I Fell For The Broken Son Of Our Heist Target

The air in the Crow Club’s attic office was thick with the smell of stale cigar smoke and the low hum of anticipation. We were all there, gathered around the scarred wooden table that served as Kaz Brekker’s throne and war room. Nina was sharpening a small, vicious-looking blade, the metallic rasp a counterpoint to the steady tap of Inej’s slippers against the floorboards as she stood, silent and watchful, in the shadows. Matthias sat stiffly in his chair, a mountain of grudging loyalty. I was leaning back, my own chair balanced precariously on its two back legs, spinning one of my revolvers around my finger. The weight of it was a familiar comfort.

Across from me, Wylan sat perfectly still, his hands clasped in his lap. He always looked so out of place here, a splash of bright, untarnished color in our world of grays and blacks. The thought made a smile twitch at my lips.

Kaz leaned forward, his gloved hands resting flat on the table. His voice, when he spoke, was low and sharp, cutting through the quiet. “The target is a set of shipping ledgers.”

My revolver stopped spinning. Ledgers meant a merchant. Merchants meant a fat payout. My mind immediately filled with the glorious clatter of coins, the smooth feel of cards, the thrill of a high-stakes game where I could finally win back everything I’d lost and then some.

“The ledgers belong to Councilman Hoede,” Kaz continued, his gaze sweeping over us, lingering on no one. “They contain proof that he’s been skirting trade embargoes with the Shu Han. The right buyer will pay a fortune for that kind of leverage.”

Nina grunted. “Where are they?”

Kaz’s lips thinned into something that might have been a smile on a kinder man. “Hoede is paranoid. He doesn’t keep them in his home or his offices. He keeps them in a vault belonging to a trusted associate. He’ll be retrieving them in three nights, during a private auction.” Kaz paused, letting the silence stretch. “The auction is being held at the home of Jan Van Eck.”

The name dropped into the room like a chunk of ice. My chair came down with a sharp crack, all four legs hitting the floor at once. My gaze shot to Wylan.

It was as if all the color had been leeched from him. His face, usually flushed with a gentle pink, was a stark, bloodless white. His freckles stood out like flecks of dirt on porcelain. He had shrunk in on himself, his shoulders hunched, his eyes wide and fixed on the scarred surface of the table as if it were a drowning pit. He looked breakable.

A cold, sharp anger, entirely separate from the thrill of the job, twisted in my stomach. The vision of shining kruge evaporated, replaced by the ghost-pale image of the boy in front of me.

“It’s a perfect opportunity,” Kaz said, his voice devoid of any emotion. He was looking directly at Wylan now, his dark eyes like a bird of prey’s. “The security will be focused on the auction items, not the house vault. And we have an inside man.” He didn’t need to say the name. Wylan flinched as if he’d been struck. “Our merchling knows the layout better than anyone.”

Kaz unrolled a half-finished schematic of the Van Eck estate—a poor copy bought from a disgruntled city planner. “Here,” he said, tapping a large, empty square on the paper. “The main ballroom. The auction will be held here. Wylan. Tell us where your father’s study is in relation to this room.”

All eyes fell on Wylan again. He swallowed, the sound loud in the sudden quiet. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He just stared at the schematic, his breathing shallow and quick. I could see a fine tremor in his hands, which were now clenched into white-knuckled fists on his knees. He looked like a cornered animal, and Kaz was the predator, patient but with an unmistakable edge of threat.

“We don’t have all night, merchling,” Kaz pressed, his voice flat.

Something inside me snapped. The easy thrill of the job curdled into a sour knot of anger in my gut. Before I could say something I’d regret—something that would undoubtedly get my legs broken—I moved. I reached into the inner pocket of my coat and pulled out a small, dog-eared sketchpad and a nub of charcoal. I used it for doodling, for sketching faces in a crowd, for passing the time. Now, it felt like a lifeline.

I leaned forward, pushing aside Kaz’s useless map, and slid the pad across the table until it rested in front of Wylan. He flinched, his gaze darting from the pad up to my face. His eyes were wide, filled with a desperate, drowning sort of panic.

“It’s easier to draw it,” I said, my voice softer than I’d intended. I kept my eyes on him, trying to block out the others. “Just… show me. Show us. Where’s the ballroom?”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a shaky hand, he reached out and took the charcoal. His fingers were cold when they brushed against mine. He bent over the pad, his curls falling forward to hide his face. The first line he drew was jagged and uncertain. But then another followed, and another. The movements became surer, more practiced. The lines formed walls, hallways, and doorways with an architect’s precision. The ballroom took shape, then the grand staircase, the dining hall, the conservatory. It was all there, pulled from a memory he’d clearly tried his best to bury.

I leaned closer, our shoulders nearly touching. The rest of the world seemed to fade away. It was just the two of us, the scratch of charcoal on paper, and the ghost of a house rising between us. “Okay,” I murmured, my voice low, for him alone. “Where’s the study?”

He didn’t speak, just moved his hand to the upper right corner of the drawing, sketching a large, isolated room with a single, heavily reinforced door. He drew a small ‘x’ on the wall behind the desk.

“The vault?” I guessed.

He nodded, a small, jerky movement. I took the charcoal from his unresisting fingers and carefully wrote STUDY and VAULT in the spaces he’d created. His eyes followed my hand, and a flicker of something—relief, maybe—passed over his face. We continued like that for nearly an hour, a silent conversation of charcoal and whispered questions, my clumsy lettering filling in the blanks of his perfect, painful drawing.

By the time our new, collaborative map was complete, it was a masterpiece of painful detail. Kaz took it without a word of thanks, his sharp eyes scanning the work, but his silence was its own form of approval. He dismissed us with a flick of his fingers, but stopped me before I could follow Wylan out of the suffocating attic.

“The finery for this little party won’t be cheap,” Kaz said, his voice a low scrape. “And we’ll need a respectable stake to make you look like you belong at the auction tables. Your department, Fahey.”

My stomach dropped. I knew what he meant. There was only one way I could get that much kruge on such short notice. “How much?”

Kaz named a figure that made the air leave my lungs. It was more than I’d ever held at one time, a sum that could either set me up for life or bury me in debt forever. There was no choice, though. The job depended on it. More than that, Wylan depended on it.

Two hours later, I was standing outside the Emerald Palace. The name was a lie; there was nothing regal about the place. It was a high-end gambling den built to bleed merchants dry, and it had taken more than its fair share of my own blood and coin over the years. The air that drifted out was thick with perfume and desperation. I pushed the door open.

The familiar chaos washed over me—the rattle of the dice wheel, the slap of cards on felt, the low murmur of bets being placed. It was a symphony I knew by heart, and every note called to a familiar, hungry part of me. My palms started to sweat. I saw a few familiar faces, sharks who gave me knowing grins. They smelled a mark returning to the feeding grounds.

I ignored them, my eyes scanning for the right table. High stakes, but not so high that my initial buy-in would be swallowed in a single hand. I found a game of Three-Man’s Lantern, my game. I slid into an empty chair, dropping a handful of coins onto the table. It was nearly everything I had left.

“Fancy seeing you, Fahey,” said the dealer, a man with eyes as dead as a fish. “Feeling lucky tonight?”

“Just business,” I said, my voice tight.

The cards felt slick and perfect in my hands. The first hand, I folded. The second, I lost a small bet. I could feel the old panic begin to rise, the cold fear of walking away with nothing. But I pushed it down. I wasn’t here for the thrill. I was here for a number.

Then the cards started to turn. My instincts, honed over years of wins and devastating losses, took over. I read the tells of the men around me—the twitch in a merchant’s eye, the way a Zemeni sailor held his breath. I bluffed, I raised, I folded at just the right moments. The small pile of coins in front of me grew, becoming a respectable stack, then a small fortress of kruge. The number Kaz had given me was within reach. One more big pot.

I got the hand I was waiting for. The cards were a perfect, beautiful sequence. I could feel the win in my bones, the exhilarating certainty that sent a jolt through my entire body. I pushed a huge stack of coins into the center of the table. The merchant across from me paled and folded. The sailor hesitated, then matched my bet.

The final card was turned. I won.

A wave of pure, uncut adrenaline surged through me. The noise of the room roared in my ears. I had it. I had the money. More than enough. The dealer started to shuffle for the next hand. “In or out, Fahey?”

My hands twitched, wanting to stay. I could double it. I could win enough to pay off every debt, to walk away from the Barrel forever. The pull was a physical thing, a hook in my gut.

And then I saw Wylan’s face in my mind. Not triumphant, but the image of him in the attic, his hand shaking as he drew the lines of his father’s house. The quiet way he’d looked at me when I’d passed him the charcoal, a silent, desperate thank you. This money wasn’t mine. It was the price of his safety, the cost of the fine clothes that would serve as his armor. It was the key to getting him through a night in hell.

I stood up so quickly my chair scraped loudly against the floor. “I’m out.”

I ignored the dealer’s surprised look and the sailor’s curse. I scooped the mountain of coins into a heavy sack, my heart pounding a different rhythm now—not of thrill, but of grim purpose. I walked out of the Emerald Palace without looking back, the weight of the kruge heavy in my hand, feeling less like a prize and more like a promise.