PROLOGUE

They say the devil wears Italian suits and sips champagne behind bulletproof glass. If that’s true, then James St. Patrick is the devil who built his empire in stilettos and shadows. Uptown clubs, downtown deals, and midtown murders — all wrapped up in one man’s name.

He’s not just a club owner. He’s the club owner.

Whispers call him Ghost, but in this city, James St. Patrick is more than myth. He’s a threat. A businessman with the instincts of a wolf, and the smile of a man who’s already buried your secrets.

He owns the night. And by extension… he owns everything under it.

But even the most dangerous men have blind spots.

And hers… Her name is Tasha St. Patrick.

CHAPTER ONE

"A Ride You Don’t Forget"

Rain kissed the windshield like slow jazz on a late-night tape. I sat in the driver’s seat of a matte black Cadillac Escalade, parked outside Club Truth — James St. Patrick’s crown jewel. VIPs stumbled out, red velvet ropes swinging, security barking orders in the neon haze. Music thumped like a heartbeat from inside the club, but in this car, it was dead quiet.

She slid into the backseat like sin in stilettos.

Tasha.

“Damn, it’s wet out here,” she muttered, brushing moisture off a fur coat that probably cost more than my rent. Her accent? Straight outta Compton — sharp, fast, and slick with that West Coast edge. She sounded like she didn’t take no shit, but played the game better than anyone who did.

She leaned forward between the seats, perfume flooding the cabin like a trap you couldn’t crawl out of.

“Why you always so stiff, baby?” she asked, chin resting on the headrest, lips barely an inch from my ear. “You act like sittin’ up straight gon’ save you.”

I kept my hands at ten and two. My eyes on the road. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” she laughed, low and dangerous. “Boy, I ain't your damn schoolteacher. You drive me ‘round like I’m some old ass woman wit’ a cane and a wig. Say it right — Tasha.”

I didn’t respond.

She leaned in closer.

“Let me ask you somethin’,” she said, voice low and smooth. “If I wasn’t married to Ghost… if it was just me, sittin’ back here, no ring, no husband, just… me — would you still be actin’ like you blind?”

She let that sit.

Outside, the rain came harder. Inside, the silence came heavier.

I tightened my grip on the wheel. “You wanna go home, Mrs. St. Patrick?”

She laughed again. “Mm-mm. That’s not what I asked.”