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Joshua leers at her. I bite the inside of my cheek. “To be fair, he has a gun.”

“That’s no excuse.” Her gaze travels down me. “What’s yours, Mr. He-Man? Are all those muscles decorative?”

“They’re not bulletproof, Maise.”

“Seems like an oversight.”

Joshua steps between us. “Do either of you understand your current situation?”

“Yes,” Maisie says. “Your hostage management skills are poor. And lazy.”

“My hands are cuffed behind a chair,” I add. “Personally, I’m devastated.”

His nostrils flare. This might actually be fun if I weren’t planning to murder him.

Joshua paces toward an old packing table where another phone sits beside a thick envelope. His restlessness is beginning to show—scanning the windows, adjusting his cuffs, checking the door every few minutes.

He expected fear. What he got was a Cannon family meeting.

“You two find this amusing?” he asks, his finger tapping the side of the firearm.

“Not particularly,” I retort. “But watching you get progressively irritated has recreational value.”

Maisie nods. “Three out of five.”

“Only three?”

“Setting lacks ambiance.” She shrugs, peering around.

Joshua slams his palm onto the table. The sound cracks through the warehouse. Maisie doesn’t blink. I smile.

“Touchy,” I mutter.

He turns on me. “Your confidence is misplaced.”

“I get that a lot.”

“You think because you have money and followers and women worshiping you online that consequences don’t apply to you.”

Interesting. “Actually, I think consequences apply to everyone.” I glance at his gun. “Some more imminently than others.”

His eyes harden. A little fissure behind the polished exterior. Joshua Ricketts has spent his life developing an elaborate philosophy in which every terrible thing that happens to him originates with somebody else. I’m curious how long it takes him to prove me right.

“My brother and I built something together,” he says.

Maisie snorts. “Here comes the villain monologue.”

Joshua ignores her. “Jacob had charm. I understood structure. Money. Movement. How to make anything disappear without anyone realizing it was gone until months later.”

“You stole from people,” I translate.

“We chose targets who could afford losses.”

“Robin Hood,” Maisie says. “Except, you kept the money.” She’s unimpressed.

Joshua’s gaze slices toward her. “He was good at it,” Joshua continues. “Better once we worked together. We had contacts. Accounts. Investments. A system.”

“And then?” I ask.