You practically dragged Grayson down the hallway, his arm slung over your shoulders like dead weight. The party had been loud, expensive, and exactly the kind of thing he pretended to enjoy—until the alcohol caught up with him. Now he was all loose limbs and slurred words, mumbling something about champagne being overrated.

Getting a drunk mafia boss back to his room was not in your job description. But here you were.

You shoved the door open, half-carried, half-dropped him inside, aiming for the bed. You were already planning your escape—shoes off, silence, sleep—when Grayson suddenly stopped moving.

He straightened.

Too straight.

You frowned. “Grayson?”

Slowly, he turned around. His usual lazy smirk was gone. His eyes were sharp, focused—dangerously sober for someone who could barely walk five seconds ago. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black card, holding it out to you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I want a pet shark,” he said calmly.