III.

F E L L O W  C O N

—aka, even you know what happens to snitches,

EXT— A TEA SHOP.

SOMEWHERE IN ST. PETERSBURG — MID-MORNING.

SCENE II.

THE REAL START of the story happened almost two weeks back.

What is this, you may ask? Your darling protagonist— a known con artist — lying to you, the reader? Well, welcome to my life, hi, my name is Antonina.

. . . No, that's a lie too. Sorry. You really can't expect that a woman used to forging new identities to just be. . . honest, now do you?

If I was, I'd probably be in some horrendous job trying to make ends meet, paying rent on the brink of the deadline (if not a little past its due date, because let's be honest here), and settled in some relationship with a mediocre 'nice guy'. Who is, high likely, probably a really nice guy.

A life that's been plotted all the way to the mediocre brick road. From the debts that are straining us from doing exquisite travels to being satisfied with decent champagne at some high end grocery store and call it a good anniversary.

It makes one shudder, truly.

Good for the people who can stomach that— I'm sure St. Peter would like to admit more of your kind through the pearly gates.

People like me on the other hand... we've come to terms that are lack of mediocrity meant a tombstone in hell. At this point, we're all just trying not to reach new, unfathomable heights.

(Y'know, like murder).

The location was Russia— the true start of our story. St. Petersburg really isn't all the rage during the off season where the holidays are over and it's technically time to go back to work even if it's too cold out because we live in a oppressive capitalistic world, so who cares if your balls are purple as long as you're on time and hustling, yes?

The city really isn't all that pretty this time. I mean it still is. The hints of monarchy, of old blue blood in its core that not all modernity can erase. St. Petersburg was the heart of Mother Russia— and aptly named. There is beauty in its coarseness, its harshness. At a core that no militia can deny.

But there's less of that whimsy and more of the cold, hard truth that Monday is back. Everyone is scowling at the dreary clouds, hissing as they snatch the festive decorations off of their marketing techniques, and rolling their eyes at tourists trying to catch a plane out of the sudden drear that came to pass. White Christmas was done, so why stay in the unforgiving winter that has— and with all honesty — lost its charm?

But to me, this time and place was perfect. Antonina La Verne needed to lie low, and bundling up a few more layers and furs didn't matter much if it meant I wouldn't need a new name change and vanish to an even worse place just to ensure I wouldn't have my head pass through the guillotine.

And high society-friendly, French national Ms. La Verne wouldn't be caught dead in Russia at the moment, when everyone is moving to the forever hot summer beaches for New Years; partying, getting fucked up, and wasting more sense and money— the usual. Some drolls would be in New York, rolling their eyes as they chant on mindless groupchats, 'Daddy's got this thing for the ball dropping thing. It's horrendous, but what can you do?' Yeah. Socialites who rely on daddy's black card can't say no when he really wants to spend it to watch a fucking ball drop. They'd be plugged up in so many coke anyway though, so who cares for their misery?

But I wasn't in misery. No, I was lying low without actually lying low. And coffee in St. Petersburg isn't all that bad. I've spent the first two weeks locked up in the hotel room, having stared at the same niches and corners until I could memorised them as if I've lived there since I was a child. My Russian wasn't all that bad either, though with keeping up with pretences I made sure to lay it on thick with a lot of gesticulating to get my point across. The hotel staff were accommodating to a privy American woman who may or may not be an actress who got pregnant, nobody knows.

She tips nice though. Sometimes, she's on the phone arguing with a 'lover'. Sometimes they can hear her 'vomiting' her guts out in the bathroom and looking preciously pitiful right after.

This was standard precaution, one that I do not enjoy but a necessary evil nevertheless. The first two weeks are always crucial when people are on the hunt for you, you know. So the best way is to always redirect your base outward look for the locals' benefit.

'She can't possibly be a thief— she's just a poor young starlet that may or may not be pregnant with someone important's baby!'

People's imaginations are amazing. All you have to do is to drop hints here and there and let their brains work out the drama.

But it had almost been a month, pitchforked people singing hymns for my head none the wiser for my location or those of the nice bits and baubles I nicked. So slowly, ever so fucking slowly, I started testing the waters, coming out for a morning coffee. Then roaming around just before the sun sets in random hours to keep it niche and interesting, doing bits of shopping to alleviate some boredom.

Hey, girl's still gotta spend some of that not-so hard earned new money, right?

Patience has never been my best virtue.

That's what I was doing then, on the phone with one of my favourite people, when I was ambushed. I was sipping a fast cooling cup of coffee in between, with a bread that had a name I couldn't pronounce but was filling enough for a breakfast, already demolished and in crumbs in a tiny platter in front of me.

The sun was warm, the morning early, and the cold just a shimmer; a taste of Mother Russia's intensity. The bare breadth of her heart occupying us into our gloomy depression.

"So Christmas in Paris, then New Years in Russia? That's your plan?" Sophie sounded amused. Even her pixelated version held that infamous smirk of hers, her piercings moving with the stretch of her face. She was a pink-haired punk disaster, easy on the eye but better with her hands, and one I considered what normal families would call a 'sister'.

Of course we weren't really related— neither did we have the same mentor that raised us into the beings we were today, but we went through nearly the same training. The same methods and teachings. Conning was an art form of many branches, built on heavy and multiple roots, with multiple masters that have their techniques and specialties, with the lot of us pursuing certain areas and hopefully, become a legend.

Sophie liked to do big jobs with a careen of people whilst I preferred working by myself. There were a few times we found ourselves as compatriots for the same loot. . . and a few times when we found ourselves facing each other for the same loot.

Those instances were always fun.

Biggest rule of the Con however— snitch and you get the ditch.

There is nothing worse than the betrayal of a fellow con.

"Don't have a choice," I had muttered, raising my eyebrow at my phone. Sophie was walking somewhere— from the quick survey of her background, she seemed to be in Hong Kong. The towering buildings were staggering behind her, almost dizzyingly, and her hold on the phone was the opposite of a pleasant angle from this point of view, with her chin and lip-piercing the most focal point of her angle. You could see a silver of her shaved, pink head and her long lashes every now and again.

"You could've stayed somewhere close in Paris," she continued. She was power walking somewhere I really couldn't careless about. Probably robbed someone from the speed and casual, smiley-way she was talking to me. "Nice is very nice for New Years, last I heard."

I snorted. "Did you hear that from Maxwell?"

"You can say a lot of shit about Maxwell, but that asshole knows how— and where — to lay the fuck low." She laughed. "Remember that job in Dubai? Mykonos was gorgeous that time of the year."

"Ahh, Mykonos," I said dreamily. The beach, the water, the sun. I absolutely loathed the heat but I've always been a water baby. "Ugh, after this, I'm doing a job in Macau and leaving for Mykonos."

My eyes trained across the streets with a flick of my eyelids, a palm underneath my jaw in a look of complete idle and boredom. I do this once in a while, just to make note of everything around me. A precaution. I hate being on my guard, but it was a natural reaction now. Second to moving a limb to walk.

And then I spotted her.

At first, I saw her nothing but a potential mark. The fur coat was one thing— mink and dyed a blush pink — accentuated by Louboutins and thick, brooch-sized earrings made of rubies and a smatter of diamonds. But it was her gait that had my spine stretching straight. People with money have a gait that was distinguishable above others. It was more than just the confidence, it was the casual lax amidst the strong presence.

It was also the gaze— and hers, curled with a smile, was directed straight at me.

"Someone's coming towards me," I cut off whatever Sophie was saying, mouth in a careful, casual smile as she immediately stopped talking with her steps pulled to a halt.

"Stay or leave?"

"Leave," I said with an airy, unchanged tone, flitting my eyes around and keeping every movement precise. I felt watched now— an actress on stage with all the lights on her. And the lights are too bright, they're hot just by proximity. They're blinding. Making sure that I wasn't about to get ambushed by a bunch of dicks was a second alarm response, and when you were still grasping heads and sense, it was a little harder to pinpoint.

Just a tad.

I looked up to make sure she was crossing the street, still toward me. Of course she was. "But if you don't hear from me in fifteen, call back. If I don't answer, don't call me again until thirty more. Then an hour. If I don't pick on either, call Mama."

"I'll make sure your manager holds up," Sophie joked, but her eyes were tensed and her jaw rigged. Sophie and I were close; no matter what happens, it was hard to see a friend in a throat-gripping situation.

Unless it was a sucker dropping into our laps, no surprise is ever a good thing for cons who are trying to hide.

I flashed her my teeth. "Do so, bitch."

"Come out of this alive, bitch. Some may say the Cackle-Bladder is old but—" She leaned her phone down and flipped open her leather jacket, showing a patch of dried blood on her white shirt, just by her heart. Her grin was still sharp, still Sophie, but there was a touch of strained worry. She hated worrying. "— it works. Whatever it takes."

"Whatever works," I whispered, clinging to those words that make me who I am.

The call ended with my heart pounding as the chair in front of me skidded roughly— a light sigh came out of the person settling on it. It was like blinking after focusing on another thing too closely. It took time to adjust.

"доброе утро," she said with half a chirp in a sweet tone. Her accent was quickly accessed— American. Natural, but her production of another language was near flawless. "Or is it more Bonjour, Mademoiselle La Verne?"

I looked up, fluttering my eyelashes with a confident smile on my face. In my head, I was doing as much calculations as possible—

[ a] working out my numerous aliases and backgrounds, the ones I could use and the ones I couldn't (I can use three actively, one I recently torched from a job in Bulgaria, and two back up justincase ones with perfect identification, and another one with not so perfect. A just in case for the justincase ones),

[b] and if I know her from one of them (nothing was registering);

[c] exits, always (I'm outside a café in front of a four-way intersection, there's only so much road she can block. Con: my heels may become a problem and at the hour, there aren't a lot of crowds to disappear into);

[d] if there are lurkers in the area (none to the immediate glance, but I felt uneasy);

and [e], asses the asset.

She definitely did not seem like a dick, that I could point out from the beginning. Her skin was too glassy and pale for that, completely unblemished, plumped with shiny pink lips and an elaborate eye makeup with a thin eyeliner and nice, lengthy lashes. She was almost auburn haired, unnatural but dyed in several shades, long and wavy that framed a picturesque face. A few, admittedly, well done surgeries. Her full pout wasn't natural was one thing.

As she sat, her body was curved comfortably, dainty and elegant, but purposeful. Everything she was wearing was high class, and her hands— perfectly donned up nails decorated with several rings and stacks of bracelets. Gold, diamond, a string of rubies. . .

She definitely was not a dick.

But I still couldn't put a fucking background to the face.

So I decided to appear unperturbed but quizzical, thinking this was my safest bet, with my head tilted lightly to one side and smile ever present. "Either is fine, ma dame," I said, flawless French accent light and airy, moving my phone back to the inner pockets of my coat. "But if it's not too much to ask, may I ask who you are first?"

She giggled lightly, smile tart. "Oh, that's right, very rude of me." She gestured a light wave of her fingers on her clavicle. "My name is Yuna Park. I own an online fashion company, but that's not what this is about, no. This is about my brother."

I tried to register her name, and the possible murky image of her 'brother' as quickly as my brain could churn them. I've met a few Parks, but not a lot o Yunas. I came up empty.

"Do I know your brother, mademoiselle?"

Yuna Park's smile widened, her eyes brightening. "Your accent is so believable, it makes me realise your colleague was right. If there's anyone who can pull this off, it would be you."

My right eye twitched, heart stopping with it. Someone blew my fucking cover.

This was an ambush.

LANGUAGES + TERMS PRESENT.

доброе утро 'dobroye utro' = Russian for 'good morning'.

French | 'Bonjour, Mademoiselle La Verne' = Good Morning, Ms. La Verne // 'ma dame' = my lady // 'mademoiselle' = miss/young lady.

'Dick' = Police// 'Manager' = a person in charge of finances, in long cons, in charge of divvying up proceeds of the con. I'm not completely sure if this also means someone who fixes their finances indefinitely, like you know, making sure they're in off-shore accounts or whatnot, but I may it seem like it, why not. // 'Cackle-Bladder' = faking the death of a con artist, for example, having the con bite down on a tablet filled with chicken blood as if they've been shot. //

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Fun fact: this is actually halved as this part is already nearly 3k, so I had to divy up chapters to maintain the sweet spot. Working on this at different intervals of time and place, I managed to screw up the tenses, so I'll work on that on the second draft. Nevertheless, hope you enjoyed!

Welcome to the real start of the story. Sorta.

;-)