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“What the fuck happened, Riale? How did they get that evidence? You both were supposed to have taken care of this!”

With the world devolving around me, I feel about nine years old, having just been caught doing something terrible, and have to face down the firing squad.

But I’m not the one in the line of fire.

Shae.

Riale exhales loudly before leaning into the wall, crossing one ankle in front of the other.

“And you. You a fuckin’ narc or something?” My voice starts to rise at the end of the sentence, and there’s a fine tremor that shoots from my biceps to my fingertips, arcing like lightning down my limbs.

Riale releases a short sigh.

“No, nigga! What the fuck you take me for?”

“Hell if I know, Riale! I’ve been completely blindsided here, and I need to know—” I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth.

“Need to know what, Storm?” Riale says. He sounds tired.

“I need to know she’ll be safe. I’ll do whatever I need to do to keep her safe.”

Riale blinks slowly as I hold his gaze.

“You’re worried about your girl but not your father. Interesting.” He taps his chin as he leans against the wall, his ankles crossed.

“I’m worried about everything. I don’t want any of this on my doorstep, and I for sure can’t tolerate any of this blowing back on Shae.”

My head starts to spin, and my hands shake as I come down from the adrenaline rush.

“They won’t go any further than what they did today,” Riale says, his tone cool. “You’ll be fine.”

“Oh? How do you know?”

I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. Shae. Protect Shae.

“I just know, all right? On top of the fact that McAdams was operating way beyond his pay grade, they don’t have anything on you or your dad.”

“They know what happened with that motherfucker from the club. They have the evidence—the brick, the forensics, fucking CCTV footage.”

“They don’t have any evidence, Storm,” he presses.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

He lunges away from the wall, his face flashing with anger.

“It’ll be cleaned up by the end of today. You don’t have anything to worry about, nor does your father. Not that he should be given that grace.”

His words land like a shout in my kitchen, and I try to latch on to what he’s saying.

“Why not?” I ask, my voice sounding thin as I try to talk past my constricted vocal cords. “Why doesn’t my dad deserve grace? I know he’s stepped on some heads to get to the top, but….”

My friend grunts, running his palm over his low fade and looking down at the ground.

Riale’s words are measured as he speaks. “Have you ever wondered why—really wondered why—your father didn’t put you in place to take over? Why he put Lakeland, a man who spends ninety percent of his time on the golf course, as his next in line? Because I know and you know that it should have been you.”

A muscle ticks in my jaw.

“Your father is using you. Just like he used Rainn.”