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CHAPTER 1

Sloane Kingsley

The night started with too much champagne and not enough scandal.

Pretty boring, actually.

I was draped across a velvet sofa at Lila Barrett’s Beacon Hill townhouse, half-listening while someone complained about their internship atVogueand someone else scrolled through her ex-boyfriend’s private story like it was some holy text that belonged in a church somewhere. The room was warm with soft lighting, overpriced perfume, and the heady scent of restlessness.

Lila’s place was old-money perfect—you know the kind of place—fireplace roaring, art no one understood on the walls, and a stocked bar cart none of us were technically old enough to touch, but did anyway, because we were young and bored and there was no one around to enforce the rules.

I was wearing a silk slip dress in a shade of red that felt a little too dangerous for a Thursday, and no bra,obviously. My boots were up on the coffee table, next to a crystal ashtray someone had filled with half-melted gummy bears. It looked like a crime scene, except with rainbows rather than blood.

“I heard Grace Sommers had a pregnancy scare,” Maya said, like it was national news.

“No way. Who with?” Lila leaned in, practically salivating.

Maya smirked. “Derek Paxton.”

Cue the gasps. I bit back a laugh. Derek Paxton was the class valedictorian, too intelligent and nerdy for his own good, but still somehow sort of hot in a smarty pants kind of way, but he also played lacrosse too, so maybe that added to it? I don’t know.

Honestly, Maya shouldn’t even be talking. I’d seen the glances she gave Derek in class from time to time. If anything, she had a crush on him too and was just jealous of Grace.

“She always did have a thing for lacrosse boys with God complexes,” I murmured, sipping my drink. “It’s giving mesuburban cautionary talevibes.”

The girls cackled. After that, the gossip kicked into high gear. It turned to city council drama, then to who got kicked out of Harvard, and finally to rumors about the Murphy twins’ whiskey-fueled engagement party. Pretty standard stuff, if you ask me.

Then Georgia—the kind of girl who always knew something she shouldn’t—dropped a gossip grenade in the middle of the room.

“Okay, but did you guys hear about the fight?”

A hush fell. I arched a brow. “What fight?”

“It’s underground,” she said, eyes wide. “Like,actualunderground. Apparently, it’s going down tomorrow night in Southie. Invite-only, cash at the door, no phones.”

“LikeFight Club?” Maya asked, giddy. “Shut up. That’s so illegal.”

“Right?” Georgia nodded, her perfect spiral curls bouncing. “And get this—it’s not just random guys. Word is it’s two big names. Like, mafia royalty or something.”

That got my attention.

I shifted my legs off the table, feigning casual interest. “Mafia royalty? Please. What is this, Netflix?”

“I’m serious.” Georgia leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper like the walls were listening to us run the rumor mill. “One’s this Russian guy—huge, tattooed, scary as hell. They call him The Hammer.”

Of course they did.

“And the other?” Lila pressed.

“No clue. But someone said it might be connected to the Russians. Or maybe the Irish. Maybe the Italians. Either way, it’s supposed to be brutal.”

I rolled my eyes, letting out a soft huff. “Sounds like testosterone and brain damage. Hard pass.”

I feigned boredom. But my pulse? Yeah,thatbetrayed me.

There was something about the idea of it—the blood, the sweat, the raw, unfiltered danger of it—that sparked something in my chest like a match to gasoline. It felt dirty. Illegal. Wrong.

Real.