The knock came soft but deliberate against the bedroom door.

Alexander didn't stop. His grip tightened on the brunette's hip, fingers digging into sweat-slick skin as he thrust deeper, his cock sliding in and out with relentless rhythm. The man beneath him arched, exhaling a broken moan into the pillow, his body clenching around Alexander's length, hot and tight, every push eliciting slick, obscene sounds that filled the room.

"Sir." Vincent's voice filtered through the door, measured as always. "There's a call. A Vivian Harrington. She says it's urgent."

"Leave it," Alexander growled, hips snapping forward harder, burying himself fully in the brunette's ass, grinding against him as pleasure coiled tight in his gut.

Silence. Then the phone began to ring-not Vincent's line, but Alexander's private number. The one almost no one had.

He slowed despite himself, breaths ragged, still sheathed inside the quivering heat.

It rang again. And again. Each tone pulling at something he hadn't examined in years.

The brunette turned his head, breath unsteady, hole fluttering around Alexander's throbbing shaft. "Alex-"

"Don't." But Alexander was already reaching for the nightstand. He picked up on the fifth ring, pressing the phone to his ear without a word, even as he reluctantly pulled out, leaving the brunette gasping.

"Alexander." The voice on the other end was barely a whisper. Frayed at the edges, like fabric worn too thin. "I'm dying."

He went still.

The brunette shifted beneath him, murmuring something soft and confused. Alexander pulled away without ceremony, sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.

"Vivian," he said quietly.

"I need to see you. Tonight." A wet cough broke her sentence in half. "I have someone to give you. A debt. You owe me this much."

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow was falling over Manhattan in slow, indifferent curtains.

He almost said no. The word sat ready on his tongue, familiar and easy.

"Where?" he said instead.

"The restaurant. Chinatown. Same place as always."

The line went dead.

Alexander set the phone down and reached for his shirt. Behind him, the brunette sat up against the headboard, sheet gathered at his waist, watching him with something cautious in his eyes.

"Will I-" He stopped. Started again. "Will I see you again?"

Alexander didn't look back. He pulled out his checkbook from the nightstand drawer, wrote a number, and tore the page free. One thousand dollars. He set it beside the lamp.

"Don't wait by the phone."

The snow was coming down hard by the time they reached Chinatown. Alexander sat in the back of the black Escalade, watching the neon signs blur through the windshield. Vincent drove while Marcus checked messages on his phone.

"Sir," Marcus said without looking up. "The numbers from last week's poker game came in. We're up forty percent."

"Good." Alexander's mind wasn't on business. He hadn't seen Vivian in three years, not since she'd shown up at his father's funeral with flowers and red eyes. Even then, she'd looked sick. Now she was dying.

The restaurant sat wedged between a laundromat and a cell phone repair shop. Golden Palace, the faded English letters read, though everyone called it Vivian's place. Alexander had eaten here exactly twice in his life-both times when he was seventeen and stupid enough to think sex meant something more than it did.

"Wait here," he told his men.

The bell above the door chimed as he entered. The place was empty except for Vivian, who sat at a corner table with her back to the wall. She looked smaller than he remembered, her black hair now streaked with silver, her cheekbones sharp beneath paper-thin skin.

"You came." She smiled, and for a moment he saw the woman who had seduced a fifteen-year-old boy in this very restaurant. "Still beautiful. Your mother would be proud."

Alexander didn't sit down. "What do you want, Vivian?"

"Sit. Please." When he remained standing, she sighed. "Fine. Be that way. I'm dying, Alexander. Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. Maybe six weeks left."

"I'm sorry." The words came out flat, automatic.

"No, you're not. And that's fine." She gestured toward the back of the restaurant. "Ethan! Come here."

A boy emerged from behind the counter, seventeen or eighteen years old. Alexander's breath caught. The kid was beautiful-not pretty like a girl, but beautiful in a sharp, clean way that made people stare. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and when he looked up, Alexander saw eyes the color of storm clouds.

"This is my nephew," Vivian said. "My sister's boy. Ethan Sterling."

Ethan stepped forward, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Alexander shook it. The kid's grip was firm, his gaze direct. No fear. Interesting.

"His parents died in a car accident two years ago in California," Vivian continued. "I brought him here. He's been helping me run the place."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Vivian reached across the table and touched Alexander's wrist. Her fingers were ice-cold. "I want you to take him."

"No."

"Alexander-"

"Absolutely not." He pulled his hand away. "I don't do babysitting."

"He's not a baby." Vivian's voice turned sharp. "He's smart. He learns fast. He won't be a burden."

Alexander looked at Ethan, who was watching the exchange with calm interest. The kid didn't look scared or desperate. He looked like he was waiting to see how the cards would fall.

"How old are you?" Alexander asked him.

"Seventeen. Eighteen in three months."

"School?"

"I'm finishing eleventh grade in June. I've got early admission to Parsons once I graduate." Ethan's voice was steady. "But I can defer if needed."

Art school. Of course. Alexander almost smiled. "What makes you think you want to work for me?"

Ethan glanced at Vivian, then back at Alexander. "Honestly? I don't know what you do. But Aunt Vivian says you're successful, and she trusts you. That's enough for me."

The boy had no idea what he was walking into. Alexander could see it in his face-the naive confidence of someone who thought the world had rules that decent people followed.

"He can stay in the guesthouse," Vivian said. "Just until he finds his feet. Please, Alexander. I'm begging you."

Alexander studied her face. Vivian Harrington had never begged for anything in her life. She'd been proud to a fault, even when she was spreading her legs for a fifteen-year-old boy and whispering that she loved him. Seeing her like this-desperate, dying-stirred something in him that might have been pity.

"If I say yes, he comes with me tonight. No goodbyes, no packing. He gets in my car and that's the end of it."

Vivian's eyes filled with tears. "Tonight?"

"Those are my terms."

She looked at Ethan, who nodded slowly. "I understand," he said. "It's better this way."

Alexander pulled out his phone and texted Vincent. Bring the car around.

"You can visit on weekends," he told Vivian. "Until..." He didn't finish the sentence.

"Thank you." She reached for Ethan's hand. "Be good. Be smart. Don't trust anyone completely, not even him."

Ethan squeezed her fingers. "I love you, Aunt Vivian."

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

Alexander's phone buzzed. Vincent was outside. He stood up, buttoning his coat. "Time to go."

Ethan didn't hesitate. He kissed Vivian's cheek, grabbed a worn leather jacket from behind the counter, and walked toward the door. At the threshold, he turned back.

"I'll see you Sunday?"

Vivian nodded, not trusting her voice.

Alexander held the door open. "Let's go."

The snow was still falling as they walked to the Escalade. Ethan climbed into the back seat without being told, settling himself between Alexander and Marcus like he belonged there. As they pulled away from the curb, Alexander caught a glimpse of Vivian in the restaurant window, small and alone under the harsh fluorescent lights.

He didn't look back.

"Where are we going?" Ethan asked quietly.

"Home," Alexander said. "My home. Your home now."

Ethan nodded and turned to watch the city slide past the window. His reflection stared back at Alexander from the glass-young, serious, unaware that his life had just changed forever.

Alexander leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He'd taken in strays before. Most of them disappointed him in the end. But something about this one felt different.

Maybe it was the way the boy had looked at him without flinching. Maybe it was the steady voice, the firm handshake, the complete absence of tears.

Or maybe it was just that Vivian was dying, and this was the last thing she'd ever ask of him.

Either way, Ethan Sterling was his problem now.