The animal charity he was giving the cash to needed to rebuild after that fire. Fortunately, none of the dogs or cats had been killed, but their medical wing had taken a hit—

What. So he was a sucker for four-legged things. Besides, he didn’t need the money and having a purpose to the taking was what made everything more than just a robbery hobby.

The master suite was an apartment within the condo, a localized concentration of super-fancy and ultra-private that included a separate kitchen area, its own terrace, and a bathroom/closet combo the size of most people’s houses. And they’d totally followed Jodie Foster’s 2002 example. The whole thing went on lockdown in the event of an infiltration by someone with a net worth of less than $40 million or, if it was female, a waist-to-hip ratio lower than 0.75.

Standards, doncha know.

As he crossed into the Big Man Zone, he stopped and listened to all the quiet. God, how fucking boring was this. He really would have preferred to wait for the Mr. and Mrs. to be in res.

Coming up to an archway, he glanced into the kitchen. It was barren as an operating room and just as cozy, everything stainless steel and professional. Then again, it wasn’t like there were any family dinners happening. The Mr.’s original Mrs. and attendant offspring, generated prior to his making his first billion, had been jettisoned like a bad investment. No further use for cozy things.

Sleek and beautiful, cold and state-of-the-art.

Like the new wife, the new life.

Balz kept going. The dressing room had two entrances, one through the bedroom and one through a shallow hall for the servants. It seemed only polite to choose the latter considering he was committing a burglary on the premises, and he was surprised to find things locked. No problem. Taking out his picklock kit, he was in like Flynn in under a minute, and as he entered the Neiman-Marcus-worthy collection of suits, ties, dresses, and accessories, he breathed deep. Ah. So this was the source of the fragrance that permeated the upper floor, and yeah, if money had a scent, this would be it. Heady, strong enough to be noticed, yet not overpowering . . . flowery, but with the serious weight of sophisticated men’s cologne.

And shit, it was a wonder the Mr. and Mrs. had anything left in the bank considering all these threads.

Behind glass panes, just like the display cases downstairs, hanging rods were set at all levels, as if the hundreds and hundreds of thousands of dollars of clothes were perishable if left out to the open air. There was also a thirty-foot-long center aisle of double-sided bureaus, his and hers.

Party time.

Whistling through his front teeth, he tap-danced along as he zeroed in on the compartment holding the man of the condo’s array of tuxedos. Opening the glass, Balz pulled a Moses and Red Sea’d the shoulders of the fine silk jackets. The wall that was revealed was smooth—except for the square outline that, if you didn’t have vampire eyesight or the details of the safe’s location, you wouldn’t tweak to.

Outing a CPU the size of a venti latte, he typed a couple of commands on the BlackBerry-like keyboard. Then he put the unit against the wall. There was some whirring sounds, a clunk and a hiss . . . and then the panel retracted to reveal a three-by-three-foot safe face with an old school dial—which had been a nice surprise when he’d hacked into the alarm system to check on the how-many’s and where-are’s of its contacts.

He respected the analog choice. Because, hey, you couldn’t break into the damn thing over the web, and as he gave the dial a little spin, he acknowledged that he would have had a hard time getting inside even with a blowtorch and a couple of hours.

So yeah, it was time to fudge his rules.

As he triggered the non-copper lock with his mind, the easy capitulation of the internal bolts made him feel like he’d been sitting in a BarcaLounger eating Doritos for two nights straight: He felt bloated by the ease and dulled by the lack of challenge.

There would be other nights to be tested, he told himself.

When the safe door opened, a little light came on inside, and it illuminated the kinds of goodies he’d expected. The interior also had—wait for it—see-through shelves, and everything on them was separated into—surprise!—like kind: There was cash in stacks that were banded together, reminding him for some reason of bunk beds. There was a case full of watches rocking back and forth, jet-setters line-dancing to some unheard song. And there was a whole bunch of leather jewel cases.

Which was what he was here for.

On that note, he picked off the top one. The thing was bigger than his pretty damn big palm and covered with red leather embossed with a gold border. Digging into the release with his thumb, he popped the lid.

Balz smiled so wide his fangs made an appearance.

But the happy-happy-joy-joy didn’t last as he counted the cases still left inside. There were another six, and for some reason, that half dozen of further opportunity exhausted him. In another time in his life, he would have gone through each one and picked the most valuable. Now he just didn’t give a shit. Besides, what he had was Cartier, and the diamond weight was in the forty-to-fifty-carat range with superb cut, color, and clarity. Like he needed more?

And no, he wasn’t going to scoop them all. His rule was one thing, and one thing only, from any given infiltration. It could be an object, a bunch of things in a container, or a set that was somehow loosely, but tangibly, linked together.

Back in the Old Country, for example, he’d stolen a carriage with four perfectly matched grays under that little loophole.

So he was sticking with the Cartier, and leaving the rest behind.

Getting to his feet, he willed the safe door closed and relocked. And just as he was wondering if he was going to have to get out his trusty little 007 whammy-box again to close the panel, the wall section came down and clicked into place automatically.

For a moment, all he could do was stare at the vacant white Sheet-rock between the parted sea of the tuxedo jackets. Closing his eyes, he felt an emptiness that—

“What are you doing?”

At the sound of the female voice, Balz spun around. Standing in the doorway that led in from the bedroom, the Mrs. of the triplex was directly under one of the ceiling fixtures—which meant her diaphanous nightgown was utterly translucent.

Well, Mr. Hedge Fund Manager, Balz thought, you certainly did well for yourself at the altar.

“What are you doing here?” Balz tossed back with a slow smile. “You two are supposed to be in Paris.”

As Ralphie zipped up his pants and Chelle reorganized herself under her skirt, he was razor-alert but not buzzing, the orgasm having taken the edge off the coke. Locking his molars, he curled up his arms and tightened all the muscles in his upper body, the torsion curving his spine forward, his lips coming off his front teeth, his bones bending.

The sound he made brought his crew’s faces around.

“He’s ready! He’s the monster!”

At that moment, like the “officials” had been waiting for him to bust his nut, the air horn sounded down at the far end of the garage level.

His crew started chanting, and Chelle came up and leaned into him. He kissed her forehead and said ILY quietly enough so no one but her heard. Then he walked forward, his boys forming a spear of bodies ahead of him, Chelle bringing up the rear. When they penetrated the crowd, people got out of their way, the cheering reaching volumes that would have attracted attention—if anyone had been anywhere near this shitty part of town.