Chapter 1 The Long Con

• Ellerei Vale dreams in shadows.
• They creep at the edges of her mind, thick and heavy, pressing her down into silken pillows and cold marble floors. A cage door creaks — slow, deliberate — a sound that shouldn’t follow her this far into freedom. Somewhere in the dark, someone hums a tune she can’t name but knows by the way her pulse spikes when she hears it. There’s breath on her neck, hot and possessive, and a voice like oil—
• Mine.
• Her lungs seize. Her body jolts.
• She wakes with a gasp that tears the shadows in half.
• ♟
• It’s still dark. The cheap bedside clock glows 4:03 AM in neon green. Her mouth is dry as ash, her heart a fist of needles punching at her ribs.
• She throws the sweat-slick blanket off, swings her legs over the mattress, plants bare feet on cold concrete. The safehouse is quiet except for the hum of the fridge in the next room and the muted clink of Decker’s tools — always up before dawn, that man, fine-tuning a silencer or stripping down the getaway truck’s engine just because he can’t stand still.
• Ellerei scrubs her palms over her face. Breathes. Pulls her hair back into a messy knot that’ll come undone the second she tilts her head. None of it matters — she’s always a little undone when she needs to be.
• A sip of stale water. A glance at her phone — messages from Bishop, pinged at midnight. Last-minute firewall breach codes for tonight’s job. An encrypted note from their buyer: We want it done clean. No heat.
• She huffs a laugh at that. There’s no such thing as clean with this crew.
• She drags on sweatpants, a hoodie two sizes too big, and pads barefoot down the hallway, silent as the lie she’s made of herself. The living room is a battlefield of mismatched furniture and half-open duffel bags. Blueprints spread over the coffee table. Guns, gadgets, protein bar wrappers.
• Decker’s at the counter, cleaning gun parts like he’s in church. Bishop’s sprawled on the couch, hoodie up, headphones on, tapping at his laptop with all the grace of a viper.
• And Knox —
• Knox is asleep in the battered recliner, head tipped back, mouth parted slightly. There’s a fresh split on his bottom lip. His knuckles are bruised — fresh from some back-alley debt collection they handled for extra cash last night. Or maybe Talia found him again and ripped him open, tongue first, nails second. Ellerei doesn’t ask anymore.
• She doesn’t have to.
• She knows the smell of his blood like she knows her own.
• “Morning, sunshine,” Bishop murmurs without looking up. He taps his temple and flicks his eyes to Knox, still dead to the world. “He’s snoring like a freight train. I was tempted to slip him a sedative.”
• Ellerei drifts past him, nudges Knox’s boot with hers. He doesn’t stir.
• “Let him sleep,” Decker rumbles from the counter. He doesn’t glance up, just slots a piece into the Glock with a precise click. “He’ll need it for tonight.”
• “He’s gonna need a lot more than sleep,” Bishop mutters, too low for Knox to hear even if he were awake. Ellerei shoots him a sharp look. He just raises his brows innocently. What?
• She ignores them both and crosses to the kitchen. She knows exactly how to get him up.
• Coffee. Black. Dash of cinnamon — just enough to cut the bitterness, never enough to taste sweet. Two sugars. Stirred, not shaken, because he once told her sugar clumps piss him off more than bullet wounds.
• She brews it blind, muscle memory. No one says a word. Bishop watches her over the edge of his laptop, typing one-handed. Decker hums under his breath. The air smells like burnt toast and gun oil — home, if you squint at it sideways.
• She kneels beside Knox’s recliner. Close enough that his knees brush her shoulder when she shifts. She holds the mug under his nose. The steam curls around his stubbled jaw.
• His lashes flutter. Slow. Heavy.
• “Hey, big man,” she says, voice soft, all sugar she doesn’t have for herself. “Time to wake up.”
• Knox’s eyes open — dark green, murky at first, then clear when they focus on her face. He smiles. It’s lazy, cracked at the edges by whatever the hell he was dreaming about.
• “Elle,” he rasps. His voice is a rusted door hinge. “Didn’t know you were up.”
• “I’m always up.” She nudges the mug closer. “Drink. You’ll thank me later when you have to pretend to be charming.”
• He chuckles, low in his chest. Takes the mug from her, careful not to brush her fingers — except he does anyway, rough knuckles grazing her wrist. Static. She feels it in her teeth.
• “Sweetheart,” he sighs, tipping the mug up, inhaling the steam like it’s oxygen. “What would I do without you?”
• Bleed out on a kitchen floor or get played by Talia until you drown in her perfume, she thinks. But she just shrugs, smile sharp and soft at once. “Probably die of bad coffee.”
• ♟
• The crew gathers. Decker clicks his gun back together, wipes it clean. Bishop spins his laptop to show them a glitching security grid, all flashing red and green blocks — tonight’s playground.
• Ellerei stands at the head of the mess they call a war table. One palm flat on the blueprints. The other gripping a Sharpie she twirls between her fingers like a blade.
• “Last run,” she says. Her voice cuts the way she wants it to. Precise. No sign of nightmares or shadows or caged memories clawing at her ribs. Just the leader. The Mastermind.
• “This gig is tight. In and out under twenty. Bishop’s looped the cams for fifteen. Decker’s parked two blocks west — engine hot, eyes up. Knox—” She flicks her gaze to him. He’s watching her now, eyes awake, mouth curved around the edge of his coffee mug.
• “Muscle. Distraction if we need it. Keep your fists off anyone who isn’t absolutely necessary.”
• Knox smirks, licking a drop of coffee from his lip. She hates how her pulse trips when he does it. “No promises, Vale.”
• She rolls her eyes, but it’s softer than it should be. “Make them.”
• Bishop coughs, fighting a grin. Decker just grunts — that’s his version of agreement.
• They run through the plan twice. The details stick to Ellerei’s tongue like sugar on salt — every security code, every back door, every exit route. She can see it all in her head: the steel vault, the server they’ll gut, the fake identities they’ll wear like second skins.
• No one asks her why she knows what she knows.
• No one asks why she never sleeps.
• No one asks why, when Knox laughs at something Bishop says and nudges her side with his elbow, she doesn’t flinch — but the shadows in her chest grow teeth.
• When they scatter to gear up, Ellerei lingers.
• Knox is the last to leave the table. He brushes her shoulder with his on purpose this time — maybe to steady her, maybe because he’s an idiot who doesn’t see what he does to her.
• “You good?” he asks. Just that. So simple it splits her ribs wider than the dream did.
• She looks at him — dark green eyes, bruised lip, coffee mug empty in his huge palm.
• She knows how he takes his coffee. How he likes his eggs, how he hates being alone when it rains. She knows how his mouth tastes when he’s drunk enough to kiss Talia in front of everyone — just enough to ruin Ellerei in silence.
• “Yeah,” she lies, easy and pretty. “I’m good.”
• Knox smiles. Ruffles the back of her hair. Like she’s the crew’s kid sister instead of the only one here who could ruin him for good.
• He leaves. She watches the door swing shut behind him.
• And when she’s sure no one’s watching, she presses her palm to her throat — right where the cage door used to be.
• Not anymore, she thinks.