Home > Stealing from Mr. Rich (Billionaire Heists #1)

Stealing from Mr. Rich (Billionaire Heists #1)
Author: Anna Hackett

 

 

Monroe


The old-fashioned Rosengrens safe was a beauty.

I carefully turned the combination dial, then pressed closer to the safe. The metal was cool under my fingertips. The safe wasn’t pretty, but stout and secure. There was something to be said for solid security.

Rosengrens had started making safes in Sweden over a hundred years ago. They were good at it. I listened to the pins, waiting for contact. Newer safes had internals made from lightweight materials to reduce sensory feedback, so I didn’t get to use these skills very often.

Some people could play the piano, I could play a safe. The tiny vibration I was waiting for reached my fingertips, followed by the faintest click.

“I’ve gotcha, old girl.” The Rosengrens had quite a few quirks, but my blood sang as I moved the dial again.

I heard a louder click and spun the handle.

The safe door swung open. Inside, I saw stacks of jewelry cases and wads of hundred-dollar bills. Nice.

Standing, I dusted my hands off on my jeans. “There you go, Mr. Goldstein.”

“You are a doll, Monroe O’Connor. Thank you.”

The older man, dressed neatly in pressed chinos and a blue shirt, grinned at me. He had coke-bottle glasses, wispy, white hair, and a wrinkled face.

I smiled at him. Mr. Goldstein was one of my favorite people. “I’ll send you my bill.”

His grin widened. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I raised a brow. “You could stop forgetting your safe combination.”

The wealthy old man called me every month or so to open his safe. Right now, we were standing in the home office of his expensive Park Avenue penthouse.

It was decorated in what I thought of as “rich, old man.” There were heavy drapes, gold-framed artwork, lots of dark wood—including the built-in shelves around the safe—and a huge desk.

“Then I wouldn’t get to see your pretty face,” he said.

I smiled and patted his shoulder. “I’ll see you next month, Mr. Goldstein.” The poor man was lonely. His wife had died the year before, and his only son lived in Europe.

“Sure thing, Monroe. I’ll have some of those donuts you like.”

We headed for the front door and my chest tightened. I understood feeling lonely. “You could do with some new locks on your door. I mean, your building has top-notch security, but you can never be too careful. Pop by the shop if you want to talk locks.”

He beamed at me and held the door open. “I might do that.”

“Bye, Mr. Goldstein.”

I headed down the plush hall to the elevator. Everything in the building screamed old money. I felt like an imposter just being in the building. Like I had “daughter of a criminal” stamped on my head.

Pulling out my cell phone, I pulled up my accounting app and entered Mr. Goldstein’s callout. Next, I checked my messages.

Still nothing from Maguire.

Frowning, I bit my lip. That made it three days since I’d heard from my little brother. I shot him off a quick text.

“Text me back, Mag,” I muttered.

The elevator opened and I stepped in, trying not to worry about Maguire. He was an adult, but I’d practically raised him. Most days it felt like I had a twenty-four-year-old kid.

The elevator slowed and stopped at another floor. An older, well-dressed couple entered. They eyed me and my well-worn jeans like I’d crawled out from under a rock.

I smiled. “Good morning.”

Yeah, yeah, I’m not wearing designer duds, and my bank account doesn’t have a gazillion zeros. You’re so much better than me.

Ignoring them, I scrolled through Instagram. When we finally reached the lobby, the couple shot me another dubious look before they left. I strode out across the marble-lined space and rolled my eyes.

During my teens, I’d cared about what people thought. Everyone had known that my father was Terry O’Connor—expert thief, safecracker, and con man. I’d felt every repulsed look and sly smirk at high school.

Then I’d grown up, cultivated some thicker skin, and learned not to care. Fuck ‘em. People who looked down on others for things outside their control were assholes.

I wrinkled my nose. Okay, it was easier said than done.

When I walked outside, the street was busy. I smiled, breathing in the scent of New York—car exhaust, burnt meat, and rotting trash. Besides, most people cared more about themselves. They judged you, left you bleeding, then forgot you in the blink of an eye.

I unlocked my bicycle, and pulled on my helmet, then set off down the street. I needed to get to the store. The ride wasn’t long, but I spent every second worrying about Mag.

My brother had a knack for finding trouble. I sighed. After a childhood, where both our mothers had taken off, and Da was in and out of jail, Mag was entitled to being a bit messed up. The O’Connors were a long way from the Brady Bunch.

I pulled up in front of my shop in Hell’s Kitchen and stopped for a second.

I grinned. All mine.

Okay, I didn’t own the building, but I owned the store. The sign above the shop said Lady Locksmith. The logo was lipstick red—a woman’s hand with gorgeous red nails, holding a set of keys.

After I locked up my bike, I strode inside. A chime sounded.

God, I loved the place. It was filled with glossy, warm-wood shelves lined with displays of state-of-the-art locks and safes. A key-cutting machine sat at the back.

A blonde head popped up from behind a long, shiny counter.

“You’re back,” Sabrina said.

My best friend looked like a doll—small, petite, with a head of golden curls.

We’d met doing our business degrees at college, and had become fast friends. Sabrina had always wanted to be tall and sexy, but had to settle for small and cute. She was my manager, and was getting married in a month.

“Yeah, Mr. Goldstein forgot his safe code again,” I said.

Sabrina snorted. “That old coot doesn’t forget, he just likes looking at your ass.”

“He’s harmless. He’s nice, and lonely. How’s the team doing?”

Sabrina leaned forward, pulling out her tablet. I often wondered if she slept with it. “Liz is out back unpacking stock.” Sabrina’s nose wrinkled. “McRoberts overcharged us on the Schlage locks again.”

“That prick.” He was always trying to screw me over. “I’ll call him.”

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