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Midnight Heist

by Katherine McIntyre

Midnight Heist - Katherine McIntyre
Part of the Outlaws series:
  • Midnight Heist

Heist rule number one? Never fall for your mark.

Grif’s always followed the one rule in the high stakes business of heists: never fall for your mark. At least, until he meets Danilo Torres...

Grif Blackmore's team of thieves, the Outlaws, take down wicked corporations and nab fantastic paydays. However, when their latest heist fails, they end up in debt to the mafia, which puts the pressure on for their next job targeting Torres Industries to go off without a hitch.

There's one problem. The CEO of Torres Industries, Danilo Torres, happens to not only be dead sexy but unaware of his company's corruption. When the sparks flare between Grif and Danilo, Grif can't help but fall for his mark.

Grif is left with a decision to make. Is he willing to throw it all away for the man who's caught his interest or is there a chance to play Robin Hood without losing it all?

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The cabbie carved through the streets with a fluid ease of someone who’d done this drive in the dark during a helluva blizzard. Grif increased the tempo as he tapped out a beat on top of his briefcase—not from the nerves but the anticipation. In his past life, he could’ve never imagined the thrill of thieving or how well he’d fit into this life. However, in his past life, he could’ve never imagined his parents would get murdered as a part of a business maneuver.

Welcome to Chicago.

The cab slowed as they approached the intersection of Michigan and Chicago Ave. A stunning building with a bone-white granite façade appeared more like a museum than the entrance of Penn Luxe, the restaurant they were having their business lunch at. As the cabbie ground to a halt, John leaned up to pass him the fare. Grif stepped out and onto the asphalt. Showtime.


If they wanted a chance at getting inside Torres Industries at the Aon Center, this was step one. From there, the building would have a thousand and one advantages to exploit—they all did if you viewed them with the right eyes.

Penn Luxe was one of those places dripping muted elegance, which of course made this place a flytrap for all the bloated, too-loaded pests in the city. His nose twitched as they headed to the front door of the joint, all glass. Places like this with their thousands of mirrors and reflective surfaces were prime real estate for narcissists and thieves. Once they stepped through the double glass doors, the cream and black accents assaulted him.

“We’re here, Scar,” he murmured, alerting him of their arrival.

“Roger that, boss,” Scarlet said over the intercom in the semidistracted tone he always had while working. “I’m ready for you.”

Grif approached the host stand first. “We have a reservation under Greg Locksley.”

The thin waiter at the stand nodded, waving his arm in the direction of the dozens of circular tables spread out across the floor, most of them two or four seaters. “Your friend has already arrived. I’ll take you to him.”

Grif internally cursed. They hadn’t arrived late, or even on time by any measure. They’d arrived early, because the control freak in him always preferred to be the first one to arrive. Showing up after meant he needed to adjust to their established terrain.

“Prep our welcome packet,” he murmured, knowing Scarlet listened in. “If all goes well, send it off at the end of the meeting.”

“You’ve got it,” Scarlet responded loud and clear through his earpiece. “And Locksley? Have fun.”

Grif restrained his snort as he strode behind the waiter who led them toward the back of the room. He searched out the vantage points on instinct. John kept a step or two behind him, his slower pace coming across as less intimidating than Grif’s brisk walk.

The rich scent of quality steak lingered in the air, a pleasant orange blossom fragrance floating above it all. They passed the filled tables, but Grif hadn’t spotted the older guy they were supposed to be meeting with. He’d checked out the pictures of Leonard James, your average rich sleaze who golfed on the weekends, fucked prostitutes after hours, and then went to church with his family on Sundays.

The waiter slowed and gestured toward a table with two seats open. Grif’s eyebrows drew together as his gaze landed on the man waiting for them.

The guy looked decades too young. He appeared closer to his thirties like him, with his black hair slicked back, flawless bronze skin, and a serious, contemplative expression. He was pure professionalism in a gray Burberry suit that highlighted his trim figure, and everything matched from the platinum watch he wore to the tack on his tie. He stood to greet them and offered a blinder of a grin.

The open expression on his face was the innocent sort of hot that punched him in the gut, because Grif Blackmore liked to ruin pretty things. And wreck him, he would. His tongue traveled over the front of his teeth as he scanned the man up and down one more time.


About the Author

Author of stories with snarky women, ragtag crews, and men with bad attitudes.