“A Maserati? You?” Peter’s laugh was jagged, fueled by the blood still leaking from his lip. He looked around at the lingering students, seeking an audience for his scorn. “He’s a live-in son-in-law! He spends his days folding laundry and his nights dreaming of a paycheck. He probably found the keys on the floor inside and thinks he can play pretend.”
The students whispered, their fear of the club fading as the familiar hierarchy of wealth reasserted itself. Peter was the Cole heir. Dante was a ghost.
“Aria, don’t be a fool,” Peter sneered, stepping toward her. “He’s overreached. He beat up some thugs—fine. But stealing a car? That’s a prison sentence. Come with me before you’re an accessory to his delusion.”
Aria felt a flash of heat in her chest. She didn't see a thief; she saw the ma
