Blaze
Keagan wasn’t kidding about the mansion.
The place sits behind a massive wrought-iron gate, surrounded by high walls and enough cameras to make a bank feel underprotected. The driveway is long and winding, lined with perfectly manicured hedges that probably cost more than my old car.
The house itself is a beast—three stories of sleek, modern architecture, all glass and steel and sharp angles. It’s the kind of place that screams *money*, the kind of place that doesn’t fit with the life we’ve been living.
As soon as we step inside, Rico’s practically twitching with excitement, his eyes darting around like a kid in a candy store.
“You weren’t kidding,” he mutters, his fingers itching toward the nearest control panel. “This place is loaded.”
“Try not to short-circuit anyt
