Eight months before the Collector appeared……

The mountains are beautiful. Not that I give a shit. Pine-covered ridges roll away beneath a sky so blue it looks fake. They stretch endlessly across northern Idaho. Snow still clings stubbornly to the higher peaks despite the late spring sun. The air pouring through the open convertible smells of pine sap, cold stone, and money.

Not my money. Not originally, anyway. Some other poor bastard's money. Now my money.

I drum my fingers against the steering wheel of the black 1967 Shelby GT500 convertible and watch another tiny town disappear in the rearview mirror. Population: probably three hundred. IQ: probably lower. The entire place looks like it has been assembled from a hardware store clearance aisle. One gas station. One diner. One church. One traffic light.

The kind of town where everybody knows everybody's business and calls it community. My personal hell.

The Shelby growls beneath me as I accelerate through a long curve. I slow the second I spot the Sheriff parked right beneath a 35-mile-per-hour sign. Idiot. I pass him going thirty-six and resist the urge to wave my middle finger. I don't have time to get pulled over for some traffic ticket bullshit.

The owner of this particular Shelby had certainly been good at lying. Three days ago, he sat across from me in a private office overlooking a casino floor in Boise and explained why skimming from us wasn't technically stealing.

An impressive argument. Creative. Completely fucking wrong.

I once spent six hours trying to convince a man to tell me where he'd hidden three million dollars. Eventually, I stopped asking questions and started removing fingers. That conversation had lasted longer than the one with the manager did.

The casino belongs to us now. The Shelby belongs to me. Life is full of lessons. I hope he learned something. Not that he lived long enough to put the lesson to use. Then I had to stay and hire a new manager. Yada, yada, yada. Three days later, I'm finally on my way back to civilization.

A faint vibration travels through the steering wheel. Enough for me to glance at the dashboard. Everything looks normal. The engine sounds normal. The temperature gauge sits exactly where it should. Which means absolutely nothing. People lie. Machines lie. The expensive ones are just better at it.

I settle back into the leather seat and let the wind tear through my hair. The road unfolds ahead in long ribbons of asphalt cutting through forest and mountain. Eventually the trees will thin. The mountains will flatten. Idaho will become Utah. Utah will become Nevada. Then Vegas. Home. The city that glitters in the desert like a diamond somebody stole and forgot to put back.

Most people see casinos. Lights. Luxury. Excess. I see territory. I see power. I see how far I've come. Funny thing is, nobody looking at me now would ever guess where I started. Not the penthouse. Not the tailored suits. Not like Massimo and Gabe. Not the casino with my name hidden inside ownership documents.

They'd never picture the trailer. The busted furniture. The MC clubhouse that smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and desperation. My old man is a soldier in a biker club. Not important. Not respected. Not feared. Just another asshole

wearing a patch and pretending it makes him somebody.

When he wasn't drunk, he was angry. When he wasn't angry, he was disappointed. Mostly in me. By twelve, I'd learned fists were apparently a parenting technique. By fourteen, I was selling coke. By sixteen, I was carrying a gun. By eighteen, I'd killed my first man. Not because I wanted to. Because nobody else was going to save me.

The Shelby coughs. Once. A subtle hiccup. I frown. "Don't start."

The engine smooths out immediately. Like it heard me. Like it's innocent. Not that I believe innocence exists. Not in people. Not in machines. Not in men like me. The road stretches endlessly ahead. My thoughts drift toward Vegas. Toward Massimo. Toward Gabe. Funny how a single moment can split a life in half.

Meeting Gabriel D'Amato did exactly that. Before Gabe, I was a nobody with ambition. After Gabe, I had direction. He'd seen something in me. Not potential. I hate that word. Potential is what people call weakness while they're waiting to see if you fail. No. Gabe recognized hunger. The same thing

that lived inside him. Inside Massimo. Inside every man who clawed his way to the top.

That endless need for more. More money. More power. More control. More.

I understood that language. Still do.

The Shelby shudders again. Longer this time. My gaze drops back to the gauges. The temperature needle has moved. Not much. Just enough. A warning. The smell hits next. Coolant. Faint. But there.

I sigh. "You're fucking kidding me."

The car offers no defense. Only another tiny vibration beneath my hands. The nearest town disappeared fifteen miles ago. The next one is probably another thirty ahead. Nothing but forest, mountains, and empty road in between. Perfect. Just fucking perfect. Exactly where every bad decision likes to happen.

The temperature needle climbs another fraction. Then another. The engine gives a metallic tick. A second later, a warning light flickers briefly. Gone. Then back again. I stare at it. The light stares back. Neither of us blinks.

The engine coughs hard enough this time to make the entire car jerk. My jaw tightens. "No. Don't you fucking dare."

The Shelby ignores me. A loud clank sounds somewhere beneath the hood. Followed by silence. The kind of silence every mechanic in America recognizes. The kind that makes a car stop, and just like that, the engine dies.

Momentum carries the Shelby forward another few hundred feet before I guide it onto the shoulder, where it rolls to a stop overlooking miles of pine-covered wilderness.

Not a house in sight. Not a gas station either. Not a single living soul as far as I can see. Not even another car. I haven't seen one since the last town. I sit there for several seconds. Listening. Nothing. Not even birds. Just wind.

Then I lean my head back and laugh once. Short. Humorless. Because of course. I can dismantle a money-laundering operation in three countries. Identify a rat in an organization of hundreds. Read a liar before he opens his mouth. But, somehow, I managed to get stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere by a sixty-year-old car. Fantastic. Just fucking fantastic.

I stare at the dead dashboard. The dashboard stares back. Neither of us has any useful ideas. "Piece of shit."

The Shelby remains unmoved by my assessment. I pop the hood, mostly because that seems like the thing people do in movies. Hot air immediately blasts me in the face. I look at the engine. All I can tell is that it looks expensive. That's about the extent of my expertise.

My old man taught me how to pick out pure coke from something cut with baby powder. How to tell crystal meth from rock candy. How to break someone's fingers one at a time and keep them conscious enough to answer questions. How to tell when a man is about to pull a knife. He taught me how to hide drugs. How to move drugs. How to sell drugs. How to survive.

He never taught me how to fix a goddamn car.

Then again, the man hadn't taught me how to cook a meal, balance a checkbook, or shave properly either. Parental priorities.

With a grunt, I shut the hood. The metallic clang echoes across the empty mountainside. Nothing answers. No traffic. No people. No civilization. Just endless pine-covered slopes and a hawk—or maybe an eagle—circling so high above me it looks like a speck against the blue sky. Lucky bastard.

I check my phone. One bar. Barely. Enough.

I consider calling for a helicopter. The thought is tempting. Forty-five minutes from now I could be back in Vegas, bourbon in hand, sitting in my penthouse while somebody else deals with this problem. I can leave it sitting here. The previous owner won't care.

The image almost makes me smile. Almost. My gaze drifts over the black convertible. The long lines. The aggressive stance. The old-school muscle. There is something about it. Underneath the

mechanical betrayal, it's a beautiful car. A little modernization wouldn't hurt. New navigation. A decent sound system. Custom leather. Performance upgrades. I know a guy in Vegas who could turn this thing into art.

The Shelby deserves better than dying on the side of an Idaho road because I got impatient. With a sigh, I swipe the screen on my phone and search for garages. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. A church. A bait shop. A gas station. A motel that looks like it rents rooms by the hour.

But then a respite: Miller's Garage & Towing.

Twenty-two miles away. Well fuck. I press the number. The line rings twice. Three times. Four. I'm just about to hang up when a rough male voice answers. "Miller's."

"I need a tow truck," I tell him by way of greeting. I'm not in the mood for small talk.

Neither is he, it seems. "Car trouble?"

I glance at the Shelby, still not in the mood for small talk, but also unable to resist a sarcastic response to a line like that. "No, I just enjoy standing on the side of the road talking to strangers."

A nervous chuckle, the kind that suggests I'm dealing with back-hick intelligence. "Uh... where are you?"

I give him the highway marker.

"Yeah, we can get somebody out there."

"How long?"

"Hour. Maybe hour and a half."

I close my eyes. An hour and a half. Jesus Christ. "I'll survive."

"Good attitude."

I disconnect before I say something impolite. The eagle—or hawk or whatever the hell it is—continues circling overhead. Mocking me. I should call the helicopter. The thought returns immediately. One phone call. One pilot. Problem solved. Hell, I could probably be halfway to Nevada before the tow truck even arrives. Instead, I find myself leaning against the Shelby.

Waiting. The mountains stretch endlessly around me. For once, nobody needs anything. No meetings. No soldiers. No accountants. No politicians. No bodies. No problems besides a dead car. The wind moves through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, water rushes over rocks. Peaceful.

Annoying. But peaceful.

I check my watch. Three minutes have passed. Fantastic. Only eighty-seven more to go. The eagle banks sharply overhead. I watch it disappear toward the western horizon. Lucky bastard. It can go wherever it wants. It doesn't need to wait for some overweight hick in a tow truck, smelling of sweat and grease.

For a brief moment, I envy the bird. Then I remember I'd probably shoot somebody within a week if I didn't have work to do, and the feeling passes. I pull out my phone and check the signal again. Still one bar. Still Idaho. Still stranded. A lesser man might see this as a sign from the universe to slow down. I don't believe in signs. Or the universe. Or fate. I believe in people making stupid decisions and then expecting me to fix them.

The phone buzzes. A text from Gabe.

Gabe:

Still alive?

I stare at the message, still debating whether to tell him to send the chopper, then I type back.

Me:

Debatable.

Gabe:

What's going on?

Me:

Car died.

Gabe:

🤣😄 told you to ditch that piece of shit. I'll send a helicopter.

I glance at the mountains. The trees. The dead Shelby. The endless stretch of highway. The helicopter suddenly sounds like a very good idea. My gaze drifts back to the car.

Me:

I got it, man. I'll be back tonight. Tow truck's coming.

Gabe:

Since when are you patient?

Me:

Since I reappropriated a car worth six figures.

Gabe:

Fair.

I smirk, shove the phone back into my pocket, and pull up a poker app. If I'm going to die of boredom, I might as well do it comfortably.

By the time I hear the rumble of a diesel engine, I'm up a hundred grand. Not bad for an afternoon that started with vehicular betrayal. I finish the hand, collect my winnings, and glance up from my phone. The tow truck that comes lumbering around the bend looks like it should be the one getting towed. Rust freckles the faded blue paint. One headlight is slightly crooked. The bumper is held together by what appears to be faith, zip ties, and yep, you guessed it, good old duct tape.

I stare at it. The truck stares back. A match made in hell.

The diesel engine rattles like a smoker climbing stairs and finally grinds to a stop beside the Shelby. I shove my phone into my pocket. At least the mechanic showed up. That's something. The driver's door opens. I expect a sixty-year-old man named Earl. Or Bubba. Or whatever they name mechanics in Idaho.

Instead, a long leg appears. My brain takes a second to process it. A very long leg. Wrapped in black leggings. Then another. Then the rest of her unfolds from the cab. Well. Fuck.

Dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail that swings between her shoulder blades. Strong cheekbones. Full mouth. Dark eyes that immediately narrow at the sight of me. Grease streaks one cheek—at least I had that part right—but on her, it just makes her fucking hotter. Life is unfair.

The fitted black crop top reveals a strip of toned stomach every time she moves. The steel-toe work boots should look ridiculous. They don't. They look criminal. A breeze drifts down from the mountains, carrying the faint scent of magnolias. I have absolutely no idea where magnolias come from in the middle of nowhere Idaho. I don't particularly care. Because all my attention is currently occupied by the woman walking toward me.

Her gaze sweeps over the Shelby. Then me. Then back to the Shelby. Clearly ranking us by usefulness. I lose.

"You're the tow truck driver?"

One dark eyebrow lifts. "You're the stranded motorist?"

Fair. She reaches the car and completely ignores me. I watch her circle the Shelby. Professional. Efficient. Focused. My favorite kind of woman. "You gonna keep staring at me?"

"Probably."

That earns me another look. This one significantly less friendly. In my mind, I rub my hands. I like a challenge. She pops the hood and peers inside. "What happened?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't have called you."

A snort escapes her. "I see."

Something about those two words tells me she's already formed an opinion. An unflattering one. Rich asshole. Spoiled. Probably incapable of changing a tire.

Unfortunately for me, she's right. I lean against the Shelby. "You always this friendly?"

"You always this helpless?"

I grin. She doesn't. Fine. Challenge fucking accepted.

She bends over the hood of the Shelby, ass up, back arched like she's daring the universe to test me. My attention locks on like a heat-seeking missile. Against my better judgment. Against every shred of common sense. Against the cold, calculated control I've spent years forging in blood and shadows. The woman is built like every filthy teenage fantasy I ever stroked myself raw to, and a dozen darker ones I haven't even named yet.

Dark hair cascades over one shoulder as she reaches deeper into the engine compartment. Sunlight licks across the smooth curve of her neck, the delicate line of her throat, grease streaking one high cheekbone like war paint. Another smudge runs down her toned forearm, across muscles that flex enticingly as she works. My gaze drags lower. The fitted black crop top clings to her like a second skin, stretched tight over full, heavy tits that sway with every movement. No bra. Not even a suggestion of one. Her nipples are already tight little peaks pressing against the thin fabric, begging for attention. Jesus fucking Christ. I'm instantly hard.

She points toward something buried in the motor. "See that?"

I don't see shit. I'm too busy devouring the way her shirt rides up, exposing a tantalizing strip of smooth, sun-warmed skin above the low waistband of her leggings. The material hugs her ass like it was painted on, the curve of her hips flares out in a way that makes my palms itch to grip them hard enough to bruise. I can picture it too clearly, bending her over this hood for real, pinning her down with my weight, one hand fisted in that dark hair while I yank those pants down just enough. I'd have her panting in no time.

My cock twitches, thickening against my zipper. I shift my stance and keep my jaw clenched, trying to ease the sudden pressure. It doesn't help. It only makes me painfully aware of just how hard I am for a woman whose name I still don't know. A mechanic who probably hates men like me. Rich, entitled assholes with blood on their hands and too much money in their pockets. Too fucking bad.

My world isn't kind to the people who catch my attention. It's ruthless. Dangerous. Vicious. People who cross me rarely survive, and people close to me inevitably get dragged into the storm. She has no idea what she's stepping into. No idea that the moment she argued with me and looked at me like I was nothing more than another spoiled bastard, she became the most interesting person I've met in years.

And that's a problem. Because despite every instinct telling me to walk away, my attention remains fixed on her. She keeps talking in a low, focused voice, words about water pumps, cracked housings, and expensive fixes. I catch maybe one in three. My brain's offline, rerouting every drop of blood south. In my head, I'm already ripping that crop top clean off her, fabric tearing under my fingers as I spin her around. I'd shove her face-down over the warm metal hood first, those perfect tits pressed flat against it while I kick her legs apart. One brutal thrust, and I'd be buried balls-deep in her tight, wet heat from behind, fucking her so hard the car would rock. She'd moan my name—fuck, I'd make her scream it—while I gripped those hips and pounded into her, watching that ass bounce with every savage stroke.

Then I'd flip her over. Spread her wide on the hood, her back arching, legs wrapped around my waist as I drove into her again, slower this time, deeper, watching those gorgeous tits bounce freely while her dark eyes glazed over with lust instead of irritation. I'd suck those hard nipples into my mouth, bite down just enough to make her gasp, and fuck her until she was coming all over my cock, clenching around me like she never wanted me to stop.

"See that crack right there?" She points again, leaning further, her tits pressing together and nearly spilling out of that useless top. The sunlight catches on a faint sheen of sweat along her cleavage. Fuck I want to lick it off.

I drag my eyes up, barely. My voice comes out rough, strained. "Yeah. I see it."

I see her. Every filthy inch. And right now, the only thing I want to fix is how empty she feels without me inside her. She finally straightens and catches me looking. Those dark eyes narrow. "You listening?"

"Absolutely."

"What did I just say?"

I smile. She sighs. Apparently, that answers the question. My therapist would probably have thoughts. Not that I have a therapist. Or want one.

After several minutes, she straightens. "Worn water pump."

I stare. She stares back. Neither of us says anything. Finally, she sighs. "You have no idea what that means, do you?"

"Not even a little," I admit, sending her my most smoldering smile, the one that has landed me several blow jobs, one from a very well-known actress and another from our own governor…or is it governess if she's a woman?

My sex fantasy laughs. A short sound. Gone too quickly. My body immediately decides it wants to hear it again. "The water pump failed, which is why the engine overheated. Lucky you shut it down when you did."

"I always knew I was gifted."

"That's not what I said."

"Close enough."

She rolls her eyes. Definitely judging me. Probably correctly. "It'll need parts."

"How long?"

"A day. Maybe two."

Two days. I glance toward the mountains. Toward the tiny town she emerged from. Toward her. A couple of days isn't the end of the world. There's probably a motel. Food. A bar. And apparently beautiful women who insult me for a living. I've endured worse.

"I suppose I'll survive."

"You seem resilient."

"I get that a lot."

For the first time, the corner of her mouth twitches. Victory. Tiny. But victory.

Then a distant sound reaches us. Whump. Whump. Whump. The unmistakable chop of rotor blades. My smile disappears. No. Absolutely not. The helicopter crests the ridgeline a few seconds later. Black. Expensive. And flying directly toward us. Goddammit.

She follows my gaze upward. The helicopter circles once before beginning its descent. Dust explodes across the shoulder. Trees bend beneath the rotor wash. The woman slowly turns toward me. Her expression is priceless. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.”

I close my eyes. "That's what I said."

The helicopter touches down fifty yards away. A second later, the cabin door opens, and Gabriel D'Amato steps out wearing sunglasses and a grin that promises violence. For me. Specifically. Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful.

"Get in, we need you."

When a man like Gabriel D'Amato picks you up in a helicopter in the middle of nowhere and says we need you, there's no sense in arguing. Not in the kind of business we run.

With a regretful curve of my lips, I hand the woman my card and my keys. "Drive it up when it's ready," I wink. "I'll make it worth your while."

As the helicopter rises, I stare at the beautiful woman hooking the Shelby to her rig.

"Kill anybody while you were waiting?" Gabe asks.

"Not today."

He notices that I'm still staring down at the ground, and obviously can't help himself. "She looks hot."

"The previous owner begged for his life. The Shelby begged for coolant. One was easier to replace than the other," I muse.

"I meant the woman." Gabe laughs.

I knew exactly who he meant. And that’s exactly why I'm changing the subject. There's something about her I'm not ready to examine too closely. Not with Gabe. Not with anyone.

What my head thinks of her and what my dick thinks of her are two entirely different conversations. And I'm not prepared to have either. Yet.

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