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Levi’s voice drops, almost hopeful. “Please tell me it’s dangerous. Please tell me there’s a strong chance you’re gonna get your dick shot off.”

“Nah. Babysitting some spoiled princess. Easy money.”

“Babysitting?” He sounds genuinely disgusted. “Jesus. You’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel now, aren’t you?”

“Not by choice. But I get a guest house and sweet fuck-all to do. I’m not complaining.”

“Guess I’ll just swing by your place and grab it myself then,” he says.

“You don’t know the combination to my safe.”

“9912,” Levi answers without missing a beat.

I don’t bother asking how the hell he knows. I use that pin for everything.

“Lock up when you leave,” I tell him.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want anyone stealing your shit,” he says, deadpan. “Enjoy playing nanny.”

The line goes dead.

This is the first solo job Ray’s thrown me in years. No Levi in my ear, none of his constant bitching. Should be good.

This guy, Maverick Whitmore, wants me glued to his daughter twenty-four-seven, but I’ll find a way to slip out. I need to track down that woman—whatever the hell her name is.

I finally pull up to the address and let out a low whistle as the massive iron gates swing open silently.

The place is a sprawling white mansion that looks like it was ripped straight out of a movie. Fountains, hedges, enough marble and limestone to build a palace.

My car scrapes hard again as I crawl up the long driveway. I wince at the sound. What the hell do these people drive up here—tanks? But out front sits a Bentley, a Mercedes, and a Porsche. I’d hate to see what their undercarriages look like.

I kill the engine and step out, adjusting my jacket. Before I even reach the oversized double doors, a man walks out to meet me.

“Mr. Whitmore,” I say, slipping into my most professional tone. “Drew Blackwood.”

He extends a hand.

He’s a few inches shorter than me, silver-haired, impeccably dressed in an expensive suit. Textbook rich guy—soft hands, neat fingernails, the kind of face that’s never seen a day of real work.

He also looks arrogant as hell. I don’t like him on sight.

The second our palms meet, I see that the feeling is mutual. The power game begins. His grip turns into a vice, fingers digging in as he tries to twist his wrist over mine—the classic dominance play. I match the pressure, refusing to give him a single inch. We stand there in silence, hands locked, shifting slightly in a quiet, grinding battle neither of us is willing to lose.

You’ve got to be careful with men like this. The ones who think they run the world.

They call guys like me when there’s something that needs doing—something they’re too soft or too “respectable” to handle themselves. They pay us to be the monsters so they can keep their hands clean and still play the part of the man in charge.

But real power? It doesn’t belong to the guy writing the check. It belongs to the man who actually gets the job done.

That’s why I don’t let him win the handshake.

He breaks first, releasing my hand with a tight, forced smile.

Good.

“Come on in,” he says, gesturing toward the house.

Inside, it’s even worse. Vaulted ceilings, obscene opulence everywhere I look. The kind of place built specifically to make people feel small.