The black Mustang tore through Red Hook like it had been fired from a gun.

Julian Cross shifted into fourth, one hand loose on the wheel, the other tapping twice against the gearshift as the warehouse lights blurred past him.

Behind him, a silver Camaro tried to take the inside lane.

Julian grinned.

“Bad idea.”

He cut left.

The Camaro’s driver slammed the brakes.

Julian shot through the final turn with barely six inches between his passenger door and a concrete barrier.

People scattered from the finish line.

The Mustang crossed first.

Cheers exploded across the abandoned Brooklyn lot.

Julian pulled the handbrake and spun the car sideways. Smoke rolled around the hood as he killed the engine.

Mason Reed was already running toward him.

“You’re insane!”

Julian climbed out and tossed him the keys.

“And you’re welcome.”

“You nearly lost my passenger mirror.”

“Nearly means I didn’t.”

Mason stared at the mirror.

It was gone.

Julian followed his gaze.

“Huh.”

“You owe me four hundred dollars.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“Your tab could qualify for bankruptcy protection.”

Julian laughed and turned toward the crowd.

Then every headlight in the lot went dark.

One by one.

The music stopped.

A line of black SUVs rolled through the warehouse gate.

Julian’s smile disappeared.

Men in dark suits stepped out first.

Not cops.

Worse.

Corporate security.

The final vehicle was a black Mercedes.

Its rear door opened.

A tall man stepped onto the pavement.

Perfect black suit.

White shirt.

No tie.

Dark hair pushed neatly away from a face that looked like it had been designed specifically to make people feel underdressed.

Julian recognized him immediately.

Everyone in New York did.

Ethan Blackwood.

Thirty-one years old.

Founder and CEO of Blackwood Technologies.

Depending on which magazine you believed, he was worth somewhere between nine and twelve billion dollars.

Julian folded his arms.

“Well. This got boring fast.”

Ethan walked directly toward him.

The crowd moved aside without being asked.

Julian didn’t.

They stopped three feet apart.

Ethan’s gaze moved from Julian to the Mustang, then to the tire marks carved across the pavement.

“Julian Cross.”

Julian raised an eyebrow.

“The billionaire knows my name. Should I be flattered?”

“No.”

“Good. I wasn’t.”

Ethan glanced around the lot.

“This property belongs to Blackwood Development as of midnight.”

A few racers cursed.

Julian looked at his watch.

“Congratulations. It’s twelve-oh-seven. Want us to throw you a ribbon-cutting ceremony?”

“The races end tonight.”

Julian smiled without humor.

“You bought a warehouse.”

“I bought six blocks.”

“Of Brooklyn?”

“Of this part of Brooklyn.”

“That must’ve been exhausting.”

Ethan’s expression didn’t change.

Julian hated that.

He hated the controlled voice, the expensive suit, the way Ethan stood there as though the entire city were another spreadsheet waiting for his signature.

“Did your board of directors send you here,” Julian asked, “or were you just bored?”

“I came to tell you to get off my property.”

Silence spread through the crowd.

Mason muttered behind Julian.

“Maybe don’t punch the billionaire.”

Julian glanced back.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

Julian turned to Ethan again.

“You really came all the way from Manhattan to personally kick out twenty people with bad credit?”

“Thirty-two.”

Julian blinked.

Ethan nodded toward the security camera mounted on the nearest warehouse.

“I counted.”

For the first time, Julian almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, he stepped closer.

“You know what your problem is, Blackwood?”

“I assume you’re about to tell me.”

“You think buying something means you own everyone standing on it.”

“No.”

Ethan’s eyes dropped briefly to Julian’s mouth before returning to his eyes.

“Just the ground beneath their feet.”

Julian’s smile faded.

Something about the answer irritated him more than it should have.

Or maybe it was the look.

Cold.

Measured.

Interested.

Julian took the Mustang keys back from Mason.

“Move your car.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“Neither was I.”

Julian walked past him.

Their shoulders struck.

Neither man apologized.

Julian climbed into the Mustang.

Ethan remained directly ahead of the hood.

Mason rushed forward.

“Julian.”

The engine roared.

Ethan didn’t move.

Julian stared through the windshield.

The bastard wasn’t even blinking.

“Move,” Julian called through the open window.

Ethan tilted his head.

“Make me.”

Julian laughed.

Then he hit the accelerator.

People shouted.

The Mustang shot forward.

At the last second, Julian turned hard.

The car passed Ethan close enough for the wind to pull at his jacket.

Ethan remained exactly where he was.

Julian watched him disappear in the rearview mirror.

“Psychopath.”

He didn’t know which one of them he meant.

---

The next evening, Julian stood under red stage lights at The Hollow, a narrow Williamsburg bar that smelled of bourbon, old wood, and questionable decisions.

This was the part of his life nobody in the racing scene understood.

Julian could sing.

Not polished Broadway vocals.

Something rougher.

A low, smoky voice that made people stop talking when he leaned toward the microphone.

He finished the last verse and let the guitar fade.

Applause filled the room.

Then he saw him.

Ethan Blackwood sat at the bar.

Julian nearly missed the final chord.

After the set, he dropped his guitar backstage and marched over.

“You stalking me now?”

Ethan looked at his glass.

“I was here first.”

“This is my bar.”

“Do you own it?”

Julian narrowed his eyes.

“No.”

“Then apparently we’ve established that you have trouble with the definition of ownership.”

Julian leaned onto the bar.

“What do you want?”

Ethan slid a folder across the counter.

Julian didn’t touch it.

“What’s that?”

“Notice of redevelopment.”

His stomach tightened.

“The building?”

“The block.”

Julian laughed once.

Of course.

“You really are trying to ruin my week.”

“I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Would it matter?”

Ethan hesitated.

Barely.

But Julian noticed.

“No,” Ethan said.

“Thought so.”

Julian pushed the folder back.

“Go to hell, Blackwood.”

He walked away.

Ethan watched him until he disappeared backstage.

Neither man noticed the gray sedan parked across the street.

Or the camera pointed through its windshield.

---

At 11:40 that night, Ethan entered the Blackwood estate in Hudson Valley.

The penthouse CEO vanished the moment the doors closed behind him.

His father waited in the library.

Richard Blackwood poured two glasses of scotch.

Ethan ignored his.

“What happened?”

“The Cross family contacted us.”

That got his attention.

The Blackwoods and Crosses had spent twenty-three years pretending their cold war wasn’t occasionally hot enough to leave bodies behind.

“They want territory?”

“They want peace.”

Ethan almost smiled.

“No, they don’t.”

Richard pushed a document across the desk.

“They want something stronger than a ceasefire.”

Ethan opened it.

His expression changed.

“No.”

“You haven’t read it.”

“I read the heading.”

Strategic Union Agreement.

Below it:

Marriage Alliance.

Richard sat back.

“The Cross heir has agreed to be presented.”

“Then congratulate him and find someone else.”

“There is no one else.”

Ethan closed the folder.

“I’m not marrying a stranger to fix your war.”

“You’re not.”

Richard placed a photograph on the desk.

Ethan looked down.

Leather jacket.

Dark hair.

Infuriating smile.

Julian Cross.

For the first time that night, Ethan said nothing.

---

Forty miles away, Julian entered a Long Island house he hadn’t visited in nearly six months.

Marcus Cross waited alone in the dining room.

“You’re late.”

“I considered not coming.”

“You should’ve followed that instinct.”

Julian dropped into a chair.

“What do you want?”

Marcus pushed a folder toward him.

Julian opened it.

Then laughed.

Actually laughed.

“No.”

“The agreement ends the war.”

“Then sign the agreement.”

“It requires blood from both families.”

“Try a blood bank.”

“Julian.”

He stopped smiling.

Marcus leaned forward.

“You’re the Cross heir.”

“Only when you need something.”

“Tonight, we need you.”

Julian stared at the words Marriage Alliance.

“This is medieval.”

“It’s effective.”

“Who’s the poor bastard?”

Marcus slowly pushed a photograph across the table.

Julian looked down.

Perfect black suit.

Cold eyes.

Ethan Blackwood.

His chair scraped backward.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Marcus didn’t smile.

Julian stared at the photograph.

Then at the contract.

Then back at Ethan’s face.

Twenty-four hours ago, he’d nearly run the man over.

Now his family wanted him to marry him.

Julian picked up the photograph.

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Marcus folded his hands.

“The engagement dinner is tomorrow.”