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“Sure, that sounds nice. But make sure to add it to the bill.”

“Will you stop? When you’re uber rich from your jewelry, you can pay me back.”

“Thanks for believing in me.”

“Always.”

She ends the call. Meatball hops down from the windowsill and rubs against my leg. I pick him up, kissing his cute, grumpy face. “I shouldn’t have told him about The Vultures. But he was all up in my business, and I got flustered. That doesn’t mean I like him, though, right?”

Meatball whines. It almost sounds like he’s saying,You’re kidding yourself.

Maybe I am. The second I walked in there and felt those dark eyes on me, my body responded, a layer of sweat beading on my skin that made me wish I’d worn something more appropriate. But the call for the interview had come sooner than expected. I just threw something on and drove my jalopy car to Century City.

When the doorbell rings, I put Meatball down. It’s probably a package for Tasha. Her boyfriend is always sending her stuff. It’s sweet.

I don’t even bother to look through the peephole, which is a mistake. When I open the door, I immediately try to slam it shut.

Terror grips me as I process who I have just seen. A mess of fear and guilt and shame tightens in my chest.

Mason sticks his boot in the door’s way, grinning maniacally. I thought I’d escaped Mason, escaped the Vultures. I thought I’d escaped what I’d done: who I was when I was with them. The fear never quits, but lately, I’d let myself feel just a flicker of hope.

What an idiot.

Mason is tall, wide, with a thick brown beard and wild tangled hair. He wears his Vulture leather jacket, as usual. “There are two of my boys downstairs, hot stuff,” he says. “If you don’t let me in, I might have to ask them to join us. You know me, I’m an enlightened man, but they might take liberties which turn… interesting. Especially when they see what you’re wearing.”

“Go to hell.”

“I’ll drag you there with me. I think you’ll find it less comfortable than I do.”

“Is that supposed to make you sound tough?” I hiss, but I can’t completely mask the shiver of dread in my voice.

He pushes the door open, leaving me no choice but to back up.

I need to grab Meatball and get out of here, then find somewhere to hide. Mason ducks under the doorframe and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. The hilt of a knife sticks up from his waistband, but I don’t see a gun. He’s an ex-con and only wears a pistol when he needs it. With me, he’s probably calculated that a knife is enough.

Meatball hisses at him, his hackles rising.

“Hey, little fella. I could make a nice hat out of you.”

“If you touch him, I’ll break your jaw.”

“So feisty, just like your mother. But I know you, Evie. That scared little squeak in your voice gives you away.”

“What do you want, Mason?”

“A coffee would be a start.”

“Please–I’ve got nothing to give you.”

“Begging, that’s more like it.”

“I just want to live my life. I just want to forget.”

He tsks. “You must not have heard the big news. I’m the new president of The Vultures now. Which means I’ve got the power to take back what rightfully belongs to me: you. Pack a bag. I’m taking you home. We’ve got work to do.”

“I’d rather die than work with you ever again.”

He snorts. “You say that like it’d be difficult to arrange.”