It violates the laws of physics. Tuxedos belong in limousines, or at the very least, climate-controlled sedans with heated leather seats. They do not belong in a ten-year-old vehicle that smells like wet dog (I don't own a dog, but the Jeep has a history) and has a suspension system designed for rock crawling, not smooth rides.
I glance over at the passenger seat.
Maxwell York is gripping the "Oh Shit" handle with white knuckles. He is wearing a black tuxedo that fits him so perfectly it should be illegal. His hair is slicked back. His jaw is clenched tight enough to grind diamonds.
"You okay over there, Princess?" I ask, downshifting as we turn onto the private road leading to the estate. "You look like you're waiting for an IED to go off."
"The suspension on this vehicle is assault,"Maxwell mutters, staring straight ahead. "And I am not waiting for an explosion. I am waiting for my mother."
"Same difference."
We crest the hill. The York Estate looms in front of us.
"It looks like a vampire’s summer home," I note.
"It is a Gothic Revival," Maxwell corrects automatically. "My grandfather built it to intimidate his business rivals."
"He succeeded, clearly."
I pull into the circular driveway. It is lined with cars that cost more than my organ systems combined. A Bentley. A vintage Jaguar. A Mercedes G-Wagon.
And now, a mud-splattered Jeep Wrangler with a cracked bumper and a winch that has seen actual combat.
I park right next to the Bentley.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask, killing the engine. The sudden silence is heavy.
Maxwell doesn't move. He’s staring at the massive oak front doors like they are the gates of hell.
"If I don't go in," he says quietly, "she wins. She calls the Board. She makes my life a misery of audits and 'surprise' inspections."
He turns to look at me. In the dim light of the dashboard, his blue eyes are wide and terrified. The Ice King is gone. This is just a son who has spent thirty-six years failing to be enough.
"Hey." I reach across the console. I cover his hand on his knee.
Maxwell flinches, then relaxes. He turns his hand over, gripping my fingers tight. His skin is ice cold.
"You have a shield," I remind him. "That’s the deal. I take the hits. You drink the scotch."
Maxwell takes a deep breath. He nods. "The shield. Right."
He releases my hand. He straightens his tie. The mask slides back into place—cool, detached, impenetrable.
"Let’s go," he says.
We get out. The wind bites through my new charcoal wool coat, but the suit Giovanni tailored makes me feel solid. Armored.
We walk up the stone steps.
There is a boy sitting on the porch railing. He’s about eighteen, wearing a prep school blazer and smoking a cigarette with an intensity that suggests he’s trying to burn his lungs out on purpose.
"Preston," Maxwell says stiffly.
The boy looks up. He has Maxwell’s features, but they are softer, meaner. He looks bored.
"Maxwell," Preston drawls. He flicks ash onto the pristine snow. He slides off the railing and walks down the steps, circling my Jeep like he’s inspecting a crime scene.
He stops at the back bumper. He leans in, squinting at the sticker plastered next to the license plate, right under a layer of dried mud.
