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And I can’t fucking wait to see the look on Jack’s face when he realizes that.

In a far better mood than I have been for days, I take the unlit cigarette from behind my ear, letting it nestle on the edge of my lips for a moment.

It’s another marker of how quickly everything changed in only a few hours. I was so close to lighting up yesterday after weeks of going without that I ripped it from its new usual spot and tossed it in the fireplace.

Loni noticed. I didn’t want her to think that I relapsed, that nicotine was more important to me than she was, so even though she didn’t accept my offer of a kiss at first, I made sure she did later. When she pointed out that I didn’t taste like cigarette, I told her the truth.

That at my lowest, when I honestly believed that there wouldn’t be any coming back from her learning my deepest secret, I thought about lighting up—but I didn’t. Because I told her I wouldn’t, that I would quit, and if she ever decided to kiss me again, I didn’t want her to taste ashtray again.

Did I expect that she would let me so soon? I’dhoped, but my pragmatic side told me that I was delusional. I guess I underestimated just what a turn on it was for Loni when I was both vulnerable and honest. For one of the only times ever, she actually believed me when I was telling her the truth, and I saw a totally different side to my wife.

I like it. I liked it a lot.

Fuck, I’m on cloud nine. Nothing can bring me down now?—

My timer goes off. Removing my shoes from the top of my desk, I reach for my phone. At the same time, a notification from my calendar app pops up on the screen:

LUNCH WITH BAS: 1:15 @ Martino’s

Of course.

It takes ten minutes to drive downtown to Bas’s favorite cafe. It’s one o’clock now. Jack scheduled a meeting at two-thirty between me, Stephen, and two local business owners to talk about the Order taking them over as a nothing front of money laundering. Stephen represents the old guard, I explain the benefits of selling to Jack, and if they hesitate, we call up for one of the enforcers. Luke or Dallas or even Marcus… someone will stand behind the powerpoint presentation, galing menacingly while I do my sales pitch.

When Bas called me last night, after Loni curled up next to me in bed despite the fact that it definitelywasn’tMonday, I almost didn’t answer. Only the fact that Bas, Dallas, and Connor were the only ones other than Loni that I actually care to talk to, I waited for him to call back—a second consecutive call our boyhood sign that it was urgent, but we didn’t want to leave a text trail or a voicemail—then answered with a muttered whisper so that I didn’t disturb my sleeping beauty.

She snored delightfully through my entire call, and by the end of it, I’d agreed to meet Bas for lunch the next day.

Eventually, my old friend will start cashing in the favors I owe him. Between showing up at the church for my wedding and, now, using his tight friendship with Connor to help me, I’m definitely in his debt.

I’ll pay him back. I always do.

I itch when any relationship is one-sided. My ledgers have to be balanced, but when it comes to my wife… there isn’t anything I won’t do.

Sebastien’s bikeis parked along the curb when I show up at Martino’s. He got lucky. The rest of the side-street parking is full, and unless I want to drive around, looking for one, I’m shit out of luck.

So I double-park. If anyone has an issue with it, they can come to me. Either they’re a townie who will be easily bought up with a couple of hundreds and a charming smile, or they’ll be one of the Owed who’ll know better than to fuck with Adrian Heller.

Grabbing my phone and my keys, I climb out of the car, glowering at the driver zooming past me. They swerve, I scoff as I lock my Mustang, and then I’m heading toward the front of the cafe.

“Adrian. Hey, Adrian! Over here.”

My head snaps, body detouring toward the back of the crowded outdoor seating area. Harmony Heights is in the middle of a slight cool snap—it’s mid-seventies, with a forecast for thunderstorms later today according to my weather app—so I’m not surprised that Bas chose to sit outside.

He has this thing with confined spaces. Sometimes, I think that’s why he prefers to ride his back and just drive. He craves freedom, him and the open road, and if I know it’s because he’s outrunning his family’s legacy, I keep my mouth shut. Why judge? Especially when my uncle will never let me forget who I am.

He’s wearing his road jacket, a sleeveless white tank underneath the open leather coat. His eyes are covered in a pair of expensive shades, his motorcycle helmet an odd decoration in the middle of the delicate table setup. When he saw me, he flagged me down, and he kicks out the seat opposite him as I wind my way through the filled tables.

“Thought you’d be late, Adrian. Didn’t want to think my oldest friend stood my sorry ass up.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s 1:13. I’m technically early.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve been here since one. You know what they say. Timeliness is next to godliness.”

I lower myself into the seat he picked for me. “Isn’t that supposed to be cleanliness?”

Bas shrugs. “Who the fuck knows? When Maman is pissed at my old man, she speaks in French. You know she likes to use those kinds of phrases, but they never translate right. That or my French is still shit after all these years.”

Ambre Reynolds is a unique case in the Order. She came to Harmony Heights about thirty years ago as an exchange student. Guy Reynolds fell for her at first sight, and when she was supposed to leave at the end of the summer, he seduced her, then Claimed her that August. He was twenty-three, she was eighteen, and if the name Heller or Collins means something in this town, that’s nothing compared to the legacy of the Reynolds.