THE CON GIRL AND THE BILLIONAIRE PRIEST

Chapter 1

Julie’s POV.

The Hammerstein Ballroom blazed with afternoon light, its crystal chandeliers refracting sunlights that cast prismatic patterns across marble floors polished to mirror perfection. The hall was filled with the calculated murmur of New York's financial elite and the clink of champagne flutes.

The elevator opened, and Julie Brown stepped into the hall. Dressed in a designer gown that revealed her slender curves, her hair was stylishly coiffed, while she smelled like the perfume counter at Chanel stores.

Despite hustling on the streets for over a decade, Julie had a pale, perfectly smooth skin that made her look rich.

Her sharp wits, persuasive and social skills were her strong points, although she had a pretty face, a heavy bosom, a pair of long legs and a derrière similar to that of Jennifer Lopez.

Her eyes swept the room, cataloging faces, assessing pockets, while dismissing the inconsequential. There by the eastern windows, surrounded by a protective semicircle of dark-suited men was her target for the afternoon: Ingrid Koronec, the intimidating Bulgarian warlord.

Julie moved through the crowd like smoke through silk. Her black Armani gown whispered against her calves with each deliberate step, while her heels tapped the floor graciously.

The single strand of flawless pearls resting at her throat announced her neckline as she carried herself with controlled, measured grace.

The men cast side glances at her admiring her, while some of the ladies compared her looks to theirs and some envied her.

As she got closer to him, four bodyguards whose eyes scanned the crowd with the vigilance of a dove motioned her to stop with their eyes.

Eleanor accepted a champagne flute from a passing waiter, her fingers steady, her pulse controlled. She had rehearsed this moment for four months.

She knew his business interests, his huge interest in underage girls, his so-called charities, his massive ego and the c****s in his armour that no one else had thought to exploit.

"Mr. Ingrid." She called warmly in a voice pitched to carry just above the ambient noise. “I'm Lyla Moise. The Hemston Towers send their warmest regards.”

His eyes found hers. Cold as winter ice. They held hers for a long moment, assessing the need to engage her behind his expressionless face.

“Miss Moise.” His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, firm and low. “I don't recall responding to your request that we conclude the transfer today.”

“I thought I should alert you that Mr. Stoichkov has informed us of his interest in the penthouse. He wants to conclude fast. I decided to inform you in person,” she responded.

Something flickered in his eyes. Interest, caution. Andriy Stoichkov, his bloody rival.

“Give me proof," he said. “I despise assumptions.”

“May I?” She asked, seeking his approval to come close.

Ingrid raised one hand and almost immediately, his men allowed Julie.

Brandishing the tab in her hand, “These are the emails from his lawyers. We're simply heeding to your instruction that we keep you posted.”

Ingrid studied her for a moment. The chandeliers sparked off his cufflinks. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He signaled with his hands, and almost immediately, one of his men brought him his phone.

He dialed a number on his contact.

“Wire the full payment to the account provided by The Hemston Towers, and send them an email immediately. I want full ownership of the penthouse now!” he ordered.

His phone beeped two minutes later. He reached inside his jacket, withdrew the sleek black phone, and checked the screen. His attention shifted to her face.

“Wired," he said. “Have your legal team prepare the necessary documents.”

Julie picked up her phone and made a brief call to the supposed legal personnel, still composed.

“Congratulations, Mr. Ingrid,” she said, shaking his hand professionally. “Now, you can have me as a compliment from my boss for closing out the deal.”

“Of course, Ms. Moise, he cheered.” Even though she was not within his preferred age bracket, he liked his body and was already thinking of smashing her lusty body in different positions in a whirlwind of fierce s*x all through the night.

Julie Brown moved close to him, and touched his chest, grazing his n*****s flirtingly, while his hand moved to her curved, sexy derrière.

He could tell that she was not wearing any panties as she purred like a cat in heat. The image of her on her hands and knees as he f****d her deep and hard from behind in doggie-style has enlarged the thick phallus between his legs.

Inside, Julie was filled with joy. The funds, when paid to the fake account, would be routed through three shell corporations before landing in an offshore account.

Almost immediately, Ingrid’s assistant, a bald man, walked towards them looking worried. He called out to Ingrid, and when they moved apart, started whispering something to him.

Julie’s fingers twitched toward her clutch bag, she felt that intuition that danger was close. She hadn’t planned that the assistant would be that fast and knew that the man was already informing the burly warlord of the scam.

Almost immediately, Ingrid furiously turned to where Julie was, but she’d already disappeared into the crowd. Scanning the crowd, he saw her almost at the elevator, walking swiftly in a measured way, her spine straight, her expression serene.

“Get her! Block every exit!” he ordered. “Lose her and I will skin you all alive!”

The guards scattered immediately. Julie moved into the elevator and quickly pressed the button, praying that no one would enter on her way down.

When the elevator started descending, she pressed her back against the polished brass wall and exhaled. Then, she ditched the heels on her shoes.

The Patek Philippe Grandmaster she’d lifted when she flirted with Ingrid was heavy and warm, its platinum band still carrying the heat of Ingrid's wrists.

Reaching the ground floor, she stepped hurriedly to a secluded area where she cautiously reached for the small firearm taped to her lap and, making sure that no one would suspect her, shot it repeatedly on the ground.

Immediately, there was commotion. Taking advantage of the chaos, Julie quickly got past the security at the gate. Looking back, she saw Ingrid’s men rushing out of the elevator.

Quickly, she made it into the street, disappearing into the crowded street and the busy traffic. She glided along the pavement, trying to evade her pursuers.

On getting to the street, the two security personnel sighted her and moved to navigate the crowd.

Julie slowed to a café and quickly turned into it, veering past the people seated there onto the street behind: 16th Street.

Meanwhile, the security men ran past the café. They moved for a while but could no longer see the lady they’d gone all out to apprehend.

“f**k!” one of them swore again and again.

Julie walked towards the Center for Jewish history. Fearing that she could be easily napped in the open street, she quickly accessed the buildings around her, looking for the best hideout available.

Seeing a church nearby, she quickly walked into it.

Inside, the Church of St. Francis Xavier stood proudly with its breathtaking historic design, its grand ceilings, numerous paintings, mosaics and intricate architecture. For a moment, Julie was wowed at this place of worship.

Fr. Kieran Dale had just finished his confession duties and was walking out when a pretty young lady walked into the church.

“Are you here for a confession?” he asked.

“Confession? Uhhhh, yeah, yeah. I’m here for a confession.” She quickly responded.

“Over here then,” the priest said, pointing to the confessional.

Julie quickly followed him, looking over her head. She looked at the doors, looking for possible escape routes, in case her pursuers suddenly busted into the church.

Suddenly, Julie’s phone rang.

“Do you mind, we try to keep it as silent as possible here,” the priest courteously chided.

“Oh sorry, duty calls, I need to answer. Can I come back tomorrow? I'd love to have that confession and also discuss a charity case with you?”

“Sure. I’ll be here from 10am to 4pm.”

12pm is fine,

“No, I have a midday mass by then, finishing by 12:45.

“1:15pm then?”

“That’s fine.”

“Do you mind us having the meeting in your office?”

“It’s fine, the office then.”

Immediately, Julie turned away from the direction of the confessional and walked out of the church. She was about to call for a taxi when her phone rang again.

Although the number on her screen didn't exist in any official record, she picked it. "Volatile as we predicted… The watch? Secure... Just made initial contact"

Julie ended the call as quickly as she picked it. She smiled, knowing that she’d met her targets for the day: take Mr. Koronec’s $14million dollars and make contact with the second target.

The priest was a billionaire, one that would cough out the golden geese, she thought joyfully as she entered a taxi.

Somewhere across the street, inside a parked van, two men were watching her. Voice notes of her conversation with the priest and her caller replayed in the background while one of the men took pictures of her boarding the taxi.