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She’s not my Mags, but she’s got some fire, and I love that in a crazy old coot. “Don’t worry. My smile’s worse than my bite. Or my card tricks.”

“Oh, he is trouble.” But Mathilde’s pinched expression relaxes ever so slightly. “You finally found one with some zest. Congrats, Rachel.”

Rachel mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, for fuck’s sake, and drags me away. I throw Mathilde a final wink, and she grins back.

“In another life,” I murmur as I follow Rachel across the ballroom—hey, that camera’s aimed straight at a painting!—“I think your aunt and I would’ve been friends.”

Just like Maggie. Once upon a long time ago. But alas, we’re in this life, so we aren’t friends, and never will be.

Maybe I could become friends with any number of the valuables in this room, though, cause goddamn, there are a ton. Valuables galore, and yet, something tells me Nick’s beady little eyeballs ain’t on any of this shit, right, because why come to Boston for what I’m sure plenty of rich peeps have back in Manhattan?

“I think you could be friends with anyone,” Rachel mutters, still dragging me along in her wake. “If you wanted to.”

If you wanted to. That word again. Want. What do you want, Jax?

She’s not wrong, on either account. But why would I want friends? Friends are distracting, and I can’t afford a distraction tonight. Can’t even let the fucking jewelry lure me in with its sparkling siren call.

All this opulence and wealth and displays of power, but none of it is truly unique. Which means . . . there’s something else he’s after.

A thrill uncurls in my belly. Floods adrenaline into each of my limbs. Okay, definitely deploying the original plan—the one that’ll be more challenging and less profitable than a nice, routine jewelry dispatch at this ballroom blitz.

The OG operation will be so much more fun.

Rachel leads me through the ballroom. Stops beside a couple in their fifties. Intros roll. I smile. My eyes flit from the crude combover of the man in front of me to the waiter hoisting a tray of champagne glasses with the dexterity of a practiced beverage dispenser.

Not one of Nick’s, I’d wager. So . . . who are the players on this fucking chessboard?

Who are they, and where are they going?

“And this is my mother’s tennis partner, David . . .” Rachel’s fingers rediscover the soft spot above my elbow with a little squeeze almost painful in its intensity. But it’s effective; my attention snaps to the new couple in front of us. Two men this time, both so unremarkably fitted into this environment, I might start taking notes on how to blend in. “And his boyfriend—sorry, husband—Max.”

I offer Max and David my very best smile, adorable dimple fully deployed, even as half my inner alarm bells target another waiter lurking beside a plant in the corner. Noticeably out of range of the closest camera. Not quite in a blind spot, mind.

“And this is Dennis and Lovey . . .” An older couple this time, standing a noticeable several inches apart. Married too long, I suppose.

“So lovely to meet you.” I lean in to deliver an affected kiss to the air beside each of their cheeks—rich people, man. My fingers graze an elbow with tender familiarity. Swear, that shit always softens folks like butter.

Rachel reels off a list of information—names, careers, relations—that traipses in one ear and out the other. I'm busy watching how Dennis’s hand twitches toward his pocket, how Lovey’s mouth pulls slightly tighter when Rachel mentions some great aunt I gather Dennis once knew better than Lovey. How the plant-waiter has moved a step closer to the wall behind, and his gaze keeps darting sideways toward . . . Towards what?

I’m good at reading people. It’s how I play the game. I read people like cards. But this game ain’t an open table. Why can’t I read it?

Rachel moves on.

I smile harder.

They smile back.

I’d say I’m the horse whisperer, but these folks ain’t stallions. And at the end of the day, ain’t nothing special about me, no unusual talents or skills. I just understand one basic principle: that people are sheep, longing for a shepherd.

They want someone to listen, to laugh, to smile and tease and offer friendly touches and heartfelt nods. They want someone to follow.

They want to be fucking herded.

They yearn to be my sheep.

Tonight, I’m not herding anyone. Tonight, I’m all soft smiles and charm and eyeballs picking apart the staff. Trying to, you know, suss out the ones who don’t belong. Like the waiter by the plant.

There’s another half smushed into the corner who can’t seem to look in one direction for more than about twelve seconds at a time. He’s so twitchy, he makes me look calm and steady, shit.