bene. ”
Two hundred Lira. Not bad for a few seconds work. Astrid may have been a terrible mother, but she was a damn fine pickpocket who at least taught me that one useful skill. Not that I needed the precision of a surgeon in Mr. Gorga’s case. In a crowded discotheque it was like shooting fish in a barrel. Most times I’d sneezing hex the mark then swoop in with a handkerchief and flirty smile. While he was distracted by my womanly ways, I’d swipe his billfold. Easy peasy. Purses proved more difficult, just because women weren’t as dazzled by my fluttering baby blues, so I mostly preyed on men while my partner Dario targeted the ladies. We were a match made in hell. A week and a half before, he saw me fleece a mark at the Vatican, recognized a kindred petty criminal spirit, and suggested we team up. He was only a couple years older than me, gorgeous as sin, and immediately offered to let me stay at his place strings free. I was lonely. I didn’t have a damn friend in the world, so I followed him to his squat. To his credit, he didn’t start adding strings for a few days. Still. It beat boarding school.
In less than a week, I had found myself in a Swiss prison masquerading as a school. Once again, based on my test scores, I was skipped two grades, which just compounded my misery. Not only was I the youngest in my grade, therefore the dorm, but the girls knew each other for years and did not like outsiders, especially an American outsider. Prisoners of war received better treatment than I did at that school. The girls stole my clothes, spread heinous yet not wholly inaccurate rumors that I was a slut, that I spent time in a sanitarium, they even attempted to frame me for cheating from the moment I arrived. Every day, every hour brought some fresh new hell. They even found ways to torment me in my sleep, making me pee my bed or putting grease in my hair. Every. Day. And the teachers were no help. No one wanted to inconvenience a Duke or Ambassador daddy. I was in such a deep depression already I barely wanted to get out of my urine-soaked bed, let alone fight back. For a whole week I refused to leave my bed or eat. Even then they wouldn’t leave me alone. One even tossed me a razor blade as she giggled, “To help things along.”
I lasted all of a month before I ran away the first time. I found my way back to London, to him, but my pleas, my literal begging on my hands and knees fell on deaf ears. The next morning, Clifton escorted me back to school. I lost all privileges and couldn’t even leave the grounds. Of course that didn’t stop escapes two through five. My Houdini routine continued four more times, each with the same result. That last escape Asher refused to even see me. A week after my final return to hell, I received a letter with no return address, simply a short paragraph with a telephone number for emergencies and a heartfelt request for me to make the best of things. To try. He may as well have plunged a literal blade into my heart.
Then nothing .
Not a single word, not a single visit, from him in almost a year. Not even at Christmas. Asher arranged for me to spend summers and holidays with the High Priestess of Athens to continue my neglected magical tutoring. My Greek oasis. YaYa was sweet, and her grandson Costas even sweeter if not clumsy those first few times, but after Christmas instead of returning to school, I made my final disappearing act. I had saved about two hundred marks from my allowance and selling some jewelry, so I hopped a boat to Italy and worked my way up to Rome. Two days in the city and the money ran out. Hence my life of crime.
After fleecing Mr. Gorga, I spotted Dario chatting up a middle-aged woman at the bar. Judging from the sloppy caresses he tried on his mark, in the hour I’d been on the hunt, my partner apparently had drunk his weight in liquor. The mark scowled and tried to leave, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her. I hated when he drank. The night before
Two hundred Lira. Not bad for a few seconds work. Astrid may have been a terrible mother, but she was a damn fine pickpocket who at least taught me that one useful skill. Not that I needed the precision of a surgeon in Mr. Gorga’s case. In a crowded discotheque it was like shooting fish in a barrel. Most times I’d sneezing hex the mark then swoop in with a handkerchief and flirty smile. While he was distracted by my womanly ways, I’d swipe his billfold. Easy peasy. Purses proved more difficult, just because women weren’t as dazzled by my fluttering baby blues, so I mostly preyed on men while my partner Dario targeted the ladies. We were a match made in hell. A week and a half before, he saw me fleece a mark at the Vatican, recognized a kindred petty criminal spirit, and suggested we team up. He was only a couple years older than me, gorgeous as sin, and immediately offered to let me stay at his place strings free. I was lonely. I didn’t have a damn friend in the world, so I followed him to his squat. To his credit, he didn’t start adding strings for a few days. Still. It beat boarding school.
In less than a week, I had found myself in a Swiss prison masquerading as a school. Once again, based on my test scores, I was skipped two grades, which just compounded my misery. Not only was I the youngest in my grade, therefore the dorm, but the girls knew each other for years and did not like outsiders, especially an American outsider. Prisoners of war received better treatment than I did at that school. The girls stole my clothes, spread heinous yet not wholly inaccurate rumors that I was a slut, that I spent time in a sanitarium, they even attempted to frame me for cheating from the moment I arrived. Every day, every hour brought some fresh new hell. They even found ways to torment me in my sleep, making me pee my bed or putting grease in my hair. Every. Day. And the teachers were no help. No one wanted to inconvenience a Duke or Ambassador daddy. I was in such a deep depression already I barely wanted to get out of my urine-soaked bed, let alone fight back. For a whole week I refused to leave my bed or eat. Even then they wouldn’t leave me alone. One even tossed me a razor blade as she giggled, “To help things along.”
I lasted all of a month before I ran away the first time. I found my way back to London, to him, but my pleas, my literal begging on my hands and knees fell on deaf ears. The next morning, Clifton escorted me back to school. I lost all privileges and couldn’t even leave the grounds. Of course that didn’t stop escapes two through five. My Houdini routine continued four more times, each with the same result. That last escape Asher refused to even see me. A week after my final return to hell, I received a letter with no return address, simply a short paragraph with a telephone number for emergencies and a heartfelt request for me to make the best of things. To try. He may as well have plunged a literal blade into my heart.
Then nothing .
Not a single word, not a single visit, from him in almost a year. Not even at Christmas. Asher arranged for me to spend summers and holidays with the High Priestess of Athens to continue my neglected magical tutoring. My Greek oasis. YaYa was sweet, and her grandson Costas even sweeter if not clumsy those first few times, but after Christmas instead of returning to school, I made my final disappearing act. I had saved about two hundred marks from my allowance and selling some jewelry, so I hopped a boat to Italy and worked my way up to Rome. Two days in the city and the money ran out. Hence my life of crime.
After fleecing Mr. Gorga, I spotted Dario chatting up a middle-aged woman at the bar. Judging from the sloppy caresses he tried on his mark, in the hour I’d been on the hunt, my partner apparently had drunk his weight in liquor. The mark scowled and tried to leave, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her. I hated when he drank. The night before
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