Alexander slipped his phone back into his jacket and glanced at Ethan, who sat perfectly still in the passenger seat, hands folded in his lap. The boy hadn't asked where they were going, hadn't made small talk, hadn't even looked nervous. Most people Alexander brought into his car were either terrified or trying too hard to impress him.

Ethan was doing neither.

"Tell me about yourself," Alexander said as they merged onto the highway toward Queens. "Basic facts. Where do you go to school?"

"West Harbor High School," Ethan replied. His English was careful, accented but clear. "Near Chinatown."

Alexander knew West Harbor. It was the kind of school where metal detectors were a permanent fixture and graduation rates hovered somewhere around forty percent. A pretty Asian boy like Ethan should have been eaten alive there.

"How's your English?"

"I understand better than I speak." Ethan's voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "Sometimes I know what I want to say but the words don't come out right."

"Do you want to go to college?"

For the first time, Ethan hesitated. He stared out the window at the traffic, and when he spoke again, something had shifted in his voice. Softer. More honest.

"I heard American universities cost a lot of money. I never really thought about it."

But you want to. Alexander caught the longing underneath the resignation. Interesting. Most kids Ethan's age from his background were either hardened by the streets or broken by them. Ethan was neither. He was watching, waiting, thinking.

Alexander made a mental note to ask Marcus about Ethan's grades.

The questions felt casual, but Alexander was cataloging every response, every pause, every microexpression. When Marcus's report came back, he'd cross-reference every detail. If Ethan was lying about anything-his age, his background, his connection to Vivian-Alexander would know.

Because beautiful, articulate boys from Chinatown didn't just fall into his lap. And Vivian Harrington had never given him anything without strings attached.

The Hong Kong Restaurant occupied the second floor of a narrow building on Mott Street, accessible only through a door wedged between a pharmacy and a cell phone repair shop. Alexander had been coming here for business meetings since he was twenty-five. The owner, Mrs. Rossi, didn't ask questions and kept the private dining rooms soundproof.

Felix Ashford was already waiting in the red-wallpapered room, nursing a beer and scrolling through his phone. He looked up when Alexander walked in, then did a double-take when he saw Ethan.

"Alex." Felix stood, extending a hand. "Good to see you. And who's this?"

"Ethan," Alexander said, not bothering with explanations. He took the seat across from Felix and gestured for Ethan to sit beside him. "Shall we get started?"

Felix was still looking at Ethan with open curiosity, but he nodded and pulled out a manila folder. "Distribution numbers for the past quarter. We're moving twice what we did last year, but the margins are getting tighter. Too much competition from the legitimate dispensaries."

"Which is why we need to expand the high-end market," Alexander said, scanning the paperwork. The numbers were solid. Felix might be crude and money-hungry, but he knew his business. "Quality product, discrete delivery, clients who don't mind paying premium prices for convenience."

"Exactly. And I've got connections in the Hamptons, Upper East Side, some private schools." Felix grinned. "Rich people love their weed as much as anyone else."

They spent twenty minutes hammering out territory agreements and profit splits. Felix was easy to work with-he understood power dynamics and didn't waste time with posturing. Alexander appreciated directness in business partners.

Then Felix's attention drifted back to Ethan, who had been sitting quietly, occasionally glancing around the room but mostly focused on his hands.

"He's beautiful," Felix said suddenly, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "How long have you two been...?"

Alexander felt something cold settle in his chest. "We're not."

"Oh." Felix looked genuinely surprised. "My mistake. You just seemed..." He gestured vaguely between them. "Well, if you're not attached, maybe he'd like to come shooting sometime. I've got a range in Long Island. Very private."

Ethan's head came up sharply. He looked first at Felix, then at Alexander, and for the first time since they'd met, Alexander saw real alarm in those gray eyes.

"That's not happening," Alexander said flatly.

Felix raised his hands in mock surrender. "No offense, man. Just offering to show him a good time." He reached across the table and ladled soup into Ethan's bowl, his fingers brushing the boy's wrist. "You ever shoot before, sweetheart?"

Ethan pulled his hand back like he'd been burned.

"Felix." Alexander's voice could have frozen the soup. "We're here to discuss business."

"Right, right." Felix sat back, but his gaze lingered on Ethan's face. "Business it is."

They finished the meeting without further incident, but Alexander noticed how Felix kept finding excuses to look at Ethan, how his eyes tracked the boy's every movement. When they shook hands goodbye, Felix held on a beat too long.

"Think about what I said," he told Ethan directly. "About the shooting range. Open invitation."

In the elevator down, Alexander watched Ethan's reflection in the polished doors. The boy's jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid. He understood exactly what had just happened.

Smart. And probably terrified.