Celeste;
I ignore the constant slamming of hammer against iron and wood, doing my thing while the doorman does his—fixing the lock I'd skillfully ripped off when I fled Caruso's room, only to realize I'd locked my door the night prior.
Damn it.
In the meantime, I'm scrolling through my newly acquired device, checking for software that might prove my intuition correct.
Ever since I realized that Romano is not the cool, easygoing Underboss he paints himself to be, I've been super vigilant around him.
Hence my deep scrutiny as I call to memory all Angelo had taught me at the base.
'Gotcha.' Springing from the position I lay on my belly, I hold the phone in my palm, grinning at my success.
The carpenter—or doorman, or whatever the fuck he is—flings a look my way at my sudden outburst. I can't care less.
Immediately, I block access to it.
Then I go further.
My fingers move with precision—quick, practiced. I pop the SIM tray open, not to remove it, but to expose the inner seam. A thin pin slides along the edge, prying just enough for me to access the micro-layer beneath.
There.
A nearly invisible chip—no bigger than a grain of rice—embedded along the circuitry.
Romano, you sneaky bastard.
Using the edge of the pin, I carefully dislodge it, twisting slightly so I don't damage the main board. It comes loose with a faint click.
I don't stop there.
Pinching it between my fingers, I crush it—hard—until the delicate wiring inside snaps. Then I drop the useless fragment back into the tray and seal it shut like nothing ever existed.
Clean. Untraceable.
I knew it. My guts are always right.
Romano is indeed attempting to keep tabs on me.
The revelation settles in my stomach in a firm twist. Clawing and searing like acid.
This means I'm not only under Caruso's watch…but Romano's as well.
Which gets me thinking; my fingers tap on my chin as I stare into space. What did I actually do that made him doubt me?
This is a game of wits.
It hits me like hot air in summer.
I didn't have to do anything. He doubted me from the beginning.
Just great. I chuckle, not even knowing why.
Now that I've blocked access to his spyware, I dial a number etched to the back of my mind; someone I haven't spoken to since the plan for this mission was set in stone.
It rings twice, and he picks up, his voice trickling through, "Hello?"
"Hi, Greg." Fingers tightening. "It's Poppy."
He exhales, so loud I feel it like he's right in front of me.
I halfheartedly expect a scolding, a reprimand or something, but instead, his low chuckle trickles into my ear. "You and your brash actions."
Yeah. I feel my face redden.
"Yeah, I needed to speak with you," I tell him.
My relationship with Greg is like uncharted waters. One I don't want to explore. Call it cowardice, but I call it playing it safe.
"Have you checked for hidden cameras?" His voice is stern.
I nod, as if he can see me. "Yes."
"Any planted bugs or spyware?"
"None," I say, satisfying his extra vigilance.
"That's good. What is it you want to talk about?" he finally sounds relaxed.
"Ah, it's about the Vault," I swallow the thickening tension clogging my throat. "If I may, can I know what it is? So if push comes to shove, I can alternate a better plan to—"
"You cannot." Pointed and sharp, his voice snaps me off.
I blink, breathing slower than I want to. "Oh, okay."
As if he suddenly recalls my tendencies of not sticking to commands, his tone hardens. "I'm serious, Poppy. Do not open it. All you have to do when you get it is to bring it back to the base. That's. All." He punctuates each word with gritted force.
"It's for your own safety," he adds, low and gruff.
"O-okay, yes, boss." A submissive whisper tumbles softly from my mouth, confusion at his last statement bubbling to the surface of my mind.
I bite my tongue, spotting the carpenter darting wary glances at me.
The call beeps twice as it ends, and I sigh, the sound swallowed by the ramming of the sledgehammer.
Greg's last words echo in a loop inside my head.
What did he mean by 'for my own safety?'
"Fuck it." The phone falls from my grip, landing and bouncing with soft thuds.
"Miss, it's all fixed now." Quickly putting his tools together, he informs me.
"Mm, thanks." Absentminded as fuck, I mumble.
Setting my feet on the warm rug, I stride out, heading for the kitchen to execute my personal plan.
The carpenter rises from his crouching posture. "Here are the new keys," he says, exiting after bending in a bow.
I nod curtly, shutting the door and sinking the keys into my shorts pocket.
Not without tapping lightly on the other pocket, making sure my beautiful creation is sitting cool and pretty.
A smile cuts through my lips, excitement thrumming in my blood, rushing all the way to my chest in erratic waves.
Let's say I stole some apples from breakfast after my loving fiancé left for work—well, not stolen, let's go with took.
Yeah.
And let's say I may or may not have had their seeds ripped out and then ground. The powdery dust sits wrapped and sealed in the left upper pocket of my shorts.
The look that glowered in the head maid's eyes flashes before me, and my fist curls, digging into my fleshy palm.
If there's anything I've learned in this life of crime, it's that when you're on enemy ground, you only have yourself to look out for you.
No one owes you loyalty.
So you dig out the weed before it sprouts into something beyond control.
I'm on my way to dig mine out.