IV.

B U S I N E S S  D E A L S

—aka, rich people are terrifying fucking entities,

EXT— STILL A TEA SHOP.

STILL SOMEWHERE IN ST. PETERSBURG — MID-MORNING.

  SCENE I.

TOP MOST OF the con— a snitch gets blacklisted. No exceptions.

Well one if he doesn't end up in a ditch first.

Conning is a game where everyone is in the same foothold of equal— a pawn to an otherwise battle worn field of rooks, bishops, and queens. The rest of the pawns are indisposed, locked in a position where they're unable to move. Some not even realising their potential, mindlessly following where they're being herded. But some of us realise our worth; we're small, blend well, and if the time comes, can transform ourselves in front of the so-called 'greats' to snatch a few pearls. Some loose diamonds.

We can become anything.

But for that to happen, in a sea of pawns, we must have trust in each other.

A 'colleague' 'mentioning' 'me'— is a sentence with too much air quotes for a con artist to feel comfortable.

Schooling my expression immediately, I cursed myself for the semi-second slip. Then out loud through a tight voice, "Colleague?"

"Oh, he didn't tell on you!" She immediately dissuade, reading me too fast for my liking. "Rather, he barely knew you, I had to do the digging. See, I needed someone— someone that you perfectly meet the specifications of, almost too perfect really! You're a wonder." Adding a nod as if that helped being called like an exhibit to a freak show. "Now, all he knew of you was your current name and that you were in Versailles a couple of weeks back. Everything else, I had to find out on my own. Antonina La Verne though, very nice name."

My smile was more teeth than actual enamour. "Please. Do elaborate."

"On what I know about you or the job that I know you'll do?"

She looked innocent, everything about her demeanour and speech was like her pearly pink lipstick: a sheltered princess who knew the weight and symbolism of the diamond crown on her head. But blended with it was a poisonous grit that showed how much she knew she owned a throne. Used to using people, ordering them around, and cherry picking them for whatever play she needed them for. Disposing when she thought them useless with a pretty silk, handkerchief to her pearly pink lips shaped with a small 'o'.

All the regret she could muster for using a person.

There was no actual sharpness to her. Just a plainly put, 'I always get what I want'.

I hated her type the most.

I sighed and schooled my demeanour to faux defeat. Underneath the table, my pointer finger was tapping against my knee in rapid succession, multiple plans forming whilst using whatever information I could fish.

"Alright. I'll consider this an attempt at a business deal."

"It is!" She clapped once with a wonderful glee. I had to physical stop my eye from twitching. Being ambushed, her knowing something about me, and acting completely adorable about it was busting my 'fricken nut. "This is definitely a business deal."

I almost snorted, my finger tapping rapidly. "A business deal where I am at the short end of the stick. Being pushed down by said stick to agree."

"Tut, tut. No, you're not at the short end since this business is about you catching a very big fish and whatever reward that fish has." She smiled charmingly. "And as someone related to that fish, I have it on good authority that he has a lot to give and possibly more to take from. Truly. Fingers crossed, hope to die and all that."

Even I had to admit that that was enticing. It didn't seem like there was a flicker of dishonesty, especially with her eyes gleaming in that hungry way that felt. . . abnormal to someone like her. Girls like her never go hungry. With a baby pink acrylic nail, she tapped the table.

I watched that movement. "And this fish is?"

"My darling brother. I. . . need you to take something from him."

Amateur, I thought, almost raising my nose. If I could just see the better etches of her clothes past the damn— actually, adorable — pink mink coat, I could see if she was wearing a wire. Take is a big word to use out in the open.

"You want me to. . . acquire something from your brother?"

She nodded and sighed, as if this was a truly bothersome situation on her part. "We're close but in a not really good way. Truthfully, he's annoying."

I straightened slightly at the sudden ire in her eyes. It was quick enough for me to think I might have imagined it; but the strength of that hatred was deep as it was bright.

This is going to be a problem, isn't it? Doing 'business deals' with rich people rarely aren't.

Rule #4 of the Con— trusting the rich is a suicide.

"See, we're currently vying for a strategic position and he's currently ahead. And I don't like how fast he's making a gap between us, so I need to throw a wrench in his plans. Well, more of a bomb in his fucking path, but same principals." She waved a hand. All her gold, diamond chains, and rings fluttered like a red cape to a bull. "Just enough to veer him off the left and throw him into the ditch, you know?"

I raised an eyebrow. From my experience, rich people rarely make analogies. "I actually don't, no. If you did take your time to find some things about me—"

"Just about, yes."

"— then you should know that my jobs don't involve more than acquiring things. Putting people in ditches isn't something I'm an expert of, darling."

She grinned. "That's fine because that's the job itself. Although, this will probably one of the hardest job you will ever do. If you do succeed. . . oh. Oh, darling. The success from this job is unlike anything you've ever. . . acquired before. Hold on." She pulled her body taunt to take out her phone from her pants, quickly typing something and offering it up to me. "Here's my brother for reference. I don't know if you know him. He's rich but he's annoyingly a hermit. Guarded. So you probably haven't met him personally. Even if you're that good, he's that bad at socialising."

I took her phone with my gloved hand just as she snorted at the last part, a joke I didn't understood so I ignored. Instead, I focused on the small screen of information about a man named Kristoff Park. From the photo and giving her another look, these 'siblings' didn't look like each other; from his tan skin and sharp lines— dark eyes and almost gloomy disposition of absolute displeased, she was all soft and pale in the opposite. Sunshiney. Irritatingly. Although both siblings were gorgeous, I had to admit.

In fact, he was more my type than I care to admit out loud.

I scrolled through the measly rapport, the very bare essentials of who he was and honestly, not a lot for someone rich enough to dig through mine. Even the title— billionaire was there in simple blocks alongside the description of his height and weight. I guess for rich people, it really is just another identifier.

"These aren't a lot to go on, on," I said, giving her phone back. "If I do take the job."

"You will," she answered, obtusely confident. "And there's not enough because as I said, he's very much a hermit. Good looking and absolutely potent for single ladies but refuses them. He's not gay though, just. . . not into the whole sexual relationship thing."

I almost made another face. Instead, I shook my head, both to erase that and to move on. "He doesn't look nor sound like an amiable man."

"No, he really isn't. In fact, the only amiable thing about him is his good looks." She snorted lightly. "His personality is literally the worst."

"And what is this thing that I'm supposed to procure from him?"

"His sperm."

Despite only air through my oesophagus, I choked. "Pardon me?"

Her mouth twitched but she looked dead serious. "You heard me. Sperm. Specifically, his baby. Unorthodox, true, but there's a good chance that if this works, you'll have the child of one of the richest bachelors in the world." She makes a slight twist in her features. "One that's actually good looking enough to fuck."

My brain was reeling, more mud than thought. "W-what— hold on. Hold on." God, I needed alcohol. Maybe something to smoke.

Maybe escaping now wouldn't be so bad.

"Don't you dare stand, Ms. La Verne," she cut through my thoughts with a soft murmur. She makes a 'tsk' sound as if I was a disappointing child. "You know how I know you'll take this job?" She raises her wrist, her forefinger slightly higher.

And then there was movement. A harsh change where four suited men came alive against the seemingly beautiful backdrop. My entire body seized up tightly, unable to discern if I was going to fight or run, but only one truly stepped into our little corner table and settled a thin folder in Yuna Park's hands.

She handed it to me.

With my eyes sharply on the man who stepped forward— his height and weight was entirely too big for me to overpower — I flipped open the folder. . . and felt my heart drop, ribs caving inward.

She found at least four of my identities, with the accompanied work and riches I got from them.

One of them is the London job. Laura Finley. The Parisian pink diamonds. A photograph of a woman in black and white— captured in a moment of movement, her form is blurry and her back is turned to the camera, but her gloved hands held a small pouch. In the back, a man is less blurry, you can make out his aquiline nose, his deep-set eyes, and locked jaw. There's a scar that's softly running across his forehead and left brow. He was easily identifiable.

I exhaled lightly, feeling everything constrict. From my throat to my fingers. I flexed them a little, trying to keep my expression as neutral as fucking possible. I met her eyes, and for the first time in our conversation, I dropped my fake accent, settling on a normal American one.

"I see."

Her smile settled nicely on her face. "You see."

"How'd you get this, if I may ask?"

"A very thorough, very pricey connection." She sniffed lightly in disdain. "Cost me quite a bit."

"So what I need from your brother. . ." I swallowed painfully. "— is a child."

"Yes, specifically his so when anyone asks for a paternal test— him especially — you pass with flying colours. This is not thoroughly a bad deal on your end. All you have to do is have a little fun and make sure you get a little of him enough to create another human being. Sure the labour is hard— probably, I don't really know — but the rewards of this job is unbelievable, Ms. La Verne. My brother has a strong sense of duty, and if it's his child, a son especially would be the best might I add, he won't turn away from it. In fact, he'll need that child."

". . . And how is this suppose to throw a bomb in his path?"

Her smile widens into a grin. "Leave that to me. But if you get pregnant, you'll have the possible sole heir of a billionaire in your repertoire. One that would do anything for the mother of his child."

"This is insane," I insisted, speaking almost soft now. I couldn't see an escape. I felt like I'd been marked and was ready to be sewn in strings for someone to puppet.

Yuna shrugs. "Maybe. I have it on good authority that my brother will be in Italy next week. All you have to do is to keep to yourself until then. I don't like slights in a business deal, Ms. La Verne. As much as I would love for you to be the star of this plan, I can always look for another. And I will have you dealt with accordingly. Do you understand?"

I was going to be monitored. Any contact will be found and dealt with. "I do."

She smirked, offering a hand. "A deal then, Ms. Finley?"

I took her hand. For a brief second, I imagine pulling her hard, knocking her out, and taking a run for it. Or using her as a hostage. But that could get ugly in a way that I know I wasn't prepared for.

"A deal it is."

Dealings with devils. . . who knew I'd make more than one, hm?

So.

Did you see that coming?

A gentle reminder that TCT will be updating every Thursdays now.

Have a wonderful weekend, my loves.