Page 5

But before I can gloat, the professor claps once, loudly, and says, “Question one….”

2

STORM

When other people are stressed, they might drink or do drugs. Maybe pop a Xan or go get fucked up in a club or at a house party.

For me? Stress only leaves my body if I’m fucking or fighting, which is why I have a wet and willing pussy, or two, in my bed on any given day, and I walk around with split knuckles after each Friday night’s underground fight.

And due to the nature of who I am—the son of the revered Black financial titan Chuck Sandoval—heir apparent to the Stratos legacy, I don’t have time to fuck around. My stress relief has to be efficient.

Studies and work—only the money-generating kind, of course—come first in the Sandoval household.

But today, after spending too much time after Hansen’s class looking for one curly-haired goddess in a frilly skirt, a cascade effect of late arrivals and sudden requests for appearances means that, much to my everlasting agitation, stress relief is nowhere in sight.

“Fuck,” I grumble into my water goblet. Water, because Daddy Dearest commanded it.

He’s always commanding shit.

As Lucielle De Luca’s squealing laugh pings off the Waterford wine glasses, I conclude that if there is a God, He’s surely sent me to the bottom of Hell. Raw-dogging this mind-numbing display of money andclasshas me wanting to fling myself into the Chicago River.

“Dear god, Mother.” Bambi stands close to me where we’ve taken up residence near the unlit fireplace in my parents’ estate. The ornate mantle spans at least twenty feet, and the fireplace height exceeds the grandeur of the thousand-year-old redwood I just set my glass on.

Ihopethe condensation leaves a stain. Preferably in the shape of a middle finger.

“Massimo will get her soon,” I mutter back, leaning on the mantle. I bring the glass to my lips, taking another slow sip as I examine the dining hall. Dinner just ended, and after four glasses of cab, Bambi’s mother is, to put it lightly, fucked up.

Typical behavior for her, which is likely why Bambi’s father, Massimo, doesn’t bring her to social events often.

It’s the cardinal rule of Chicago high society: Drink, do drugs, fuck who or what you want, but don’t get caught in public.

Lucielle De Luca long ago stopped giving a fuck about those rules, though.

“I just want to know why I’m here, Bee,” I mutter, and Bambi puts her delicate hand on my forearm. As she has since we were kids, she manages to calm me down so I don’t pop off on everyone within range.

I only had two hours to prepare for this last-minute dinner meeting, required by my father, with no reason for said meeting given.

Maybe Daddy-o will announce his succession plan.

I clench my free hand into a fist when a fiery jolt of adrenaline rushes through me, making my hands shake—asurprising emotion, seeing as I’ve got well over the therapeutic amount of Xanax in my system to keep—get?—me calm.

At least it’s prescribed.

“You know, just like everyone else, when Chuck Sandoval calls, you drop everything and come.” She wipes the back of her hand over her mouth, a move she often does when she’s nervous.

Of course, my father’s assistant gave the directive, rather than the man himself. But still, his loyal servant wasn’t feeling open to divulging any details about this meet-up over the phone.

Outside the window, lightning cracks across the sky before a low rumble of thunder sounds a few seconds later.

Bambi’s hand on my forearm brings me back to the room—the soft classical music from the quartet in the corner, the movement of the servers as they weave in and out of the group of two dozen people—each with a minimum net worth of a hundred million dollars.

“Storm,” she says, “you okay?”

I hate that expression on her face.

I’ve seen it before entirely too many times, but most notably, I saw that same look when she stared up at me the one and only time we had sex. Despite knowing each other forever, we crossed the line and hooked up.

The morning after, we decided we were better off as friends.