“Don’t taint the special moment with a dirty word like love.” I smiled mockingly. “Why am I here, Harry?”

“It’s Lenny. I wanted to make sure you weren’t too harsh with her.”

No, he didn’t. He gave zero shits about anyone but himself. I took my Zippo out of my back pocket and flicked it. I’d told Edgar what I needed to tell him to get the gig, and he’d told Harry, but no part of me even mildly sympathized with her.

Harry sighed heavily. “We have a problem.”

I glanced at the time again. I’d missed dinner, but I wasn’t worried. My mother had stocked the mini fridge in my room with sick shit.

“It’s about your mother.”

My eyes snapped up. “I’m listening.”

“As you may know, she offered me a position to become a partner in her gallery in Los Angeles a few weeks ago. It is a very successful gallery, so it is with heavy regret that I will have to say no.”

I blinked at him, steadfast. “Please tell me why this is my concern, because I’m trying to weed out the fucks I need to give about this boring-ass story.”

“The reason I cannot, in good conscience, become a partner in the gallery is purely legal.” He sat back in his executive chair, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “Your mother, for lack of diplomatic wording, is a drug smuggler.”

“Are you fucking high?” My eyebrows shot up.

I knew my mother. She was straighter than a ruler, never broke the law in her life. Aside from being the only saint in Todos Santos, she didn’t need to smuggle drugs. As it was, she had more money than the Windsor family. She donated millions to charities every year just to get rid of the greens.

“I am when in Los Angeles—on the purest cocaine, courtesy of the hundreds of kilograms of coke trafficked into the United States under the canvas of the paintings sent to her in crates from all over the world. Quite a pity. Such a pillar of the community, doing something so shameful. Tell me, Vaughn, how many years in prison is it for hundreds of kilograms of cocaine? In California? I think we may be talking about fifty, sixty years in jail.” He tsked, tapping his long, skinny fingers on his table. “Perhaps more, if they want to make an example out of her. Oh, the FBI and DA would be all over Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer. Not quite the low-hanging fruit, is she? A golden opportunity to cut the ties between the Spencers and the local police, who bow to your every whim. And your father has his fair share of enemies who would go to great lengths to see his beloved thrown in the can.”

“Liar.” I bared my teeth, slapping his desk with both my palms. But I knew he had something. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so cocky.

He sighed, as if the situation saddened him. “There are pictures everywhere. Evidence for miles. Guess she is in business with the wrong people.”

“You.” My eyes widened. “You hooked her up with suppliers.”

He was the wrong person.

“Did I, now?” He clucked his tongue. “I don’t suppose you can prove it?”

I couldn’t, but it was the truth. He’d done this. Of course he had—made sure she ordered pieces that came with drugs without telling her, and somehow made it untraceable to him. God fucking dammit.

“They’ll know she has nothing to do with it.” I shook my head.

“Is that a chance you’re willing to take?” He arched a brow. He knew the answer to that question.

“What do you want?”

“You,” Fairhurst quipped. “Quiet. Obedient. And out of my bloody hair. When you came here, you thought you had leverage over me. You thought I chose you because I was scared of you. You darling, naughty boy, I chose you because I wanted to put an end to your scowling, scheming, and silly plans—to remind you I’m the one calling the shots. One wrong move, Spencer, and your mummy will find out the untimely answer to the question—does she look good in stripes?” My mother’s supposedly dear friend spread his arms melodramatically.

“I will kill you,” I spat, my entire body humming with rage.

He stood, rounding the desk toward me with his hands behind his back.

“You think I haven’t considered that? You’re a wild card, like your father. That’s why there’s a file on my Dropbox ready to be sent to my good friends at the FBI if I’m found prematurely dead. You can’t touch me, Spencer. At least…” He stopped, raking his eyes over me with a rancid smile. “Not the way you want to touch me.”

I ground my teeth, feeling blood trickling from my gums. I’d bitten myself without noticing. I needed to keep my shit together. Mom was the one sacrifice I wasn’t willing to make in my quest to burn this place down.