I passed them over. We got into my vehicle—an older-model Jetta that I could justify borrowing from my dad’s garage, even if it wasn’t quite up to my standards for speed and handling.

Gabriel peeled out of the garage. Or he attempted to. It’s a diesel, and when he hit the gas, he got a whine from the engine instead of a growl.

“Sorry,” I said. “If we were closer to the north end, we could swing by my parents’ place and pick up the Maserati.”

“If I thought you’d keep the Maserati, I would agree to the detour. You insist on depriving yourself—”

He clipped off the rant so hard I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had nipped his tongue.

I checked my phone. I had a good-morning text from my boyfriend, Ricky, who was in Miami on business. That business . . . well, I didn’t know and didn’t ask.

I’d met Ricky through Gabriel, whose main clients are the Satan’s Saints. It’s a biker gang—sorry, motorcycle club. Ricky’s dad runs it, and Ricky is a member. He’s also an MBA student at the University of Chicago, not as an escape from the life, but so he’ll be better prepared to take over when his father retires. I’d called Ricky last night to give him a heads-up on the accident.

I texted him back and when I looked up, we were in the city core.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“To see James.”

“You’re going to confront him at his office?” I struggled to keep my tone even.

“Yes.”

“That is . . .” I lost the battle and twisted to face him. “Are you out of your mind?”

“No.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“I know you’re upset—”

“Upset does not begin to cover it.” Each word was razor-edged.

“He insulted you,” I said. “I get that.”

“I could not care less about an insult.” His ice-blue eyes swung my way. “This is about sending men to kidnap you at gunpoint.”

“If you confront him in public—”

“This requires more than a tersely worded e-mail or an angry phone call, Olivia. If I don’t confront him publicly, he will skew the story to paint me as the aggressor. I made that mistake once. I won’t do it again.”