Kitty glanced at Johan. He sensed her discomfort, and offered his best nonjudgmental smile. Ruben Osterfeld—Sly Boy’s muscle—had run a few jobs for Johan recently, and had told Johan that Kitty was no longer on raccoon duty, that Sly Boy had her emceeing at Fusion 44. A step sideways, as far as Johan was concerned. No garbage cans, but a servant’s wage.

As he’d told Kitty before, she deserved better.

“I work at a jazz club,” she replied without embellishment.

Johan nodded approvingly. He’d suggested in his text that Kitty be herself, and she was, from her natural hair to her $60 sneakers. Good for her.

“Oh.” Liberty was also being herself. “You look like more.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Kitty leaned forward, angling away from Liberty. She looked at Johan. “Where are we going?”

It was Enzo who replied. “A housewarming extravaganza. Barrett Lorne has a new place in Bev Crest.”

“Barrett Lorne?” Kitty asked. “The actor?”

Johan replied, “He’s a fan of my work.”

The limo rolled west on Sunset, the dark, soundproofed windows softening the city’s edges. Enzo touched Thiago’s chest where his shirt was unbuttoned. Liberty ground her teeth and selected glam metal from the limo’s streaming service.

“This?” Kitty smiled at Johan, indicating his beard by gesturing at her own chin.

“This.” He ran a hand beneath his jaw, cupping his beard, which he’d woven into a thick, single braid and adorned with a wooden bead. Kitty had never seen it dressed up. He winked at her. “True to my roots.”

“And a new tattoo?” She tapped the back of her left hand.

“You’ve been paying attention to me, Kitty. I’m flattered.”

“Tattoo’s healing. Has to be new.” A glimpse of her teeth. She’d relaxed quite a bit. “What does it mean?”

Johan considered his response to Thiago. The hungry wolf will always hunt. With Kitty, he opted for a less dramatic interpretation.

“It means never give up.”

The limo took a series of switchbacks into the hills, then coasted a private road crowded by California pepper trees, their leaves stroking the bodywork like hands. It ended at a wrought-iron gate that yawned inward. A narrow, S-shaped driveway led to the house: a 1930s Spanish eclectic on half an acre, with an aviary in the garden bristling with multicolored birds, and movie stars smoking weed around a cascading water fountain.

They stepped into a broad foyer, greeted there by Barrett Lorne’s assistant, who took a group photo on her phone—“God, you’re all so beautiful. I hate you!”—before directing them to a long table lined with champagne and pre-rolled joints.