She climbs up the ladder, water streaming down her body. Her stiff nipples poke through the white bikini top. She tosses back her cap of blonde hair, which she carefully kept out of the pool.

“See something you like?” she purrs.

“Yeah. Where can I get one of those floaties?” I say.

“You can have mine.”

“That’s generous.”

“I’m a nice person,” Bella says sweetly. “Once you get to know me.”

“Maybe you’re right, Bella. Maybe we should go for lunch sometime.”

She raises an eyebrow, mildly suspicious. “What, like a date?”

“Just two people eating food at the same table. Getting to know each other better.”

She’s trying not to agree too easily.

“I didn’t know you were the dating type.”

“People change. You’re nice now, and I’m a romantic.”

Bella bites her lip. She probably thinks it looks seductive, but she’s getting lipstick on her teeth.

“When?” she says.

“Tomorrow. You know the Poke Bar on La Salle?”

“Yeah.”

Of course she does. It’s right across the street from Alliance Bank.

“I’ll meet you there at eleven.”

“Okay.”

She’s smiling, pleased and excited. I’m trying to hide my smile too, but for entirely different reasons.

“You want to go grab a drink right now?” she says.

“I can’t. I’ve got to find Levi.”

“Oh.” She frowns, disappointed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, though,” I say.

I leave her by the pool, pretending to head off in search of Levi. In reality, I don’t need to talk to anybody else. I’ve set my plan in motion. Now I can relax and have a couple drinks without Bella tagging along.

I bump into Mason in the living room. He’s slouched down on the couch, drowning his sorrows in a half-drunk bottle of rye.

“Hey, dude,” I say. “What’s your problem?”

He takes another slug of liquor, staring morosely across the room. I follow his gaze to where Patricia is dancing very close with a handsome, muscular man in a polo shirt.

“Who’s that guy?” I ask him.

“Rocco Dean,” Mason says bitterly. “He works at Ridgemoor.”

“Oh yeah, he teaches lessons, right?”

“Golf and tennis,” Mason says, taking another miserable swig.

“Hm,” I say, borrowing Mason’s bottle for a quick drink. “Makes sense. Patricia’s hot. And that dude’s a lot better looking than you.”

Mason yanks his liquor back. “Man, shut the fuck up.”

“I’m just saying it’s not your fault—there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s just your face. Maybe if you had a better personality . . .”

He tries to slug me on the arm, and I knock his fist away, laughing.

“She says I have no ambition. I’m going nowhere.”

“You do live at your mom’s house.”

“I need a better job.”

I steal his drink again, taking a heavy gulp. “I might have something for you,” I tell him.

“Oh yeah?” He perks up.

“It’s not exactly simple. We need a driver, some muscle, a lock picker, and somebody to handle alarms. Plus some custom equipment.”

Mason grins. “What kind of equipment?”

“I’ll give you a list,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

Mason’s handy with fabrication. If I give him the specs, he can put together almost anything.

“Is Dante the muscle?” he says.

“Possibly.”

I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to rope my big brother into this one. He’s gotten so conservative. It might be best to spring it on him last minute, when the wheels are already in motion.

“I assume you’re working the locks,” Mason says.

“Of course.”

“We could use Jonesy for the alarms.”

“Yeah, if he’s back on his meds.”

“What about the driver?”

At that moment, Camille Rivera walks into the living room. She looks like absolute shit—hair a crazy tangle of curls. Huge dark circles under her eyes. Expression like she just watched a car wreck explode in front of her.

“To be determined,” I say to Mason.

I intercept Camille over by the kegs. She’s just poured herself a cup of Levi’s shit beer and she’s gulping it down.

“Where’d you come from?” I ask her.

“None of your business,” she snaps.

She finishes her beer and pours another, the cup half full of foam.

“You’re in a hurry,” I say, watching her drink that beer down just as fast.

“I don’t need your commentary, Nero,” she says, draining her second cup. “You’re about the last person on the planet who should be giving me shit for drinking too much.”

Usually this would be the point in the conversation where I’d tell her to knock herself out—literally. But today I don’t. I can see bright tears gleaming in the corner of Camille’s eyes. In all the years I’ve known her, in all the times I’ve seen her pissed off, agitated, or stressed, I’ve never seen her cry. Not once.

There’s something seriously wrong with that sight. It’s like a lion with its mane shaved off. It makes me feel the one thing I don’t ever want to feel—pity.

“What’s going on?” I ask her. “What happened?”

“What do you care?” Camille shouts. “Stop pretending to be nice to me! It just makes it worse.”

She’s drawing the attention of the people around us, but I don’t care.

She tries to stomp off away from me and I seize her arm and jerk her back again. I spin her around, her body pressed up against mine. It’s hot as hell in the house, and Camille’s flesh is even hotter. My blood is rushing hard, and I can feel myself grimacing, teeth bared, as I demand, “Tell me what’s going on!”

She stares up at me, those big dark eyes wide and furious. “Let go of me, Nero!”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong!”

“She said let go,” a male voice interjects.

Fucking Johnny Verger. He’s shouldering his way over to us, playing the chivalrous hero. He’s got that surly look on his face that tells me he’s spoiling for a fight again. I’m pleased to see that his nose still looks swollen, with two wing-like bruises extending out under his eyes.

“How’s your face, Johnny?” I ask him, without letting go of Camille’s arm.

“Better than yours is gonna be,” he snarls.

A crowd is gathering around us. I can see Bella and Beatrice on one side, still wearing their bikinis and nothing else. Bella’s face is alight with excitement, anticipating the violence to come.

Camille’s eyes dart back and forth between Johnny and me.

“I don’t need your help,” she says to Johnny.

“This fuckstick needs to be taught a lesson,” Johnny says. “About keeping his hands to himself.”

“Maybe you should teach your girlfriend that lesson,” I sneer at him. “She seems to put her hands . . . and her mouth . . . anywhere she wants . . .”