It’s surreal. It’s terrifying. And it’s also a little funny. They’re so sure, so smug, and they don’t even know his real name. They don’t know it’s Lucky Torvik, the man who drinks protein shakes that taste like liquefied chalk, the man who now has a white rabbit as a roommate because I decided his penthouse was too cold.
So far, no one’s saidLucky. No one’s even saidKade. His crew has their lips sealed. My sisters will never say anything. That should make me feel better. But the knot in my gut isn’t loosening.
Because fame and death have one thing in common: they always catch up.
Just a few minutes later, we’re parked in the garage beneath his building. Lucky and I each grab a bag and haul it upstairs. I don’t even think about what I’m doing as I start unpacking. Tea tin goes in the kitchen, the blanket gets tossed in the bedroom. I light a stick of incense and set it in the holder on the counter. It’s not intentional—hell, it doesn’t even register. It just feels… natural. Like I’m filling in the cracks Lucky never even noticed existed.
Lucky watches me the whole time, pretending to be busy sorting through mail. But I catch the look in his eyes. He’s nervous.
Too filled with restless energy, I turn to the rabbit’s cage. Instantly, Hattie perks up. I scoop her out, holding her against my chest. She’s soft and warm, twitchy nose brushing under my chin. “Hey, Hattie. Did you miss me? Or are you just hoping I brought snacks?”
Lucky instantly drops the bill in his hand and comes over like I’m holding the Holy Grail. He strokes her ears with ridiculous reverence. “Shedidmiss you. Look at her. She’s smiling.”
I raise an eyebrow. “She’s a rabbit, Lucky. She doesn’t smile. She twitches.”
He ignores me, leaning closer, green eyes gone soft as moss. “No, that’s a smile. That’s love. Isn’t it, Hattie? Who’s Daddy’s perfect girl?”
I glance between him and the rabbit, and for a second, it’s hard to tell which one of them looks more smitten. And my heart does that stupid, traitorous thing again—swells, aches, grows three sizes like it’s trying to kill me.
Because here’s this man who cleans up crime scenes like he’s a forensic team’s worst nightmare, who’s built walls taller than the Strip’s skyline—and he’s undone by a rabbit named Hattie.
And dammit, I love him even more for it.
“I think it’s time we finalize our plan,” Lucky says as he presses a kiss to Hattie’s furry little head. With a nod of agreement, I hand her off to him, and we head to the dining table.
“Not tomorrow night, but the night after,” Lucky says as I pull open my laptop and go straight for the satellite image of Phoenix’s property. “Gives us a minute to make sure we’ve got this right. But I don’t think we can wait. Not after what happened last night.”
“It’s either him or us,” I agree. “It’s gone too far now. We have to make the first move.”
And so, we map it all out. We’ll park three streets over. We get to that garage door where there is no camera. Lucky knows how to pick locks. Of course. So, he’ll get us inside. We track down Phoenix inside his home. We knock him out. The two of us will haul him to the truck, a quick drive to the shop, and then I dagger him. I suffocate him. We wrap his body. Clean up the scene. Take him to Lake Mead.
Done.
Every few minutes, Lucky glances up at me with that wild little grin, like he can’t believe we’re sitting here planning a murder, and he’s never been happier.
And maybe that’s the part that should send me straight to therapy—how much I feel the same.
“The day after tomorrow,” Lucky says, scratching behind Hattie’s ears. His voice is final, dark. “Phoenix dies.”
Finally.
chapter eighteen
LUCKY
How caneverything be so perfect and so whacked out at the same time?
Willow’s things have colonized my penthouse—crystals by the rabbit’s pen, a chipped mug on the counter, a blanket slung carelessly over the couch—and the air feels different. Softer. Charged. Lived in. I didn’t know how loud the emptiness was until she muffled it with her presence. And I couldn’t love it more.
But I’ve been exposed, maybe. And Phoenix knows we’re out for his blood, and every bit of me knows he’s going to retaliate after what we’ve done. I feel the anxiety and anticipation of it all like a vice around my throat.
Perfect. Fucked.
Two months ago, I never, ever would have predicted where I’d be on this day.
“You want to go get some lunch?” I ask, because lunch is normal. It feels controllable. Predictable.
Willow is stretched out on the couch, staring up at the ceiling like she’s been running through our murder plan over and over. “I’m not really hungry,” she says as she looks over at me. Anddammit, how does she do this to me so easily? One look with those blue eyes of hers, and my brain is in the gutter.
