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Inside it’s deluxe. Gold swirling carpet, gold swirling wallpaper, fake marble statues and big stupid framed art on the wall like it’s some kind of museum instead of a peephole at a dog track. Private bar in the corner, more fake marble and gold, and a bunch of armchairs with curly legs and red cushions like they’re thrones, facing out to the giant window and the stadium lights of the oval. I stare at the nearest statue—kinda hard not to when it’s just a guy standing there with his dick out.

“Not bad, eh?” Hook says. “Michelangelo. Greatest talent who ever lived.”

“Oh yeah?” Place looks like a fuckin’ Olive Garden. I shrug. “Never was my favorite Ninja Turtle.” I shake out my arms a little, trying to loosen up the electric feeling of needing to haul off and deck somebody. Not productive. Not yet.

“I take it you don’t watch many races.” He nods at the track. “I own a few dozen myself.”

“Tracks?”

“Dogs.” He smiles. “Hence the viewing box.”

“Well,” I say. “It is certainly the classiest place for watching coked-up greyhounds run themselves to death that I’ve ever been in. Sir,” I add, with a smile.

His thick lips twitch, and I suck in the dopamine hit of maybe getting under his skin a little. Good. I decide to roll with it and walk to the bar.

“You got Coke Zero?” I fish out a twenty from my pocket and flash it at the bartender, a woman strapped into one of those bandage dresses designed for a woman half her age and half her cup size. “Thanks.” I stuff it in the tip jar before she has a chance to answer. “Driving, you know. Gotta be responsible.”

“Please.”

I spin around and Hook’s settled back in an armchair, where he’s got his whiskey decanter and glasses all set up like toy soldiers on a coffee table. He gestures for me to join.

Okay, I think. You know what? I’ll bite.

I stalk over and take the chair next to him, so we’re sitting kitty-corner, him facing the big window and the bright lights of the track, me more or less staring at a wall, at one of his fucking Michelangelos.

There’s a price tag in the corner. Bet he got that shit at HomeGoods.

“So you’re not here to watch the race,” he says, staring out at the field. “This is business, then.”

“Yeah, sure, business,” I say. “As in, stay out of mine.”

Hook chuckles. Still not meeting my eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You need me to talk more slowly?” I snap. I hate how fucking calm he is. “I said, stay the fuck away from my guys.” Fox. Tink. Smashed together in that alley, on his fucking camera. The way her hand clutched his neck. I can’t stop seeing it every time I close my eyes. “This fucking…fucking stalking shit⁠—”

“Oh.” A smile pries at his lips. “You got my message, then.”

I work my jaw. The leash I’ve got my rage on is getting harder and harder to hold. “Yeah, I got it,” I say. “Real mature. And here I thought the brick through the window was embarrassing for you.” I scoff. “You think that’s cute, shooting home movies of my crew like that? What are you, keeping the footage to jerk off to? Some kind of revenge porn? You into the bad boy biker type, is that it?”

Hook laughs. I hate that sound.

“Your boys aren’t the ones I’m interested in.”

A cold rush washes over the heat of my anger. “Huh?”

He takes a long sip of his whiskey.

“We had a little breach in the VIP level the other night, Pan. Sound familiar?”

I say nothing.

“Amateurish, the way they dropped the name. Naturally, I’m getting pinged about it. So I review the footage. And who do I see but that charming blonde.” He tips his glass. “Had no idea she’d found her way to you. Honestly, I thought she was dead.”

Dead? “The fuck are you talking about?”

Hook’s smile widens.

“I mean that she’s one of mine, Pan,” he says. “Or did you not know?”