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CHAPTER1
Owen
I don’t think it’s fashionable to be late to anything, but I do enjoy walking into a party once it’s in full swing. By now, the Bailey family estate is jam-packed with college students. Tonight is the town’s annual Summer Burnout, and everyone’shere. Their frenzied energy is palpable even on the rooftop deck of Liam’s sprawling mansion where the five Royals of Pinecrest lounge on wicker sofas and stare out over their town like rulers surveying their kingdom.
It’s not a metaphor.
Liam Bailey, Oz Walsh, and me. We’re sons of the highest-ranking mafia families in this town. William Sterling and Wilder Adams are so high up in the hierarchy, they’re considered honorary royalty, even though their families aren’t part of the mob.
Overflow from the ballroom-turned-dance-floor spills onto the estate’s expansive lawn, groups of people converging and scattering randomly as the sun sets. At the edges of the property lies the border of the Silverash forest, delineated by row upon row of tall, dark green pines. They scent every breeze that comes our way, transforming the evening air into something fresh, crisp, and wild. Past the forest, nestled in the valley created by the mountains, lies Pinecrest. The town’s lights are just starting to turn on, twinkling yellow and orange as dusk descends early in that deep crevice.
Liam’s family estate has one of the best views in town, but it’s not nearly as impressive as my own family home. You don’t need an SUV to reach this mansion though, which makes it a far better venue than Dalton Manor.
Even with the music pounding far beneath us, it’s serene up here. Will and Oz aren’t chatting aimlessly and Wilder isn’t scrolling through his TikTok feed with the volume all the way up, annoying us with snippets of whatever music clips are trending. For once, Liam and I aren’t having a heated debate.
But the peace is as fleeting as the lull between lightning strikes in an electrical storm.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my charcoal McQueen dress shirt. I take it out and grimace at the first line of the truncated text from Penny Adams, Wilder’s far-flung cousin I made the grave error of trying to hook up with a few weeks ago.
This isn’t over…
Christ.
I’m willing to bet good money that right this second Penny is lurking somewhere below.
All because I lost control.
“Wilder,” I say as I slip my phone back into my pocket. “Remind me toneverdate anyone with the last name Adams.”
Wilder narrows his eyes at me. “Itoldyou she was psycho.”
He also told me she was a freak in bed, and since Wilder is renowned for stretching the truth like motherfucking taffy, I was at best hoping for a slightly clingy date who wouldn’t yell “Red!” before I had her tied to the bed.
It was a gamble and I know the house always wins, but I was in a bad way and I needed the distraction.
The other Royals don’t know the full extent of what happened the night Penny was with me. The night that ended abruptly with a call to 911 and me being politely arrested and taken down to the sheriff’s office for some even more polite questions.
That’s when my father got involved. Dad bought Penny’s silence with an NDA and a few million dollars… and a none-too-subtle threat about what would happen if she forgot it was an offer she couldn’t refuse.
Penny didn’t press charges. Now it seems she’s decided to threaten me.
It’s a suicidal move on her part.
Why is it this fucking difficult to find a good lay?
Certainly, Pinecrest is a small town, but I have my pick of any girl I want.
Except… I don’t want justanygirl.
“You’re overthinking it,” Liam says, like he’s reading my fucking mind and has to voice his opinion on my thoughts. He tugs out the slender length of leather cord he uses to keep his man-bun in place, rakes a hand through his dark hair, and ties it up again.
“I made a mistake,” I mutter, not liking the fact that I have to admit it—especially to Liam—but hoping he’ll drop the subject.
I should be so fucking lucky.
He slides an inch lower in his seat, his wide mouth curved in a faint smile. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him for months. Bailey usually walks around town like a marble statue of a long-gone dictator come to life—implacable, aloof, arrogant.
“You’re expecting perfection.” He takes a drag on a joint, blue-white smoke drifting upward on his exhale, his dark eyes turning heavenward. “Which is not only improbable, but highly impractical. No one’s perfect, and if they were, you wouldn’t want them.”
