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It sounds exactly like something Ray would say. He’s always calling me Levi’s boy, like I’m still some kid who needs looking after. It pisses me off but I can’t really tell Ray that. Not if I want to keep my fingers.

“You wouldn’t do it,” I say.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

I want to brush it off, tell myself he’s fucking with me. But with Levi, you’re never completely sure.

He’s loyal to the paycheck first, everything else second. Cold as hell when he needs to be.

Still, he’s shown up for me more times than I can count. Usually complaining the entire time, sure—but he always shows up. Which is why I honestly can’t tell if he’d put me in the ground if Ray gave the order.

Best not find out.

We finally break free of traffic, and Levi pulls up alongside my car. I’ve got one foot out the door when his voice stops me.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot, alright?”

Then he floors it, tires screaming as he peels away.

“Too late for that,” I say to myself.

I stand there for a second, watching his taillights disappear down the street. Then my mind drifts back to Grace. She’s stuck at that dinner right now, getting paraded around like a prize mare while Maverick and his friends eye her up. The thought makes my blood heat.

I slide into my own car, straighten my collar in the rear-view mirror, and roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. I don’t have a plan to get her out of this yet.

But I’ll figure it out.

I always do.

15

GRACE

I’m at the stuffy old Crestwood with Dad, Charles and Leonard. Their even older than I remembered—shorter than me, with thinning silver hair and deeply lined faces. They wear identical navy suits, tailored to the same conservative cut. Dressed like this, the only way I can tell them apart is Leonard’s thin, slightly tragic wire-rimmed glasses that perpetually slide down his nose.

Dad clearly didn’t think this through. Grace Lackey and Grace Kane both sound awful.

Their conversation drifts over me like background static—something about market volatility and quarterly forecasts. I try to follow for a polite minute before my mind checks out completely. I sit with my back rigid, a perfect smile fixed on my face, nodding at the right moments like the well-trained daughter I am.

But my thoughts keep slipping back to Drew.

He’s been almost embarrassingly desperate for me all week. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching, the way he finds any excuse to touch me, the way his whole body seems to vibrate with need the second we’re alone…it’s almost pathetic.

I tell myself I’m doing him a favor at this point—throwing him a bone so he doesn’t completely lose his mind. A little charity work. But it’s not like I mind. It scratches an itch for me too.

“Grace has always been interested in philosophy,” Dad says proudly. “Straight A’s at college. Who’s your favorite philosopher again, sweetheart?”

My mind goes blank for one horrifying second before I grab the only name I can think of.

“Confucius,” I say, with far more confidence than I feel. I vaguely remember he was into rules and hierarchy and everyone knowing their place. Or maybe that was someone else. The truth is, I remember almost nothing from that class. I suspect I only got the A because I accidentally flashed my professor while reaching for my pen. Dad was so delighted by the grade that I never had the heart to tell him philosophy wasn’t exactly my calling.

Charles nods, looking faintly impressed.

Dad shoots me a pleased look across the table. For one beautiful, glorious second, I think we might move on.

Naturally, we do not.

Charles leans back in his chair. “And how do you think Confucius compares to Kant?”