“No. It was probably anglicized somewhere along the way. My grandfather was able to trace it back eleven generations, to the late seventeenth century. Our DNA goes back further, though. Genetic ancestry testing has us linked strongly to Scandinavia from before the time of the Vikings.”

“So you’re the real deal.”

“Pure Viking blood.”

“And you believe in the Norse gods? Odin . . . Thor?”

“They’re no less believable than any other god. Here . . .” Johan pointed out the detailed birds inked across his chest. “Huginn and Muninn, Odin’s ravens. They were information gatherers, connected to Odin’s thought and memory. His consciousness.”

“And this one?” Kitty gestured at the tree that covered Johan’s back, its intricate branches spreading onto his shoulders and down both arms.

“Yggdrasil,” Johan said, leaning forward so that she could see it more clearly. “The tree of life. It holds the nine worlds together, and its branches reach up to the heavens.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Kitty drew on the joint, held the smoke in, let it out with a small, tight cough. “You are the real deal. No doubt, man.”

Voices from behind. More guests were leaving. Johan saw Thiago and Enzo canoodling on a chaise longue, still high on molly. Over by the lanai, Barrett Lorne was in deep conversation with Channing Tatum. Their famous host was cool and comfortable, the best possible version of himself.

“I hear them sometimes, my ancestors, in my blood. They fascinate me.” Johan studied his tattoos, then turned his attention back to Kitty. “I’m drawn to their near-mythical quality, something so outrageous and powerful you wonder if it can even be real. That’s what I want. That’s how I want people to see me.”

“So you became a drug dealer?”

“Drugs are a commodity in this town, like real estate, like land, run primarily by Mexican cartels.” Johan shrugged and reached for his shirt. “I’m staking my claim, marking my territory. It’s a very Viking thing to do.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” Kitty took a last pull on the joint, then stubbed it out on the sole of her sneaker and dropped it into an empty glass. “And what’s the deal with Xander? You boys go back?”

“Not too far.” Johan brushed the grass off his shirt. “A few years. He’s my . . . security.”

“A Viking with a bodyguard.” Kitty looked surprised.

“Viking leaders had their warriors, men who fought relentlessly for them, and would lay their lives down without hesitation.” Johan grinned, leaning a little closer to Kitty. “Many of them wore bear- or wolfskins. They were known as berserkers.”

“Is that what Xander is? Your berserker?”

“He is whatever I want him to be. A driver, a bodyguard, an enforcer. But mostly he’s trustworthy—a rare and valuable quality.”