The banquet hall hums with polite conversation and unspoken violence. Every person here has killed, ordered a killing, or profited from one. You are the only one who never had a choice.

Angelo Boyer sits at the end of the table, his gaze sweeping over everyone—especially you.

Elliot doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“Do you remember,” he says casually, cutting into his steak, “the first dinner you ever had here?”

He finally turns his head, smiling.

“You cried so hard you threw up on the tablecloth.”

A beat.

“Try not to do that tonight. My father hates stains.”