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GRAND PRIX DE MONACO 

LOCATION: MONTE CARLO, MONACO DATE: MAY 26TH TO MAY 29TH, 2016

At night it glitters like a diamond catching the light, second only, perhaps, to the Casino de Royale-les-Eaux — though the Casino Royale is merely an illusion confined to the pages of Fleming’s novels and the Casino de Monte-Carlo is living, breathing, and solid under the feet of thieves, an endless labyrinth of wealth and power. Somewhere in the centre of the labyrinth, there is a room kept alive by whispers, a reality reserved for the legends told by thieves to their prodigies, a room that appears on no blueprints and all will say does not exist. And in that room, games that end in nothing less than irretrievable loss are played -- the players aren’t quite villains weeping blood over their hands, but they are the world’s most wealthy. Cards with gilded paper edges are lifted by hands bedecked in gold. 

Power is not the room’s currency (it is worth nothing without the riches to back it up) but it is traded across the table with conglomerates and jewels far better than any king has to offer. It’s whispered, among naughty newly-initiated thieves, that Francis Villiers was once invited to play a game there. Even just the idea of the room has an indescribable pull for thieves, young and old, a legend of ultimate desire since the days of the Casino’s advent. To pluck the chips and promises from the table as games of roulette are played would be the greatest heist of all. 

But that is not what they have come here for.

Seeds of rebellion are sowed among the crews. What point is there in coming to Monte-Carlo if not for the greatest prize of all?  But they also know that they are currently being hunted, and this is a quest of distraction; to throw Interpol and their American counterparts off the Society’s trail. They must pull off something big; and this will be nothing if not sensational. And then seeds of a different kind take root. An old aristocratic family, once held hostage, is finally returning to the light in Monte-Carlo, on the eve of the Grand Prix. 

The houses empty out to the streets, to the balconies and docks and restaurants and the roofs of hotels, rooms bare and unprotected as the Monégasque watch automobile-racing champions be crowned after a dizzying race and days of preparation and celebration. The Grand Prix de Monaco is the only Prix in the world still held in the streets of a city, the avenues along the water and leading past the villas forming the curves of the track. It is a weekend for the wealthy, wearing their rings and necklaces and designer labels even at the harbour. Temptation. 

But little thefts like those, the crews decide, will pale against the miserable and vast fortune of the House of Luque Cabal. Aristocrats descended from courtesans who whispered in the ears of kings and dynasties, made rich by the New World and the remnants of a salt empire of Ghana and jewels of Persia, their children grew up with pockets lined in platinum and spending limits to match the modern era they stumbled into. And like so many of the wealthy targets the crews turn their hungry eyes upon, this family’s hubris was their downfall. One by one, the matriarch, her children, and then their children -- fell into the hands of a con artist who robbed them blind and stole their souls in the process. The Luque Cabals, desperate to recover their dignity and find the devil who ruined them, are converging on Monaco for the Prix. And that devil, when they arrive, will undoubtedly carry their prizes with them. The Society’s inside man carries news of a great fortune coming to Monte Carlo on the day of the Grand Prix, meant to change hands between one criminal and the next. 

The Masterminds’ crews are here to steal it all back.

THE GRAND PRIX DE MONACO IS HELD ON 29 APRIL 2016. TAKE YOUR PLACES ON THE ROOFTOPS AND BALCONIES FOR THE VIEW OF A LIFETIME.

CALVET HEIRLOOM AUCTION

LOCATION: COTE D’AZUR, FRANCE TIME: APRIL 15TH, 2016 (11PM)

The plan is in action. While the society dwells like wolves among sheep in the lower ballroom, where dining tables have been put up among age-old marble busts and hanging chandeliers, the elected team gathers into position. Hale Rothschild makes his way to the balcony, where Adalie Calvet is to meet him at eleven. Evie Villiers goes over the parameters of the manor once again. Isabel Beauregard, Dominik Woo, and Matthias West await a signal to move into position. And within the Calvet estate, ignorant to the plot evolving about them, six dozen affluent guests bid upon treasures big and small, spending without boundary or thought.

The night is cool, and as Hale exits the North wing into the Mediterranean breeze, he checks his watch. Adalie is late. But of course, he thinks nothing of it, because after all, he is Hale Rothschild, and this is the job that he does best. She’ll come. And a few minutes after eleven she does - but not alone. There is the sound of laughing, the click of heels upon marble floors, moonlight scattered to the wind: but when the English playboy turns to meet his Trojan horse, he’s met with someone else entirely. 

The enemy. 

Roman Lohovary stands proudly, with a cool confidence cultivated only through a lifetime of poise, and looks the Beauregard thief straight in the eyes. He might be smiling. He might not be. Either way, as Adalie stares at her appointment with the gaze of a deer in headlights, Roman takes charge as easily as if this manor is his dominion, this sea his playground. 

“Excuse us,” he says, but there is no apology in the words. One arm wraps about Adalie’s waist as Hale looks on in disbelief. The exchange between the two men is momentary, but it is what the Lohovary murmurs into the Calvet heiress’ ear that is the real blow. Let’s go upstairs, yes? This is the whisper that can topple empires. Show me all of your treasures.

The moment the pair sweeps away, Hale dials his uncle on his mobile, swearing beneath his breath as his fingers fumble, heart beating rapidly. Next, he texts Evie. Within the ballroom, a network of communication is established. Regard for etiquette be damned. The Lohovarys are here.

CALVET HEIRLOOM AUCTION

LOCATION: COTE D’AZUR, FRANCE DATE: APRIL 15TH, 2016

The night is glorious. The Calvet family is the picture of wealth and grace as they stand among their guests, shaking hands and smiling with pearl white teeth at the prospect of their fiscal salvation. In the warmth of the spring, the French Riviera glows. As the sun sets and candles are lit to match the soon-to-emerge stars, the garden overlooking the ocean flows with champagne, appetizers, and live music from an orchestra decked in gold. Within, the main foyer and expansive lower rooms of the massive, beautiful seaside mansion is common ground for the rich and richer to greet one another after ten, twenty, even thirty years of being set apart by different ambitions. Savile Row and Louis Vuitton rule the venue, for this is not merely a charity of sorts, it is a social opportunity that must not be missed. 

The auction begins leisurely, as dinner is served. The food is exquisite; luxuries of the highest class for the world’s most privileged families. Little do they know of the impostors among them, wolves in sheep’s clothing; who enjoy the caviar and escargot - all the while reviewing the details of the plan in their heads. It goes as follows. Hale Rothschild will gain access to the Crown Jewels by seducing Adalie Calvet - and as they leave the treasure cove for the bedroom, Isabel Beauregard will catch the door before it locks. Matthias West and Dominik Woo keep watch as a Villiers burglar enters through the east window to disable security precautions and whisk the heirloom into thin air. Viola. It’s an easy job. After all, when all of the Calvet’s guests are millionaires, why would they worry about someone stealing something so easily afforded? 

So smile. Laugh. Bid on what you fancy: the coins, the gowns, the scepters once touched by the Sun King. Let the night pass in a blur of sweet wine and expensive tastes, and remember: thieves have no conscience. So there’s no use worrying about the story behind the auction, or the people who will be left devestated by their prize item’s disappearance. C’est la vie, no? 

THE CALVET HEIRLOOM AUCTION HAS NOW STARTED

CALVET HEIRLOOM AUCTION

LOCATION: COTE D’AZUR, FRANCE DATE: APRIL 15TH, 2016

The Calvet family, one of France’s noble bloodlines, has announced to the blue-blooded and wealth-endowed world that they will be holding a l’enchère héritage --- an auction of heirlooms. Hosted in their seaside mansion on the Cote D’Azur of Southeastern France, invitations are sent out to influential individuals across Europe, offering a night of fine cuisine and the privilege of setting eyes upon Calvet family fortunes as they change hands for the first time in history. 

The Beauregard family, being one of the Calvets close friends, is naturally among those invited. But unlike most others - the politicians, CEOs, and old-money heirs - they know a secret. The Calvet family has been struggling for years now, their finances recorded only within the total confidentiality of Europe’s most beloved bank.

Desperate hands pray for sudden success, and in this case, the Crown Jewels of Calais, the treasure passed on through half a dozen generations, will be their saving grace. A piece of regalia that has been marveled and speculated over for centuries, the full crown of jewels once belonged to the self-proclaimed “Mad King” of Calais during his siege in the 16th century - marked with ruby, garnet, and gold, none other than the Calvet family has seen it since it’s acquisition in 1603. 

Victor Beauregard has been friends with Simon Calvet all his life, and their fathers before them were business partners, colleagues. Perhaps that then is why, when Francis Villiers also receives an gold-embellished letter in the mail; that Victor seems to panic.He calls into London, pleading - S’il vous plait, Francois, ce n’est pas bon! Il est mon ami! But Francis is unmoved. Truly, the iron king doesn’t gain his title without cause. He, like a hundred times before this, will seize the day, dress his wolves in sheep’s clothing, and milk it dry. In the wake of the Four Winds, the heist has been slow; the prizes collected small, and the thieves themselves lacking morale. And what better way can a commander stir his troops than to wave valuable loot beneath their noses? The Lohovarys can wait another day to be worried about. The society will don their suits and ties, gowns and white satin gloves. They will, with intricate disguises and names, eat the Calvet meal, look upon the Calvet fortune (dwindling, but nevertheless existent), and steal the Calvet jewels. 

What auction is worthwhile, after all, if it can’t splash headlines when it’s done and over with?

THE CALVET HEIRLOOM AUCTION STARTS AT 6PM ON 15 APRIL 2016, PLEASE SHOW YOUR INVITATIONS AT THE DOOR

DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

LOCATION: PALERMO, ITALY DATE: JANUARY 22ND, 2016

It has only been three short, short weeks since the society rang in the new year — three weeks since a labyrinthine manor and its snow-capped gardens sprang to life in the moonlight, three weeks since a frail woman aching with unbridled grief swept into their hidden world and shattered it, three weeks since a party, and three weeks since a threat. Three weeks and half a lifetime lived. Blood has been spilled, divinity disrupted, lives lost, and for what? For an egg? A locket? A desk? A cup?

The questions come to them in her voice, their curiosities skirted in an apprehensive fear of an enigmatic woman unknown. Of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Of Aphrodite. Of Adonis, too. She runs circles through their minds, webbing her way through three weeks’ worth of chaos like the blackest of widows, but the only answer that they receive is a twinkling laugh bubbled past sharp teeth and a crimson mouth, wicked and sinful: I know something you don’t know.

Legions of thieves file into sleek jets, weary-boned and dark-eyed. They depart in the earliest hours of morning. Shanghai and all of its hidden corners, thick with smoke and secrecy, leave them with more questions than answers, but they have completed their job, have relieved themselves of the looming threat that is — was — Marianne Sommers, and their bones ache for the familiar streets of London, of Paris, of Palermo, of Prague, of Moscow. Of home. The first comfortable breath that the Thief Lord breathes is in the privacy of his own study.

Less than twenty-four hours pass before they are on the prowl once more.

They dart through streets like cats beneath cars. Silent and stealth and stylish, shadows seep into their suits and sashes, and frosty air swirls around them, through them, stale, thick with the scent of the sea. Warmer. Left, then right, then left again — a maze of dusky alleyways and lamp-lit streets. Warmer still. Eventually, finally, their destination looms over them: a modest, windowless building nestled on the corner of a cobblestone street, industrial in architecture and forgotten like its neighbors. Here is where they flock, garbed in velvet and victory. Hot.

A pair of heavy double doors swing open, and — God, it is like they have stepped into another world entirely, one doused in decadence, in debauchery. Before them lies a palatial abode of color, of life, of everything bright and beautiful, and it is all tinged in a vibrant shade of screaming violet. The walls are draped in swathes of luxurious aubergine velvet. The floor is an expanse of onyx marble veined with white, gleaming beneath the dim, atmospheric lighting of the club. Bass thumps, and an ebony chandelier hangs, and champagne flows, and above it all, on a balcony removed from the chaos of the society on the floor, Ciro Capecchi looms. Hotter. Hottest.

Luxurious pairs of shoes cross the threshold of Il Coniglio Nero, from one world into the next, diving down the rabbit hole of sin and celebration, and just like that, the society springs to life once more.

In one stunning instant, they shed their old skins, hulls wrapped in three weeks’ worth of apprehension and fear, and step into new ones, ones fit for the festivities before them. Their bones are still sore, their hearts still aching, but ringed fingers twist around crystal stems of crystal flutes, and music soars, and champagne is swallowed, and buoyant laughter pollutes the air, and all else is forgotten.

Drinks upon drinks upon drinks flow, freely, with a reckless abandon, spilling and sloshing and coating fingertips in a wet stickiness that reeks of booze. White powder circulates throughout the club, pulled in bags from the breast pockets of dark-haired, dark-eyed Sicilian men; it burns nostrils and gums alike, leaves them red and raw, leaves their owners dazzled and amused. The party, the victory — and a victory it is, although at a terrible cost, one that will leave deep scars in deep places, already plain in the weariness of the thieves’ gazes — is stained with debauched indifference.

In a secluded corner of this violet paradise, a boy — grin wolfish, gaze serpentine — snakes his tuxedoed arm around the scantily-clad woman lounging on the sofa beside him. Golden silk clings to her curves, soaks into her skin, melds with the contours of her body. She is a goddess walking among men, and she is whispering sweet nothings into his ear, and he adores it. He adores her. Tonight, this small slice of Eden is theirs.

On the glistening ebony dance floor, a girl spins, the skirt of her dress flying, and the sweet burn of alcohol paints her vision in bright blurs. She laughs, and her partner does, too, and after a long moment alongside each other, they stagger away from the throng to find something to drink. Smiles bloom like flowers on their faces, cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming. The question comes again: bitter or sweet? Neither know for certain. Victory lies in their laps, theirs for the taking, and it is sweet, tooth-achingly so, but their loss — the society’s loss, disappeared into the inky blackness of night like a pair of dark-haired, crimson-mouthed siblings, voices colored with confidence — is the bitterest pill to swallow.

A large clock hangs over the balcony within Il Coniglio Nero, its hands fixed on twelve. Perpetual midnight in a land of perpetual sin. Far beneath it, birds and roses and devils and diamonds and phantoms alike commiserate on tufted velvet sofas, whispers low and pupils blown wide. Dancers twirl, and their giggles echo against the ceiling, white and domed and splashed in vibrant purple light. Men lean drunkenly over the bar and slur their words, fingers curled loosely around crystal snifters of amber liquid. Burlesque dancers perch atop onyx daises and bare their skin for the world to see. Some steal away to the upper balcony and overlook the party, and others sneak into private alcoves hidden off of the main room. Thieves swarm every inch of the club, prowling and partying.

It is a night of pleasure, a beginning to an end to a beginning, an observance of a job well done. It is something crossed between a warning and a threat, something found in every grin’s gleam, every breath thickened by the scent of expensive alcohol, every glance cast astray, every stuttering heartbeat, every dance. It is there, palpable and present, but never once voiced aloud, lurking in the quandary of the Thief Lord’s gaze and the sharpness of his thieves’ smiles.

Don’t you dare look away now. We’re just getting started.

Hale doesn’t hold her in contempt for the way she does him, can understand the disdain for something loved lost, but he still remains wary of the girl who’d tackled him into the ground for his misstep in action. At the very least, he withheld hope that her loathing wasn’t enough to make her jeopardize their heist, for both their sakes. Nevertheless, with a hand tucked away inside a suited pocket, he turned not to the figure which came to a halt beside him --- keeping his stare fixed straight ahead with no particular focus. “Suppose all the arrangements should be made now then,” he murmured aimlessly with a half crescent smile, brows knitting together in momentary thought. A rare thing ( or so one might think ), to catch the rich playboy in a bout of pondering. Many, or so he’d heard, had begun to think he hadn’t the brain for it in the first place. Though, certainly not the women who flushed beneath his wit ( a sardonic afterthought ).

Though past interactions may be wrapped up, event starters should no longer be posted!

After the delegation of the four jobs, the crews split up into separate lounges branching from the Nest into the North, South, East, and West wings of the manor to further delegate specific assignments. Frau Sommers had since been removed to a waiting room. 

Jobs are delegated by the masterminds, to the chagrin and rage of several thieves, and Francis sends a messenger to the patron with a scrambled voice message: “We accept your offer. Wire the down-payment to this account by noon today.” A slip of paper is pressed into Marianne’s hand with the information, she is escorted out immediately afterwards.

Though some thieves return to the festivities, most are either escorted upstairs to the guest bedrooms, or leave the Berkshire estate to return to their places of stay in the Greater London area. 

The timeframe is now 1 January to 4 January, and in these three days characters have free run of London and most Villiers locations - the Victorian and Lusitania clubs have open lounges and rooms for dining and discussion of plans, the Barking Dog is popularly frequented by cross-crew teams in need of a meeting place, and the Atrium flocks with Magpies who share ideas, cons, and time-pressed laughs. 

The centre of heist technology is found in the basement of Chescote, and hackers and gadgeteers mill about among state-of-the-art modernity of computers and custom-written codes -- a stark contrast with the polished, old elegance of the architecture itself. Crew members will come here for their headsets, technological equipment, and any need for hackers in their assignments. 

He listened carefully as the Patron spoke, watching every inch of her like a hawk, the way her hands clutched together, the slight sweat on her forehead that would go unnoticed by most. She spoke of clumsy thieves, violent murderers. She spoke about the murders of her children as if they were something spectacularly horrible but to Charles, they sounded messy, disordered. It all sounded not quite right. It was so convenient, these seemingly amateur thieves knowing the whereabouts of the children and of the prizes, taking both in quick succession. The patron's grief for her kin somehow did not feel complete. There was a hollowness to it. 

As the patron gave an asinine threat, the Nest erupted. Charles rolled his eyes.  He watched impatiently as she was whisked away, waiting for Lillian to give the go ahead, as she always did. Waiting for every idiot in the room to have an opinion and demand for it to be heard loud and clear.

The Nest exploded with excited, frantic discussion. Charles sat in silence, lighting a cigarette and glancing sideways at his cousin who leaned in for discussion, asserting her rightful place as Head Magpie. Cute. He listened to the hum, eyes studying each thief that sat at the large table. He would not speak until he was spoken to, his opinion was not required until he chose to make his voice heard. Right now, he was observing the chaotic discussions, most of which were fuelled by greed and desire -- stupidity hung heavy in the air. Charles exhaled a puff of smoke, contemplating their options.