LITTLE THIEF.
RILEY’S POV
“Third heist of the month,” I shouted, raising an invisible glass with my free hand. “Here’s to many more.”
“To our gaddamn luck,” Avery fired back, unleashing that low, wicked laugh of hers— the kind that cut through the adrenaline and had me laughing right along with her, despite the pounding in my chest.
For a moment everything else vanished, it was just us, the bike, and the thrill of speed.
For a fleeting moment, I let my mind drift back to those endless nights after the accident that stole my parents from me, turning me into a homeless orphan. I couldn’t forget the raw ache of grief and the biting chill of the streets where I’d curled up alone,praying death should come to take me to my parents.
Avery had found me there, a wild, fierce girl with tangled hair and defiant golden eyes. She’d pressed a stolen loaf of bread into my trembling hands when hunger had nearly killed me.
Since then, she had become my ride-or-die, the only thing close to family I had left in this unforgiving world.
We learned young that no one hands anything to orphans. Mercy was a fairy tale, and safety a luxury we couldn’t afford.
So we decided to carve out our own path, taking what the world refused to give.
I glanced down at her now, her arms locked tight around my waist as we sped through the darkened streets.
I could still picture our very first heist together. I was eight, and she was ten, already bold as brass.
We’d lifted a couple of apples from a market stall. It was nothing grand, just enough to quiet the gnawing in our bellies, but the rush of success had felt like victory, like proof we could survive on our own terms.
And now here we were, those same scrappy petty thieves from King’s Street, racing away from the boldest score we’d ever pulled.
“Hold on tight,” I shouted over the roar of the engine, leaning forward on the bike, the night breeze blowing my hair over my face.
“if you don't, don’t blame me when you kiss the damn asphalt!” I chuckled, revving the engine louder.
Avery laughed, adjusting herself behind me. “ Come on babes.. . I've got this, don't worry about me.”
I smirked, increasing the speed as we maneuvered through the streets of Toronto.
“Home sweet home" I yelled, guiding the bike into the alley beside BLACKED biker’s club.
The engine roar subsided as I parked.
Avery swung her leg over the motorcycle and hopped down, the heavy duffel bag stuffed with cash and glittering jewels from the mansion clutched tight against her chest like a hard-won trophy.
I tugged off my helmet, shaking out my golden-blonde hair so it spilled down my back in a wild cascade. I tucked the helmet into its spot on the bike, gave the sleek frame an affectionate pat, and turned to her.
Grinning, I slung an arm around her neck and pulled her close.
“Come on, babe. Let’s get absolutely wasted.”
Avery’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she plunged a hand into the bag, pulling out a thick bundle of crisp bills. She pressed it to her face, fanning herself with it and breathing in deep, savoring that sharp, intoxicating scent of fresh money.
“Oh, love, trust me we’re getting spectacularly, gloriously fucked-up tonight.”
She flicked the bundle of bills against my cheek and we burst into laughter as we stormed inside.
The heat of the club hit us like a wall the moment we pushed through the heavy door.
Inside, it was all chaos: throbbing basslines rattling the walls, the sharp tang of motor oil clinging to leather jackets, and the thick haze of spilled whiskey and sweat-soaked bodies.
A few hard-eyed bikers lounged near the bar, their stares snapping to the swollen duffel bag Avery cradled against her chest.
I met their glares with a sneer, my lips curling just enough to show my sharp teeth.
They looked away fast.
This was a den of thieves, sure everyone here stole from everyone else eventually, but they knew better than to tangle with us.
Not when Avery’s boyfriend ran the place.
“Spencer!” Avery called over the music, her voice bright and eager as she spotted him at a corner table.
He was slouched in a burgundy leather jacket and black jeans, poker cards fanned in one hand, a half-empty mug of beer in the other, laughing with a circle of his boys.
At the sound of her voice he turned, and the moment his gaze landed on the bag, greed flared bright and naked in his eyes. He shoved up from his chair so fast it scraped loudly against the floor and barreled toward us through the crowd.
“Babe,” Avery smiled softly, a flush rising in her cheeks as he reached us.
But Spencer barely glanced at her. His attention was locked on the bag, his fingers already twitching toward it.
My stomach twisted with disgust.
Son of a bitch.
Ugly, womanizing piece of trash.
I hate him… Only God knows what Avery sees in him.
I could already see the calculations spinning behind his eyes on how quickly he could claim it all as his own, just like the last time.
He reached for the bag, but I quickly stepped between them, blocking his grab.
“Fuck off, Spencer,” I growled. “Touch it and that will be the last you use that filthy hand of yours.”
Spencer puffed up his chest, ready to bark something stupid and tough, but Avery quickly slipped between us, pressing a hand to his chest and flashing that smile that always melted him.
“Easy, baby,” she purred, her soft voice easing the tension.
“We’re celebrating tonight. Let’s get drinks, strong ones. You can look at the haul later.”
Spencer’s scowl wavered; greed wrestled with pride, but she won.
He grunted something that passed for agreement, but I know how cunning he is.
I yanked the bag from her and kept it secured in my own hip.
Spencer gave me a deadly glare but didn’t say anything, instead he slung an arm around Avery’s shoulders, and steered her toward the bar.
I followed right behind them.
The rest of the night blurred into a storm of cheap whiskey, roaring laughter, and cigarette haze. Cards slapped tables, dice rattled, money changed hands in careless piles. Bodies swayed under colored lights, and the music never stopped pounding.
Avery drank like she was trying to drown the world, ending up sprawled across Spencer’s lap, giggling at nothing while his hands wandered places I tried not to notice.
I stayed sharp and sober, my eyes flicking to every movement that dare come close to the duffel at my feet.
When the first pale streak of dawn bled through the grimy windows, I hauled Avery up. She was limp and laughing, barely able to stand.
I half-carried, half-dragged her out to the bike, shoved the bag into the front compartment, and strapped her behind me. She clung on loosely, head lolling against my back as I gunned the engine and tore through empty streets toward home.
Our place was a narrow, weathered two-story row house on the edge of King’s Street peeling sage green paint, crooked shutters, a tiny porch sagging under years of neglect.
Ivy had claimed half the brickwork, and the single streetlamp out front flickered like it was on its last breath.
I killed the engine and yanked Avery off the bike. The moment her boots hit the ground she doubled over, retching into the patchy grass.
“Eww… come on,” I muttered, wrinkling my nose. “Get on your damn feet. I’m not carrying a grown-ass woman up those steps.”
With the bag tucked tight under one arm, I hooked the other around her waist and hauled her toward the porch.
We stumbled up the three creaking stairs, nearly kissing the splintered boards before slamming shoulder first into the front door instead.
Avery slid down the wood with a groan, landing in a boneless heap at my feet while I dug through my jacket pockets for the keys.
“Since when do we get mail?” she slurred,her head tilted sideways, staring at something on the welcome mat.
“Mail?” I echoed, finally fishing out the key ring. “What mai—”
The words died as I followed her gaze.
A plain brown envelope lay beside her boot.
My brows snapped together. “Who the hell dropped this?” I muttered, crouching to snatch it up.
We never got mail. Not bills, not flyers, nothing.
Wrong house, I almost decided until I flipped it over and saw the two words scrawled in precise black ink across the front:
To Little Thief.
My heart did a sickening flip.
Little Thief.
Only one person had ever called me that.
Could it be him????
Ice slid down my spine.
I tore the envelope open with shaking fingers, unfolded the single sheet inside, and read:
Little Thief,
You have five hours to return every damn thing you removed from my mansion at 47 Hawthorne Lane. If the items are not restored (undamaged and in full) prepare to face the consequences of your actions.
Regards,
Leonardo Blackwood
