Cleo decides to take Velvet Vixen Captive and escape

The barrel of Cleo Capone’s pistol digs into the small of my back.

Sirens howl in the distance—getting closer. The museum glows with flashing red and blue light through the stained glass. Somewhere behind us, I can hear officers shouting, tires screeching, the chaos of a scene about to blow wide open.

Cleo leans in close, her voice a razor against my neck.

“You’ve been a glittery thorn in my side all night, sugar.”

I stay frozen, fists clenched, heart hammering in my chest. She could shoot me. Right now. Leave me sprawled in this overpriced marble hallway like the ending of a bad pulp novel.

But she doesn’t.

She hesitates.

The sirens are too close. One shot would give away her position. Her heist is ruined. Her girls are likely already in cuffs. And she’s got nothing to show for it.

Except me.

“...Screw the vault,” she murmurs. “You’ll do.”

Suddenly, I’m grabbed. She twists my arms behind my back with practiced ****, cold rope looping around my wrists in seconds. I struggle, but Cleo is shockingly strong. Her suit’s torn at the sleeve, her lipstick smeared—but her control is absolute.

She shoves me forward—toward an emergency exit tucked behind an old velvet curtain. The heavy steel door creaks open just as boots thunder into the museum behind us.

“Units move in—suspect may still be inside!”

“Move!” Cleo hisses, jabbing me between the shoulder blades.

We emerge into the humid night. I hear a car engine running. Then I see it—black, low-slung, and waiting in a narrow alley just outside the museum wall.

Cleo opens the trunk with one hand, the other holding me steady by the ropes.

“In you go, sweetheart.”

I shake my head. She doesn’t care. She grips me around the waist, lifts me like a sack of loot, and shoves me down into the confined darkness. My cape folds awkwardly beneath me. I grunt, twisting as my boots knock against the edge.

THUNK.

The lid slams shut, sealing me in.

My breathing quickens. I thrash once—ropes tight, no give. The interior smells like old leather, dust, and something vaguely floral. My mask is still on. She didn’t touch it.

She didn’t need to.

Because she got what she wanted.

Above me, the car door slams. The engine revs. I feel the shift as we accelerate out of the alley, tires screeching, the sirens fading behind us.

And I realize: I’m not just Cleo’s prisoner now.

I’m her consolation prize.