The Escalade's engine hummed through the snowy Manhattan streets, but all Alexander could hear was the echo of his own decision. Why had he said yes?

He studied Ethan's reflection in the window-the sharp jawline, the way the boy held himself perfectly still despite the fact that his thin hoodie was soaked through from the snow. Most kids would be complaining about the cold by now, or asking a dozen questions about where they were going. Ethan just sat there, watching the city blur past, his hands folded in his lap like he was in church.

Those eyes. Alexander couldn't shake the memory of that first look across the restaurant. There had been something there-not fear, not calculation, just a kind of quiet assessment that had gotten under his skin. Like the boy was looking right through him and finding something worth his attention.

It was dangerous, that kind of magnetism. Alexander had learned long ago that the things that drew you in were usually the things that destroyed you.

"Sir?" Marcus caught his eye in the rearview mirror. "Heat's on full, but the kid's still shaking."

Alexander glanced over. Ethan's shoulders were rigid, but there was a fine tremor running through them. Whether it was cold or fear, Alexander couldn't tell.

"It's fine," Ethan said quietly, not turning from the window. "I'm fine."

Liar. But Alexander appreciated the effort. He'd worked with grown men who couldn't keep their composure half as well.

The drive to Long Island took over an hour through the storm. Alexander's phone rang twice-once from Vincent about a problem at the casino, once from a supplier in Queens who was getting nervous about a shipment. Each time, Ethan seemed to shrink further into himself, as if he were trying to disappear into the leather seat.

Alexander found himself stealing glances at the boy throughout the drive. The way Ethan held his head, the set of his shoulders-there was something almost aristocratic about it, which was impossible given where he'd come from. Vivian had pulled him out of some shithole in Chinatown. Kids from places like that didn't carry themselves like they owned the world.

But Ethan did. Even scared, even out of his depth, there was something unbreakable in the way he sat. Like he'd been through worse and survived it.

What the hell were you thinking, Vivian?

By the time they pulled through the gates of the Long Island estate, the snow had thickened to a proper blizzard. The house rose up out of the darkness like something from a different century-three stories of stone and glass, every window blazing with warm light.

"This is it," Alexander said as Marcus brought the car to a stop under the covered entrance. "Home."

Ethan climbed out without waiting to be told, standing in the circular drive with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He tilted his head back to look up at the house, and for a moment his face was unguarded. Awe, maybe. Or fear.

"Mrs. Pemberton will get you settled," Alexander said, already moving toward the front door. "Third floor, blue room. Don't touch anything you don't understand."

He didn't look back as he walked into the house, but he could feel Ethan's eyes following him across the marble foyer. The housekeeper appeared as if by magic, already reaching for towels and making soft, worried noises about wet clothes and catching pneumonia.

Alexander climbed the stairs to the second floor, then paused at the entrance to his study. Something made him turn around.

Ethan was still standing in the foyer, Mrs. Pemberton dabbing at his snow-dampened hair with a thick towel. But he wasn't looking at her, or at the crystal chandelier overhead, or at the oil paintings that cost more than most people's houses.

He was looking up at Alexander.

Their eyes met across the space, and Alexander felt that same strange jolt he'd experienced in the restaurant. There was no want in Ethan's gaze, no hunger for what Alexander could give him. No cowering, either, no desperate gratitude. Just that same steady assessment, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

Who are you? those eyes seemed to ask. And what do you want with me?

Alexander turned away and disappeared into his study, but he could still feel that gaze burning into his memory. In thirty-four years of life, he'd never met anyone who could look at him without wanting something.

Ethan Sterling was either completely innocent, or the most dangerous person he'd ever brought into his house.

The next morning, Alexander was reviewing quarterly reports from the casino when Mrs. Pemberton knocked on his study door.

"Mr. Blackwood? The boy won't come down for breakfast. Says he's waiting for you."

Alexander glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. He had a meeting with Felix Ashford at noon about expanding their marijuana distribution network, and he'd planned to spend the morning preparing.

"Tell him to eat," he said, not looking up from the financial projections Vincent had sent over. "I'm busy."

"I tried, sir. He just sits there, polite as anything, but he won't touch the food."

Alexander set down the papers. Stubborn. He could respect that, even if it was inconvenient.

"Fine. Give me ten minutes."

When he came downstairs, he found Ethan in the breakfast room, still wearing yesterday's clothes-jeans and a gray sweater that looked like it had come from a discount store. Somehow, on him, they looked like they'd been tailored on Savile Row. The boy had good bones, Alexander had to admit. High cheekbones, a strong chin, the kind of natural elegance that money couldn't buy.

Too good-looking, Alexander thought, and pulled out his phone to text Marcus. Run a full background check on Ethan Sterling. Everything-family, school records, medical history. I want to know if he's ever so much as jaywalked.

Beautiful people were dangerous. They made you forget to ask the right questions.

"Get dressed," Alexander told Ethan. "Something clean. We're going out."

Ethan nodded and disappeared upstairs without a word. When he came back twenty minutes later, he'd changed into dark jeans and a navy cashmere sweater that Mrs. Pemberton must have found somewhere in the house. The clothes fit him perfectly, which shouldn't have been possible.

"Much better," Alexander said, and tried to ignore the way the sweater brought out the gray in Ethan's eyes. "Let's go."

As they walked to the car, Alexander's phone buzzed with Marcus's reply: On it. Should have something by tonight.

Good. Because the more Alexander looked at Ethan Sterling, the more convinced he became that Vivian had sent him more than just a dying woman's last request.

She'd sent him a weapon. The only question was whether it was aimed at him.