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Plus, no matter how close the Sandovals are with the De Lucas, it would take an act of God, or a whole helluva lot of money, for Massimo De Luca to accept his precious Bambina, princess to one of the most prominent Chicago crime families, being with a Black man—even if the princess in question happens to be half-Black herself.

It’s a strange situation, and it would hurt more if I cared. But I don’t.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.” I crack my head from side to side, trying to release the tension in my neck. My muscles bunchup anyway when the trademark booming Chuck Sandoval laugh ricochets around the room.

My father stands next to my uncle, Lakeland, forming a tight circle with the senator from Illinois and Trance Jackson, a tech mogul who just released a new engine for electric cars.

These are the kind of men I was born to emulate. The kind of man I’m expected to become.

Stand up straight. Use proper English. Cut your hair short so they don’t see the kinks. Keep your voice calm so they don’t fear your anger.

I take in their polished suits and smooth, practiced smiles. All of it feels so shallow. No one here challenges anything—but why would they? They benefit from the broken systems created for them, moving along with the status quo like it’s gospel.

The status quo that I’m inherently on the outside of yet still required to abide by.

Looking around the room, taking in the faces of people who don’t look like me—who smile in my face while spitting on my shoes—I’m filled with disgust. This needs to change.Ican change this.

When I’m in charge of Stratos Wealth Fund, I won’t just make money for our investors. I’ll use their moneyfor good. I’ll turn this world upside down, make them eat their prejudice, and clean up shop on my way through.

I scan the entitled and complacent crowd. There are more than a trillion dollars in net worth standing around this room, spread across people who have nothing better to do than buy another yacht or fund their fifth vacation home.

That money could build schools, open shelters, create opportunities for the people left out of their glossy world. But for now, it’s just numbers to them.

And that disgust burns deeper, hardening into resolve.

Corporations have the power to change and save the world—from social justice down to our dying planet.

There just needs to be people who give a fuck.

A flash of my Econ class this morning distracts me from the scene. In it, I see rich brown skin and sharp brown eyes that harden as they look at me rather than soften, as so many women’s do.

I see her—Shae Rivers—calling me out on my bullshit and challenging my beliefs.

I see her giving me the finger, and us using that finger to change the look on her face.

Fucking focus, Sandoval.

And tonight, maybe, my father will finally make good on his years of training—his years of pushing me to the brink and beyond, reminding me over and over who I am—or who he needs me to be. All he has to do is say it. Just one sentence to seal my future.

One sentence to finally tell me I’ve done enough to meet his standards.

Bambi nudges me, her eyes following mine to where my father and Lakeland are deep in conversation.

“They look serious,” she murmurs.

I snort.

“They always look serious.” But my jaw clenches as I watch them. They’re laughing, yes, but there’s something tight in the way my father’s shoulders rise, the way his fingers tap the rim of his whiskey glass. Lakeland’s attention flickers my way for just a second before returning to my father, his mouth curving in a near smirk.

A server glides past, and Bambi swipes two champagne flutes, handing one to me.

“Calm down,” she whispers, as if she can read the tension in my posture, feel the heat creeping up my neck.

I take the glass but don’t drink. I’m not here to sip champagne and mingle. I’m here to prove a point. And maybe tonight, my father will see it, too.

Suddenly, my father’s voice rises above the din, pulling all eyes toward him. I straighten, pulse pounding in my ears.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention!”