RitaI sit on the couch, legs crossed under me, a glass of red wine cradled between my hands. Scar's in the kitchen pouring himself a drink, looking exhausted from a long day at work. He drifts over, glancing from me to the black TV, frowning slightly. Probably wondering why I'm sitting here in silence, doing nothing.I have enough entertainment in my head right now. I don't need more noise.I'm on edge. I try to mask it, but it's like he can see through me. Peel apart my layers, look beyond what I'm showing to the world. I squirm, trying to keep my mouth shut. I don't want to talk about this. But I need to talk about this.It's killing me, this dream job.Killing me because it's so good and so bad at the same time.He speaks first. "What's the matter?""What do you mean, what's the matter?" I smile at him as sweetly as I can, but I must look deranged. "Nothing's the matter.""You're grinning like you want to peel off my face and wear it.""So says the toe-killer.""Sorry, what?""Not

RitaI stand outside of a chic office building in downtown Dallas, willing myself not to sweat as I hide in the shade. I'm in an outfit Scar bought me for this occasion—all designer, all absurdly expensive, but too flattering not to wear. The garment bag appeared on the back of my door yesterday, and while I was tempted to throw it back in his face, I have to admit that it was an incredibly sweet gesture.And says a lot about how well he knows me. Considering everything fits like it was tailored to my body.Also, I look great. That helps.I'm nervous. I want to march in there, head held high, ready to live up to Scar's expectations and nail this interview. He offered to do some mock practice sessions, but I told him no thanks. I figured I'd only end up crying if we did that, and besides, I already sat through one interview with him already. That's more than enough for a lifetime.Now that I'm here, I'm tempted to turn around and go back to the apartment.I don't have to go in that bui

ScarBoston's a comfortable temperate toward the end of summer. Not too hot, not too cold. Finn Callahan picks me up from the airport in a black sports car wearing dark sunglasses, his hair pushed back. I toss my bag in the back and sit shotgun. "No driver?" I ask, feeling mildly surprised."I like to do my own driving." He pulls into traffic, going faster than he should. I buckle my seatbelt. "Dad's happy you're visiting. The big move's coming up soon, isn't it?""A few weeks," I say, nodding, thinking about what I left behind. Rita, sulking quietly. A week away from starting her new job."You'll like Boston," he says, navigating into the city. "It's not Texas, but it's a good place to live."I shrug, not really caring either way. "I'm not here to sightsee."He laughs. "But you still got to spend your days here. Might as well get a feel for it."Boston's an old city. Where western cities were made after the invention and spread of cars, East Coast cities were too entrenched and dense

ScarI spend a few days in Boston getting a feel for the city. I meet with all the brothers except for Gregory—no shock there—and have dinner with Orin on the last night. He seems as stressed as he was back in the office, only drunker."Don't ever forget, they're out for blood," he says on the sidewalk outside of the expensive restaurant. He grabs my shoulder, stares into my eye. "They're all out for blood, Scar."I have no clue who he means, but I can imagine it's everyone. In his business, in his position, real paranoia must be the norm, and a shiver runs down my spine trying to picture myself working for this man.I can't stop thinking about the difference between Beach Orin and Office Orin on the flight back to Dallas. I keep seeing him standing there behind the desk surrounded by all the trappings of power—huge windows overlooking the city, oil paintings on the walls, expensive wooden furniture, priceless books and artifacts on the shelves—but looking absolutely diminished.Small

ScarI can't stay in that apartment.Not after trying to kiss her like a fucking idiot.I knew it was wrong—and I tried to do it anyway.I'm glad she pushed me away, even if I wanted to keep going.Even if I wouldn't have stopped.I fly out of Dallas the following morning, early. I leave her a note: Heading to Chicago on business. Sorry about yesterday. Scar. Hopefully she doesn't hold my stupid decisions against me, but then again, what does it matter?I'm leaving. She's staying. It's over—whatever it was."I didn't push her into the job to get rid of her," I say, sitting at a fancy bar. The soft murmur of conversation swirls around us. The lighting's muted, sultry, lots of reds and leather. The sort of place where I'm comfortable.Eros Khazan, another one of my best friends, leans back in his seat, studying me. The big Greek man narrows his eyes, considering. He's massive—easily the biggest guy in the place, maybe the biggest guy in the whole city—and he wears his size like a shield