Page 1

CHAPTER ONE

DANTE

The bonfire is barely lit and I've already spotted three fire hazards, two unsecured perimeter points, and one woman who's about to ruin my entire weekend.

She's standing near the welcome tent with a clipboard pressed against her chest, talking to Noah Kane with the kind of focused intensity that makes me think she's either pitching a business plan or quietly threatening him. Could go either way. Noah's nodding along, arms crossed, which means she's winning whatever this conversation is.

I don't know her name yet.

I know she's wearing a burgundy blazer over a cream silk blouse that catches the firelight every time she shifts her weight. I know her hair is pulled back into something sleek and professional at the base of her neck. I know she's got the posture of a woman who's been standing in heels on uneven ground for at least an hour and hasn't complained about it once, because women who complain about heels don't wear them to a mountain venue in October.

And I know I need to stop cataloguing her physical details and go check the east gate, because that's what Jake Winters is paying me to do.

"Morales." Jake's voice comes through the earpiece. "East gate clear?"

"Heading there now."

"You've been heading there for six minutes."

Fair point. I pull my eyes off the woman in the burgundy blazer and start walking. The Autumn Harvest setup sprawls across the lower terrace of Club Crimson's property, a stretch of cleared land between the main lodge and the tree line. String lights zigzag between cedar posts. Hay bales arranged into seating areas. A cider station. Three fire pits at staggered intervals, all properly contained with stone rings, which I checked twice before anyone arrived.

This is Club Crimson's first annual Autumn Harvest weekend. Three days of fall festivities, bonfire demonstrations, curated tastings in the Ember Lounge, and whatever else Noah Kane's event coordinator has dreamed up to make rich people feel rugged. My job is security. Perimeter, crowd flow, emergency protocols, making sure nobody wanders off a mountain trail after too many bourbon apple cocktails.

Simple. Straightforward. Exactly the kind of clean assignment I like.

I hit the east gate, do a visual sweep. Chain secured, sensor active, tree line undisturbed. October up here smells like woodsmoke, cold dirt, pine resin. The kind of air that settles into your lungs and makes you breathe slower whether you want to or not.

"East gate clear," I report.

"Copy. Come back to the welcome area. Noah wants you to meet the event coordinator before the first guests arrive tomorrow morning."

Right. The woman with the clipboard.

I take my time walking back. Not because I'm avoiding her. Because the perimeter path loops wide around the south fire pit, past the equipment shed where Sage Harris from Bean & Bloom is unloading boxes of pastries, and I want to make sure the shed door latches properly.

"Sage."

She looks up, startled. Then grins. "Dante! Hey! Did you try the pumpkin empanadas? I made them special for the event because Noah mentioned you were on the security team and I remembered you told Jabari that your abuela makes them every fall, so I called her."

"You called my grandmother."

"She gave me the recipe. Well, she gave me her version of the recipe, which I think was missing a few steps on purpose because she said, and I quote, 'nobody makes them better than me, mija, but you can try.'" Sage pulls a foil wrapped bundle from one of the boxes. "Try one. Be honest."

I take it. Bite into it. The pastry cracks, warm pumpkin and cinnamon and a hit of chipotle that my grandmother absolutely did not include in whatever watered down version she shared. Sage added her own spin. It's good. Really good.

"Not bad."

"Not bad?" She puts her hands on her hips. "Jabari said you'd say that. He also said to tell you that 'not bad' from Dante Morales is basically a standing ovation."

"Jabari talks too much."

"Jabari is perfect and I won't hear otherwise." She waves me off with a flour dusted hand. "Go. Be intimidating. Protect the pumpkins."

I finish the empanada walking back toward the welcome tent. Noah's still there, but now he's got Talia beside him, her arm looped through his while she types something on her phone with one hand. Some kind of married superpower, being able to touch your person and work simultaneously without dropping either.

The woman in the burgundy blazer is gone.

"Morales." Noah extends a hand. Firm shake, direct eye contact. "Appreciate you coming on for the weekend. Jake speaks highly."