.”
“I won’t bore you with the details, but I’m sure you’d like to hear about the controversy.” She turned to the rug. “As you’ve probably heard, Mornavia has been in a state of civil war for the past fifteen years, thanks to Milos Fedosiovic, the former dictator. Two years ago, a bloodless revolution overthrew Fedosiovic, when the people of Mornavia took to the streets. He fled the country, along with, according to rumors, many of the priceless artworks and antiques from the Mornavia National Museum.”
Killian stared at her, watching the shifts in her expression as she told the story and the way the colors in her eyes changed under the lights. He wasn’t disinterested, but he already knew the story. No one had realized the tapestry was missing until it had resurfaced six months ago, in the hands of the notorious and flashy Portland-based hedge fund manager, Larry Bakersfield, who claimed it had been legally sold to him by the previous administration. The Mornavian government demanded the return of the piece, and even lobbied the US government, but to no avail. Bakersfield’s net worth was bigger than Mornavia’s GDP and he had powerful friends in Washington and everywhere else. He lawyered up, and refused to return the piece, despite the wave of bad publicity. He also hired a PR firm, who had apparently arranged this showing at the Portland Museum of Art, to show the world that Larry Bakersfield was a generous patron of the arts, not an egomaniacal bastard who would steal from a war-torn country. And tonight was the big gala, the unveiling of the exhibit centered around the Gastlava Tapestry.
“And so here we are,” she concluded, and then looked back to Killian.
“You seem so knowledgeable, Ms…?”
“Rhoades. Luna Rhoades. Assistant Curator for the Portland Museum of Art.”
Ah, a gallerina. Probably one of those artsy-fartsy types who went through four years of liberal arts school on daddy’s dime and now has her dream job thanks to years of mummy’s tea socials and charity galas. He should have known, looking at her expensive dress and jewelry.
“And you’re okay with this, having this tapestry here, despite the negative press around it?” he challenged.
Luna’s back stiffened. “Thanks to, uh, Mr. Bakersfield, we have the tapestry on display for an entire year, for everyone to enjoy.”
Killian did not miss the hitch in her voice and the distaste in her eyes when she mentioned Bakersfield’s name. “So you agree with him? And his way of doing things?”
Anger briefly flashed in her violet eyes and her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “My personal opinion on the matter is private, especially in this room. I represent the Portland Museum of Art, and we are grateful for Mr. Bakersfield’s contribution.”
Contribution. He bet it was a generous one, too. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted.
“Do I care for politics? Not at all. But at least here, people will actually get to see the tapestry, rather than it being locked away in some billionaire’s private collection,” she retorted.
“Ah, a true art lover,” Killian replied.
Her slim shoulders sagged. “Or a realist.” She lowered her voice. “I know that Mornavia doesn’t stand a chance of getting the rug back, but at least here…” She shrugged and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, Mr…?”
“Jones. Killian Jones,” he said smoothly, offering her his hand. When her delicate fingers touched his, he felt the crackle of electricity. Whether she felt it too, he wasn’t sure, but the expression on her face told him she felt something.
“Oh,” she gasped. “You’re the representative from Grover Real Estate Holdings?”
Killian nodded confidently. Quinn was good at what he did, and he’d set up a fake company and made him a top executive, complete with bio and social media accounts. On the surface, he really was Killian Jones, VP for Operations of Grover Real Estate Holdings. Getting into the gala had been a snap, especially when he hinted that his company was looking to make a sizable donation.
“I spoke with your assistant,” Luna recalled. “I’m sorry we initially overlooked your company this year, but I’m glad the invitation made its way to you.”
“I’m glad, too,” he said meaningfully, and she blushed. “So, Ms. Rhoades, you’re the assistant curator. Do you have any favorite exhibits or pieces?”
The question made her eyes light up again, and the mood around them relaxed. “I can’t possibly answer that! That would be like asking me who my favorite child is! Not that I have any. Children, that is,” she added quickly.
“Why don’t you show me around?” he said, offering his arm. “And then I’ll try to guess which ones are your favorites. I promise I won’t tell.”
Luna eyed him suspiciously, but he noticed the smile tugging at the sides of her mouth. He cocked his head provocatively, and after a heartbeat, she took his arm. “Alright then, Mr. Jones. Let’s start with the Impressionists…”