"We did," I agree. "The probability of survival has just increased to fifty-five percent."
"Does anyone else feel like we just made a deal with the devil?" Jax whispers, glancing back at the automatic doors as if he expects them to bite him.
"No," I correct him. "The devil negotiates for souls. Rosa negotiated for Italian marble and indefinite blackmail rights over my brother's genitals. This was significantly more expensive."
"Right," Jax shudders. "Good point."
"I’ll take those odds," Jax says. He opens the car door. "Hey, Max?"
"Yes?"
"If we survive this," Jax says, looking at me with serious intent, "I’m having waffles every day on our honeymoon, got it?"
"I would like that," I say.
We climb into the back of the armoured SUV. The war for the wedding is on. But for the first time since brunch, I think we might actually win.
Chapter 4
The Paper Trail
Max
Sleep is a variable I cannot currently solve for.
Jax is asleep in the master bedroom. I can hear the faint, rhythmic sound of his breathing from down the hall—a white noise machine that usually recalibrates my nervous system. But tonight, the data is too loud.
The "venue tours" are scheduled for 08:00. Mother has threatened to buy the pavement. Rosa Ortiz has been drafted as a Warlord. We have a strategy, but we do not have leverage.
I am sitting at the kitchen island, lit only by the blue glow of my laptop and the city lights of Manhattan below. I have accessed the York Foundation’s archival ledger. It wasn't difficult; the password wasLegacy, followed by the year Mother was born. Her narcissism is the ultimate backdoor.
"You look like a hacker in a stock photo," a voice drawls from the hallway. "All you’re missing is a hoodie and a menacing grimace."
I don't flinch. I heard the footsteps pattern—heel-toe, soft tread, expensive slippers—ten seconds ago.
Preston walks into the kitchen. He is wearing silk pajamas thatlook like they were tailored by the same man who dresses Bond villains. He looks immaculate, even at three in the morning, which is infuriating.
He shouldn't be here. Logistically, he should be in his own apartment with Luke. But Preston insisted on staying in our guest suite to "maintain the tactical perimeter" for tomorrow morning.
I still have the image of their goodbye in the St. Jude’s parking lot burned into my retinas. Luke had looked disappointed, his shoulders slumping like a deflated balloon.
"You’re really not coming home?"Luke had asked, looking like a golden retriever denied a tennis ball.
And then Preston had done it. He hadn't argued. He hadn't explained. He had simply grabbed Luke by the lapels of his scrubs and kissed him with a calculated intensity that I believe is technically illegal in three states. It was a neurological override. When Preston pulled back, Luke was blinking rapidly, looking as if he had been hit by a very pleasant stun gun.
"Go to sleep,Luke,"Preston had whispered, smoothing Luke's collar with terrifying precision."Dream of me."
Luke had stumbled to his car, completely non-verbal. It was effective. It was also deeply manipulative.
"I am performing a forensic analysis of the opposition’s resources," I correct him now, pushing a mug across the marble counter. "Chamomile. With a splash of the whiskey Jax hides behind the flour jar."
Preston takes the mug, sniffs it with suspicion, and takes a sip. He sits on the stool opposite me, crossing his legs elegantly.
"Why are we awake, Maxwell? Is it the crushing weight of dynastic expectation, or did you just realize the caterer might serve sliders?"
"Mother bought an airline to stop a wedding," I say, typing a command into the spreadsheet. "I need to find a weakness. She has money. She has power. She has the ability to weaponize guilt. But every system has a failure point. I just need to find the outlier in the data."
Preston adjusts his glasses, looking bored. "You’re looking for a financial smoking gun. How pedestrian. Mother doesn't embezzle, Max. She considers theft beneath her. She prefers...reallocation."
