Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) by Tanya Thompson

shabby apartment to a townhouse with a garage. “But you no tell Tricia. She think I live with Daniel and Eugene. Yes?”
    “Yes, of course.” I moved through the rooms barely breathing. It smelled new and synthetic. The furniture was still black leather but bigger, and the tables were black enamel trimmed in metallic gold. Gaudy gold mirrors and framed oil paintings were nearly everywhere. Then, things turned beige. The windows and sliding patio door were covered in vertical blinds, and new Berber carpet abutted taupe painted walls. The neutral tones managed to make the furnishings just that little extra bit vulgar so the whole place felt harsh and jarring.
    The bottle of champagne Sergiu was taking from the refrigerator took an already uncomfortable scene and ran it straight for the cliffs. I didn’t realize I was backing toward the door until Sergiu asked, “Where you going?”
    Afraid I might reveal myself as unsophisticated, because I was certain no worldly woman would be alarmed by anything that was occurring, I smiled away any thought of retreat and took a seat in the corner of the couch.
    When Sergiu gave me a bubbling champagne glass, I put it on the coffee table and he handed it back. I held it explaining, “I’ve never cared for it.”
    “I bring this for you, from New York.”
    “Oh.” I tipped the glass to my lips but consumed nothing, then said, “Thank you,” and held it like a prop.
    Sergiu laughed. He asked suspiciously, “You drink?”
    “Yes,” I was smiling assurance.
    He didn’t believe me, sat down flush next to me so that the smell of leather and patchouli, the distinct heavy scent of Givenchy, was wrapping around me. He pressed, “Show me you drink.”
    I pushed back into the arm of the couch and he followed. I warned, “Sergiu …”
    And he said, “My name no Sergiu.”
    Really? How very interesting . I forgot to finish my appeal for restraint.
    “Ah,” he chuckled, “now you give me eyes.”
    I was smirking, expectantly waiting to hear the rest, but he wasn’t moving or speaking, just grinning and waiting like me until I was finally forced to ask, “Then how did you get the name, the identity, all the paperwork and passport?”
    My question surprised him. He was expecting to hear me ask for his real name. He appeared slightly hurt and disconcerted, saying, “Is name of Romanian.”
    “Yes, I know. You have travel documents. How did you get the name?” The question of how to acquire genuine, federally recognized identity completely possessed me, and whatever-his-name could see it.
    With a little bit of concern, he sat back to call me, “Demonia.”
    “Yes, yes,” I was getting vexed and brushed it aside with hurried aggravation. “Madonna, demonia, my mamma mia, you’re Italian. How did you get Romanian documents?” Then seeing I was causing offense, I tried to undo it by sipping at the champagne.
    He gave a little, “I work in Romania. I drive from Italia for my family.”
    I was smiling encouragement, taking another small swallow.
    “I know a man. He no so good.”
    I turned my head for explanation and took another sip.
    “No so good here,” he touched his heart.
    I frowned, “A bad person? Criminal?”
    “Bad here,” again the heart.
    “Sick?”
    “Yes. He no so good. He no stay long. We agree. I take his name.”
    “Did he die?”
    “Ah,” he rolled it around not willing to confirm it.
    I took another drink. “There’d be a body. A death certificate. A grave …”
    “Ah,” turning his head, “maybe no.”
    No book had ever captivated or intrigued me like this. I was completely enthralled, trying to put it together, absently raising the glass to my mouth and then scowling with disgust to taste the Chardonnay grape, but never mind that, I wanted to know, “Did you just go get a driver’s license in his name? Or communist papers? Did they not have a picture on file?”
    He wasn’t answering, so I tried the drink trick again. He rolled his eyes,