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“It—it is not a she,” Neeta states quietly.

I blink and then shake my head. “The hell?”

“It would be prudent for you to get here sooner rather than later.”

It’s the Neeta Jain version of get your ass here five minutes ago, and I only need to hear it once. “On my way,” I bark before ending the call, ramming my phone back into my pocket, and then taking the remaining distance of the service hall at a full run. Emma, not wasting any time on questions, keeps up with my pace.

Neither of us stops until we turn the corner, race past the coffee cart and the gift shop, and arrive in the main expanse of the lobby. The professional decorators have been at work since we cleaned up after being the post-earthquake triage center, and all of the accessories in the space are now decked out in a nautical/surfing culture theme for the summer rush ahead, but I hardly give it all a glance. No… Less than that.

My attention has already zoomed in on the reason beneath Neeta’s forced politeness. Forced because she’s probably been terrified, along with the rest of the wide-eyed night crew lined up behind the desk.

Now here’s a reason to break the laser focus for a second. And thank fuck, it only takes a second to solidify that they all haven’t been coerced into standing there Rent the Musical style, as if waiting for their cue to break into “Seasons of Love.” They’re there because this is a sight to behold.

Because it’s not every day that the boss of the world’s most notorious crime cartel just strolls into the middle of one’s hotel lobby.

But here he is.

Atticus fucking Scorpio.

Turning to greet me and smiling as if we’ve been lifelong pals. “Reece Richards!” And shaking my hand with the same surreal gusto. “And look at this. You have come to greet me in your badass Bolt outfit, sì?” He releases me to box at the air, and I take careful note of his wicked, well-trained right hook. “I am honored, mi amigo. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”

I rock back on one heel, carefully folding my arms. Not a great stance for a balancing act because I literally feel like I’m up on one right now. I should be as tense and terrified as Neeta and the gang, but instead I feel like I’m at a Hollywood event and have been assigned a handler who’s just a fanboy in disguise. Any second now, I’m prepared for the Bolt T-shirts, posters, sunglasses, and lightning sticks to come out, along with an assortment of nifty-colored autograph Sharpies.

“We’re not exactly ‘speaking’ yet, amigo,” I counter. “And for that matter, we are not amigos.” I doubt he needs elucidation on the subject, since his organization basically bankrolled my mutation, but if he doesn’t want to drop the butt-hurt innocent act, I’ll be more than happy to reeducate him about why we’re not going to go get nine holes in at Terranea anytime soon.

Fortunately, Atticus Scorpio is a smart man. At once, he cuts the smiley photo-op bullshit and motions for his two guards to stay back as he steps over slowly. With every inch he moves in, there’s more of the hardcore business demeanor that has me finally respecting—and fearing—him. “Very well, then,” he offers. “We are two successful business leaders, sì? And I can speak to you in that spirit?”

I hold back from pointing out that “successful leaders” don’t make their fortune on smuggling shit like drugs, guns, and people, but some conversations are best left in the shadows at a time like this. Besides, the guy’s made the good faith move of meeting me on my turf, out in public, during the day. He’s got no double motives and has already proven it.

“Of course,” I reply to him at last. “What happens to be on your mind?”

Scorpio tugs at the lapels of his suit. For a second, I admire the bespoke craftmanship of the thing. The charcoal ensemble fits him to the iota and is a collection of the classiest current trends. “An arrangement,” he states. “Arriving at a mutually beneficial goal for both of us.”

I hardly blink at the man. I sure as hell don’t waver the rivet of my stare on him, despite my curiosity about what Emma’s reaction to this is. Naturally, I’m picking up wave after wave of impressions, ranging from trepidation and suspicion to marvel and bewilderment—but the raw, unfiltered force of her gut reaction is only possible with a shared glance. Not going to happen.

So I take the only action that makes sense.

“What goal could that possibly be?”

I take no care to hide a single nuance of my skepticism—or my rage. The man and his organization have been all but ducked between Faline’s legs for years, servicing her every need while sawing off their dicks as sacrifices for her temple. And this bastard knows it. He knows exactly what that woman authorized to be done to me and all the ways she’s fucked with my life ever since. I’ve earned every fucking drop of this bitterness, and I mentally bask in it despite the man’s unchanging expression.

Until he twists up one side of his mouth. And impales me with a stare that’s agleam with new glints—matching his new aura of predatory energy.

“You don’t like Faline Garand,” he finally says. “I don’t like Faline Garand.” The violent purpose in his mien turns into a tangible energy. “Let’s take her out, Bolt Man. Together.”

Chapter Two

Emma

“Holy. Shit.”

At this moment, Lydia’s outburst is better than the sun that’s reflecting off our pool and the juicy sangria in my hand. It’s everything I hoped for—perhaps even more because it’s joined by Trixie’s astounded gasp and Angie’s light clappings. Neeta doesn’t add to the fray but trades a glance with me that’s worth her abstention. She knows exactly what I’m feeling right now.

Validation.

Commiseration.

Confirmation that what happened two days ago was an honest-to-God reality.