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If I were vetting myself for a heist hire, I’d kick myself to the curb. You don’t bring someone into the fold when you don’t understand their motives, how much skin they got in the game.

So, why do I want to go to this damn party?

“I’m . . .” My teeth press together a little too hard. “Catching up with an old friend I think might be there.”

“Sure.” Disbelief laces her tone. “What do you want, Jax?”

Well, there’s a question, eh? If I had an answer to that . . . I laugh dryly. “Haven’t the foggiest, love.”

She doesn’t push further.

Norway’s Black Debbath roaring in the background, we get on I-90, which means we’re in a fucking tunnel. Like, in a car, under the city, in a long concrete tube lined in dirty tile that turns the fluorescent lights to smudgy yellow. These East Coasters and their fucking subterranean travel. Seven years and it still weirds me out.

My cards curl between my fingers in a whip-fast shuffle.

Then we’re back out in the dark-light patchwork of urban night. The city unfolds around us in a glittery toss of gemstones against ragged black, and overhead, nature and man war for control of the heavens. Downtown sprawls through the glass on my right. And the South End peeks over Rachel’s shoulder.

I crack the window to breathe in the night. It’s mid-September, still summer, but the faintest hint of fall tinges the air, promising the cold of winter hard on its heels.

Another thing a desert kid like me will never get used to.

We skirt the Charles River—a velvety black band peeking from betwixt the shadows of branches through my window—then delve into a soft sigh of high-end suburbia, of life with a bit of breathing room, nestled behind a protective barrier of mature trees.

We exit the highway onto a wide surface street lined in a charming mix of quaint brick manors and historic Capes and Victorians. Sometimes the houses tuck too far back beneath a canopy of towering oaks to discern more than the twinkle of lights through the leaves.

The further we get from the city, the more the drive feels like delving into a forest, into a fairyland tangle of old trees, gnarled fingers twisted together overhead to craft a tunnel over the car.

The party house sits at the end of a private lane, way in the farthest reaches of Chestnut Hill, barely visible through a heavy layer of pines and shrubs. Rachel slows the BMW to guide it through the wrought-iron gates—still manned by Mr. Neck, but open, this time—and onto that flagstone drive. A line of cars leads up the driveway to the brick estate perched at its curved midpoint, spilling light and sound.

All of its million or so windows glow with cheery orange illumination. I’ve obviously been here before, but it’s still awe-inducing. This dude is rich, rich, rich—bro has hired a valet fucking service for his guests’ cars. And hoo-boi, we ain’t talking about Hondas and Hyundais here. I stare as a literal Aston Martin scoots past, sandwiched between a Lambo and a Bentley.

Rich people. Shit.

But the more people you bring in from the outside, the more ways there are for someone like Nick to waltz right on inside. Unseen, untracked, and unsuspected.

My eyes flick between the white-shirted valet drivers. No way to know which are his just yet, but the Nick I knew back in NYC wasn’t the kind of guy to have friends in high places; no business brokers and high-end art dealers in his Rolodex. His crew will be going in as staff—caterers, cleaners, servers—and lurking in the unseen.

Well, hopefully not by me. I plan to suss them out of the woodwork well before this night’s climax.

“Ready?” Rachel cuts the engine as my eyes fix on the last valet driver in the row—the twitchy kid hanging out on the edge who just straightened his bow for the third time in under half a minute.

I tilt a grin Rachel’s way without taking my eyes off the kid. “Love, I was born ready.”

Ten to one he’s part of Nick’s crew.

“Just . . . stay here, okay?” She cocks an eyebrow at me over the roof of the car. “Don't do anything too . . . Jax?”

“No promises.”

She sighs and snaps the door closed. But as she hurries off to find a valet, I catch the corner of her smile.

I do make things interesting, and she doesn’t hate it anywhere near as much as she should. And now yours truly is utterly unattended. Which, if I’m being perfectly honest, is my favorite state of being.

So, why not have a little fun?

I stride past the line of folks waiting to hand their keys off to the valets, Rachel among them, and head for that grandiose double door instead. A large, older man in a pristine tux—fifty or so, face tugged into careful lines of indifference to hide boredom and scorn—stands at attention like a soldier in the trenches of service to the rich.

Feel ya, my dude.