Chapter 2

I strode to the service bar, my hands trembling. Not from fear. From rage.

It was the kind of rage that starts in your toes and burns its way up until you can taste the ash in your mouth.

I slammed Jaden's keys on the counter. I didn't park the car. I left it blocking the fire hydrant outside. Let the city tow it.

"One Martini. Extra dirty. And the hot tea she demanded," the bartender muttered, sliding a heavy tray toward me. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

He kept his head down, ashamed. He knew what was happening was wrong, but he was shackled by a mortgage and a boss who wouldn't protect him.

I picked up the tray.

The glass was cold, but my skin felt hot.

I walked toward the VIP corridor. Jaden had moved there, claiming a booth that was reserved for the inner circle.

She was on her phone, laughing loudly.

"He's wrapped around my finger," she said to whoever was on the other end. "I'll have the ring by Christmas."

I stopped at the table.

I set the drink down.

"Your drink," I said.

Jaden didn't look up. She waved her hand as if shooing a fly.

"Take it back," she said.

"You ordered it," I replied, my voice flat.

"The ice is melting," she said. "I want it fresh."

It had been thirty seconds. The ice was fine.

She looked up then. Her eyes scanned me, landing on my hands.

My hands were rough. There was dried oil paint under my fingernails from the studio, and calluses on my palms from carrying trays.

"Look at those hands," she sneered. "Rough as sandpaper. Connor likes soft things. That's why he's with me."

She didn't know these hands had learned to strip a Glock 19 when I was twelve. She didn't know these hands had painted portraits that sold for more than her car.

"I'll get you another drink," I said, reaching for the glass.

I wanted to end this audit quietly. I wanted to walk away with my dignity and let my father handle the fallout.

Jaden moved faster.

She slapped the tray.

Her hand connected hard with the silver rim. The martini glass tipped, spilling its contents.

But it wasn't the martini that did the damage.

It was the pot of hot tea sitting beside it.

Scalding water splashed across the back of my hand.

The pain was immediate and blinding.

It felt like someone had pressed a branding iron against my skin.

I gasped, dropping the tray. It clattered to the floor, glass shattering everywhere.

Jaden laughed.

It was a cruel, high-pitched sound that grated against my nerves.

"Clumsy bitch," she said. "Look what you did to my dress."

There wasn't a drop on her.

I clutched my hand to my chest. The skin was already turning a furious, angry red. Blisters were beginning to rise.

Mark appeared from the shadows of the corridor.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"She threw it at me!" Jaden cried, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at me. "She burned me!"

She was lying. It was so obvious it was pathetic.

Mark looked at the floor. He looked at Jaden, dry and smirking. He looked at me, clutching a hand that was literally steaming.

He saw the truth.

He saw the injury on his employee.

"Blake," Mark said, his voice low. "Clean this up."

I stared at him. The pain in my hand was throbbing, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

"She burned me," I said.

"I said clean it up," Mark barked. "And apologize to Miss Juarez."

He was choosing the lie. He was choosing the path of least resistance because he was afraid of Connor's temper if the mistress was unhappy.

Loyalty was dead here.

There was no Code. There was no Family. There were just cowards in expensive suits.

I looked at Mark. I memorized his face. I memorized the fear in his eyes.

"No," I said.

"What?" Mark stepped closer.

"I need ice," I said. My voice was cold. It sounded like my father. "And I am not cleaning up her mess."

I turned around.

"You walk away, and you're done!" Mark shouted after me. "Don't bother coming back!"

I kept walking.

I headed straight for the kitchen.

I didn't need this job. I didn't need the money.

I needed a reckoning.

And I was going to calculate the price of my burnt skin in blood.