Where the Heirs Reign

Chapter 1

Mara

The university orientation hall is a tactical nightmare.

There are too many sightlines. There are too many blind spots. There are fifteen hundred students crammed into a space designed for a thousand. The air smells like cheap cologne and teenage desperation.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I resist the urge to check the knife strapped to my thigh beneath my floral sundress. My father would be appalled that I am standing in the middle of the room. He taught me better.

"Never be the center of the target, Mara," he used to say while cleaning his gun. "Be the ghost in the corner."

But I am not the daughter of the Mancini crime family today. I am Mara. Just Mara. Art History major. Civilian. I am here to learn about Renaissance brushstrokes, not how to dissolve a body in lye.

"Excuse me," a girl with pink hair says, bumping into my shoulder. "Is this the line for student IDs?"

I force a smile. It feels tight. "I think so."

"God. It is taking forever. I'm anxious. Aren't you anxious?"

"Terrified," I murmur. But not for the reason she thinks.

I scan the exits again. North. East. The service doors behind the stage. If a shooter walked in right now, I would take the girl with the pink hair and shove her under the registration table. I would vault the railing. I would be out in six seconds.

"Hey! Watch where you're walking, pledge!"

The shout cracks through the hum of conversation like a gunshot.

My head snaps to the left. My pupils dilate. The reaction is instantaneous. It is a reflex drilled into me since I was old enough to walk.

A scrawny freshman is stumbling. He has been shoved. A heavy metal tray of iced coffees from the welcome table is tipping out of his hands. It is falling toward the polished floor. The crash will be loud. It will sound like a bomb.

I do not think.

I lunge.

I cover the ten feet between us in a blur of motion. My hand shoots out. I do not grab the boy. I grab the tray. I catch it inches from the ground. The ice rattles. The plastic cups wobble but stay upright. Not a single drop spills.

The boy freezes. He stares at me with wide, terrified eyes. He looks at the tray in my hand, then up at my face.

"Whoa," he breathes.

I blink. The adrenaline fades, leaving a cold sweat on my neck. I straighten up slowly, balancing the tray with one hand like a waitress at a mob wedding.

"You dropped this," I say.

"Nice catch, sweetheart."

The voice is dripping with condescension. I turn. The person who shoved the kid is standing there. He is tall, blonde, and wearing a polo shirt that costs more than the freshman's tuition. He has a jawline that screams privilege and eyes that scream cruelty.

This must be Brad Sterling. The type of guy who peaked in high school and is about to make everyone else's life miserable.

"He tripped," I say. My voice is flat.

Brad laughs. It is a hollow, barking sound. He steps into my personal space. He smells like peppermint and entitlement.

"He tripped because he is clumsy," Brad says. He looks me up and down. His gaze lingers on my chest, then my legs. "You, on the other hand. You have got reflexes. What are you? A gymnast?"

"Art student," I lie.

"Art," he scoffs. "Cute. Maybe you can paint me a picture of you getting me a drink?"

He reaches out. He goes to touch my arm. His fingers are an inch from my skin.

I don't move. I don't flinch. I just look at his throat. I imagine exactly how much pressure it would take to collapse his windpipe. It would be so easy. A twitch of the wrist.

Brad pauses. He blinks. Something in my eyes makes him stop. The lizard brain inside him realizes, just for a second, that he is the prey.

"Whatever," Brad mutters. He pulls his hand back. He sneers at the freshman. "Clean yourself up, loser."

Brad pushes past us, disappearing into the crowd of laughing sycophants.

"I am so sorry," the freshman stammers. He takes the tray from me. "He just... he came out of nowhere."

"Forget it," I say. "Stay away from him."

"I'm Kevin. Thank you. Really. That was ninja stuff."

"Just luck, Kevin."

I turn away. I need air. I need to reset my heart rate. I almost broke a student's neck for being rude. This cover is going to be harder than I thought.

Then I feel it.

A prickle on the back of my neck. The sensation of being watched. Not looked at. Watched.

I stop. I scan the hall. My eyes sweep over the sea of faces. Laughing students. Bored parents. Texting teenagers.

And then I see him.

He is leaning against a pillar on the far side of the room. He is alone. He is wearing a black leather jacket that looks lived-in, not bought for fashion. His hair is dark, messy in a way that suggests he doesn't care, though it falls perfectly.

He is not looking at the stage. He is not looking at his phone.

He is looking at me.

Everyone else in the room jumped when Brad shouted. Everyone else flinched when the tray almost hit the floor.

He didn't.

He is perfectly still. His face is a mask of bored indifference, but his eyes are sharp. Calculating. Predatory. They are dark, like polished obsidian.

He saw the catch. He saw the speed. He saw the way I looked at Brad's throat.

My stomach drops. He knows.

I should look away. I should play the shy art girl. I should blush and check my phone.

I don't. I lock eyes with him. I stare back. A challenge.

A slow smirk spreads across his face. It is terrifying. It is the most handsome thing I have ever seen.

He pushes off the pillar. He starts walking toward me.

The crowd seems to part for him. He moves with a liquid grace that screams danger. He doesn't walk like a student. He walks like he owns the building. He walks like a soldier.

My heart hammers against my ribs. Fight or flight. Fight or flight.

He stops two feet in front of me. He is taller up close. He smells like leather and rain. The air between us suddenly feels heavy, charged with enough electricity to short-circuit the lights.

"You are fast," he says. His voice is deep, a low rumble that I feel in my chest.

"I played softball," I lie. The lie tastes like ash.

"No," he says softly. He tilts his head. "You didn't."

He steps closer. His gaze drops to my hands, then back to my eyes. He is dissecting me. He is peeling back the layers of my disguise with a single look.

"Who are you?" I whisper. I can't help it.

He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he says. "Civilians don't catch heavy objects before they fall. Civilians flinch at loud noises. You didn't flinch."

"Maybe I'm just calm."

"Maybe you are dangerous."

My breath hitches. He leans in. His mouth is close to my ear. For a second, I think he is going to kiss me. The thought sends a jolt of heat straight to my core.

"I'm Dante," he says.

The name lands like a heavy stone. Dante.

He pulls back. He holds my gaze for one second longer than is polite. It is a promise. It is a threat.

"Welcome to hell, sweetheart," he murmurs.

Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows of the hall, leaving me standing there with my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.

Chapter 2

Mara

I sit in the back row of the lecture hall. It is the furthest point from the door. It is the furthest point from the professor. It is supposed to be the safest spot in the room.

"Introduction to Ethics."

The irony is not lost on me. I am the daughter of a man who orders hits over Sunday gravy. I am studying the moral philosophy of right and wrong. It feels like a joke. A cosmic prank.

I stare at the syllabus. I am trying to focus on the words. Kant. Utilitarianism. Moral Imperatives.

"Is this seat taken?"

The voice is low. It vibrates through the wooden desk. It vibrates through my spine.

I do not need to look up. I know that voice. I heard it yesterday in the orientation hall. It whispered *Welcome to hell* in my ear.

I keep my eyes on the paper.

"Yes," I say. "It is taken."

"By who?"

"By my desire to be left alone."

"That sounds lonely."

There is a creak of wood. Denim shifts against the seat. A heat radiates from the space beside me. He sat down anyway.

I turn my head slowly.

Dante is sitting there. He is leaning back in the chair. He looks too big for the desk. His legs are sprawled out. He is wearing the same black leather jacket. He looks like he walked out of a mugshot and into an Ivy League classroom.

He is smirking.

"I thought I made it clear," I say. My voice is a whisper. "I am not looking for trouble."

"Neither am I," Dante says. He opens a notebook. It is empty. He doesn't even have a pen. "I am just here for the education. Ethics. Very important."

"You don't look like an Ethics student."

"And you don't look like an art student," he counters. He turns to face me. His eyes are dark. They are laughing at me. "But here we are. Pretending."

My heart skips a beat. He is pushing. He wants me to slip up.

"I'm not pretending," I say.

"Liar."

The word hangs between us. It is soft. Intimate.

"What is your family business, Dante?" I ask. I keep my face neutral. "Since you seem to know so much about mine."

He pauses. He taps a finger on the desk.

"Import. Export," he says. "Olive oil. Textiles. That sort of thing."

"Ah," I say. "Logistics."

"Exactly. Logistics. Moving things from point A to point B without anyone asking questions." He leans closer. "And yours?"

"Waste management," I lie. It is the classic cliché.

Dante laughs. It is a genuine sound. It turns a few heads in the front row.

"Waste management," he repeats. "Cleaning up messes?"

"Something like that."

"You must be good at it."

"I am very thorough."

"I bet you are."

His gaze drops to my lips. Then back to my eyes. The air in the room gets hot. Stifling.

"Class has started," I say. I turn back to the front.

"Run away if you want, Mara," he whispers. "But we are in the same class now. You can't avoid me forever."

"Watch me."

We sit in silence for the next hour. But it is not a peaceful silence. It is heavy. Every time he shifts, I feel it. Every time he breathes, I hear it. He is a gravitational pull. I am fighting to stay in orbit.

The bell rings. It is a relief.

I pack my bag in three seconds. I am out of the seat before the professor finishes his sentence.

"So fast," Dante calls out behind me.

I ignore him. I head for the door. I push through the crowd of slow-moving freshmen. I need air. I need space. I need to recalibrate my threat assessment. Dante Vancini is a variable I did not account for.

I burst out into the hallway. The corridor is crowded. I keep my head down. I walk fast.

"Hey! Picasso!"

A hand clamps onto my shoulder.

My reflex is instant. I grab the wrist. I twist.

"Ow! Hey!"

I stop myself. I do not break the wrist. I just hold it. Tight.

I look up.

It is Brad Sterling. The blonde senior from yesterday. The one who shoved the freshman.

He is looking at me with a mixture of pain and annoyance.

"Let go," he says.

I drop his hand. I step back.

"Don't touch me," I say.

Brad rubs his wrist. He laughs. It is that same hollow, barking laugh.

"Feisty," he says. "I like that. Most girls would kill for a touch from the President of the Syndicate."

"The what?"

"The Syndicate," Brad says. He puffs out his chest. He adjusts the collar of his polo shirt. "The premier fraternity on campus. We run this school, sweetheart. Nothing happens here without our say-so."

"Congratulations," I say. "You run a school. That must look great on a resume."

His smile falters. His eyes narrow.

"You have a smart mouth," he says. "For a nobody."

"I have a class to get to, Brad."

I try to step around him. He steps in front of me. He blocks my path. He is looming over me. He thinks he is intimidation. He is just a nuisance.

"You don't get it," Brad says. He leans against the lockers. He traps me. "You are new. You are an art major. That makes you prey. You need protection. You need friends in high places."

"And let me guess," I say. "You are the high place."

"I can be," he says. He reaches out. He runs a finger down my arm.

My skin crawls. I want to snap his finger off. I want to put him through the drywall.

"Stop touching me," I say. My voice is ice.

"Or what?" Brad sneers. "You'll paint me a mean picture?"

"Or she will break your arm."

The voice comes from behind Brad. It is deep. Calm. Terrifying.

Brad spins around.

Dante is standing there. He is leaning against the opposite wall. His arms are crossed. He looks bored. But his eyes are fixed on Brad's hand.

"Who are you?" Brad demands.

"Dante."

"I didn't ask for your name, pledge. I asked who you are."

Dante pushes off the wall. He takes one step. He is taller than Brad. Broader. He carries a darkness that Brad's country club money can't buy.

"I am the guy who is going to make you regret waking up this morning," Dante says. "If you don't take a step back."

Brad hesitates. He looks at Dante. Then he looks at his own friends, who are snickering down the hall. He has an audience. He can't back down.

"You think you're tough?" Brad laughs. "You're a freshman. You're nothing."

"Try me," Dante says.

Brad swallows. He senses it. The violence rolling off Dante in waves.

"Whatever," Brad says. He turns back to me. He tries to recover his dignity. "Look. We are having a mixer tonight. A rush event. At the Syndicate house. It's exclusive. Invite only."

He pulls a black card from his pocket. He tucks it into the strap of my bag.

"Come by," Brad says. He winks. It is repulsive. "See how the real elite live. Maybe if you beg, I'll let you join."

He looks at Dante.

"You can come too, tough guy," Brad sneers. "If you have the guts. But don't cry when we haze you until you quit."

"Hazing," Dante says. He smiles. It is a sharp, dangerous thing. "Sounds like fun."

"8 PM," Brad says. "Don't be late."

He shoves past Dante. He walks away, his friends high-fiving him as if he just won a battle. He has no idea he just invited a wolf into the sheep pen.

Dante watches him go. Then he turns to me.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I had it handled," I say.

"I know," Dante says. "I saw your hand twitch. You were going for the ulnar nerve."

"He was annoying."

"He is a cockroach," Dante says. He looks at the black card in my bag. "Are you going?"

"To a frat party?" I scoff. "I would rather stick needles in my eyes."

"It's the Syndicate," Dante says. "The 'criminal underworld' of the campus. Aren't you curious?"

"Curious about what? A bunch of rich kids playing gangster?"

"Exactly," Dante says. His eyes gleam. "I want to see it. I want to see what they think power looks like."

"You are going?"

"I accepted the invitation, didn't I?"

I look at him. He looks excited. Not like a student going to a party. Like a predator going to a hunt.

"If you go," I say, "you will get into trouble. Brad is looking for a fight."

"I am counting on it," Dante says.

He steps closer. He plucks the card from my bag. He reads the address.

"Come with me, Mara."

It is not a command. It is a challenge.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because you are bored," he says. "I can see it in your eyes. You are bored of pretending to be normal. You are bored of classes. You are bored of people like Brad."

He is right. God, he is right.

"And," he adds, his voice dropping an octave, "I think you want to see what happens when I lose my temper."

My breath hitches.

I do.

I want to see him in action. I want to see the mask slip. I want to know if he is as dangerous as I think he is.

"Fine," I say. I snatch the card back. "I will go. But only to watch you embarrass yourself."

Dante grins.

"Wear something you can move in, sweetheart," he says. "I have a feeling it is going to be a long night."

He turns and walks away.

I watch him go. My blood is humming. My heart is racing.

I am Mara Mancini. I should be studying art. I should be invisible.

But tonight, I am going to walk into the lion's den with a monster.

And I can't wait.

Chapter 3

Dante

The sign on the door says "Members Only".

I almost laugh. The bouncer is a sophomore with acne and a clip-on tie. He holds his hand up like he is stopping traffic.

"Name?" he grunts.

"Dante," I say.

He checks a list on a clipboard. He frowns. He traces the line with his finger.

"You aren't on the list."

"Check again."

"I checked. You aren't..."

I step into his personal space. I don't touch him. I just let the air drop a few degrees. I let him see the boredom in my eyes.

"Check. Again."

He swallows. He looks down. Suddenly my name appears in his mind, if not on the paper.

"Oh. Yeah. There it is. Go in."

"Good boy," I say.

I walk past him.

Inside, the house smells like stale beer and cheap cigars. They are trying so hard. There are velvet ropes. There are guys in suits that don't fit. There is jazz music playing, but it is a loop of the same three songs. It is a costume party.

"This is tragic," I mutter to myself.

I grab a drink from a passing tray. It is warm champagne in a plastic flute.

I scan the room. I am not looking for Brad. I am looking for her. The girl with the reflexes. I know who she is. I knew the moment I saw her move in the orientation hall. Mara Mancini.

My father has a file on her father. I memorized it when I was twelve. *Mancini. Volatile. Old school. Dangerous daughter.* The file said she was skilled. It did not say she was breathtaking.

I spot her near the fireplace. She took my advice. She isn't wearing the floral sundress anymore. She is wearing black. Sleek. Dangerous. It hugs her frame like a second skin. She looks like a weapon sheathed in silk.

I walk over.

"You came," I say.

She doesn't jump. She turns slowly. She sips her drink. She grimaces.

"This tastes like vinegar," she says.

"It is the best five dollars can buy," I say.

"I thought you said this would be entertaining, Dante."

"Look around," I say. "Is it not?"

She follows my gaze. A group of guys in the corner are arguing about who has the most expensive watch. One of them is holding a cigar he doesn't know how to cut. He is chewing the tip.

"It is pathetic," she says.

"It is adorable," I correct. "They are roleplaying."

"They are deluded."

"That is what makes it fun," I say. "They think they are sharks. They are goldfish in a tank."

"And what are we?" she asks.

She looks up at me. Her eyes are light brown, flecked with gold. Intelligent. Guarded.

"We are the cats watching the bowl," I say.

"I am not a cat," she says. "I am an art student."

"Right," I say. "And I am a logistics major."

"Are you going to keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me like you know something I don't."

"I know a lot of things you don't," I say.

"Arrogant."

"Observant."

I lean against the mantle. I am close enough to smell her perfume. Jasmine. Gunpowder? No, just jasmine. But the imaginary scent of gunpowder lingers around her.

"Why did you come, Mara?"

"Brad invited me."

"You hate Brad."

"I hate mosquitoes too," she says. "But sometimes you have to watch where they land before you swat them."

"Violent," I say. "For an art student."

"I have a passion for restoration. Sometimes you have to scrape away the dirt to see the picture."

"Brad is the dirt?"

"Brad is the mold."

I laugh. It surprises me. I haven't laughed this much in years. Usually, my life is briefings and silence.

"So," I say. "What is the plan? Are we going to mingle? Or are we going to stand here and judge?"

"I prefer judging."

"Me too."

"Look at that one," she says. She nods toward the bar.

A guy is trying to spin a cocktail shaker. It flies out of his hand and hits a lamp.

"Smooth," I say.

"Deadly," she says.

"I bet he tells people he runs the numbers for the organization."

"I bet he can't even count to ten," she says.

We stand there, trading insults about the room. It is easy. It is rhythmic. Then the music cuts out. A spotlight hits the top of the staircase.

"Showtime," I whisper.

Brad Sterling steps out. He is wearing a white tuxedo jacket. It is ridiculous. He looks like a waiter on a cruise ship. He is holding a microphone.

"Welcome," Brad booms. "To the Sanctum."

"The Sanctum?" Mara whispers. "Please."

"Shh," I say. "The King is speaking."

"Gentlemen," Brad says. He descends the stairs. "And ladies. Selected ladies."

He winks at a group of blondes in the front row. They giggle.

"You are here because we chose you," Brad says. "The Syndicate is not just a fraternity. We are a brotherhood. We are the invisible hand that guides this university."

"He stole that line from a movie," I say.

"Which one?" Mara asks.

"All of them."

"We control the grades," Brad says. "We control the parties. We control the flow of... goods."

He pauses for dramatic effect.

"If you want to be one of us," Brad says, "you have to prove you have the stones."

He reaches the bottom of the stairs. The crowd parts for him. He walks through them like he is parting the Red Sea. He stops in front of us. He looks at me. His lip curls.

"You showed up," Brad says.

"I hate to miss a party," I say.

"And you brought the art project," Brad says. He looks at Mara.

"Hello, Brad," Mara says.

"You clean up nice," Brad says. He steps closer to her. He is invading her space again. "I didn't know you owned a dress that wasn't covered in paint."

"I have many hidden talents," Mara says.

"I bet you do," Brad says. His eyes drop to her chest. He licks his lips. It is a subtle, disgusting movement. "Maybe later you can show me. Private showing? In my room?"

The air around me turns red. Rage. Pure, white-hot rage. It surges through my veins. My fist clenches. I calculate the distance to his jaw. I could shatter it. I could drive the bone into his brain. It would be instant. I shift my weight. I am about to move.

Then I see it.

Mara's hand is on the table next to her. There is a steak knife on a plate. A sharp, serrated blade. Her fingers are hovering over the handle. Her pinky finger twitches.

She isn't scared. She is calculating. She is measuring the angle. Up under the ribcage? Or straight into the thigh?

She is going to stab him. And she is going to do it right here, in front of fifty witnesses.

The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water. It douses my rage instantly. She doesn't need saving. She is the predator here. I have to stop her. Not to save her, but to keep her from blowing her cover. And mine.

I step forward. I block her view of Brad. I break the line of sight.

"So," I say, loudly. "Brad. The speech was moving. Really. I almost cried."

Brad blinks. He looks at me. He is annoyed that I interrupted his flirting.

"What do you want, Dante?"

"I want to know about the test," I say. "You said we have to prove ourselves."

Mara's hand relaxes. She slides her fingers away from the knife. She looks at me. Her eyes are questioning. *Why did you stop me?* *Because we are playing a game,* I look back.

Brad straightens his jacket. He forgets about Mara for a second. His ego is too big to resist a challenge.

"The test," Brad says. "Right."

He looks around the room. He wants an audience.

"Listen up, pledges!" Brad shouts.

The room goes silent.

"These two," Brad points at us. "Think they are special. They think they can just walk in here and drink our champagne."

"It is warm," I point out.

"Shut up," Brad snaps. "You want to be Syndicate? You have to earn it."

"Name the price," I say.

"Not money," Brad says. "We have money. We want loyalty. We want risk."

He grins. It is a malicious look.

"The Dean of Students," Brad says. "Dean Miller. He has a vintage Rolex. A Submariner. He keeps it in a display case in his office. He loves that watch more than his wife."

"Okay," I say.

"I want it," Brad says.

"You want us to buy you a watch?" Mara asks.

"I want you to steal it," Brad says.

The crowd gasps. The drama is working.

"Tonight," Brad says. "His office is in the administration building. Top floor. Alarm systems. Cameras. Security guards on patrol."

He leans in.

"It is impossible," Brad whispers. "Nobody has ever cracked Miller's office. The last pledge who tried got expelled and arrested."

"And if we get it?" I ask.

"If you get it," Brad laughs. "If you walk back through those doors with Miller's Rolex... you are in. Automatically. Top tier. No hazing."

He looks at Mara.

"And you, sweetheart," he says. "If you get it, I will personally apologize for being rude."

"I don't want your apology," Mara says.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want your office," she says.

The room goes deadly silent. Brad's face turns red.

"Excuse me?"

"If we bring you the watch," Mara says, her voice calm, "I want your chair. At the head of the table. For one meeting."

Brad stares at her. Then he bursts out laughing.

"Deal!" he shouts. "You have a snowball's chance in hell, honey. But sure. If you pull off the heist of the century, you can sit in my chair."

He looks at me.

"What about you, tough guy? You in?"

I look at the steak knife on the table. Then I look at Mara. She is smiling. It is a small, terrifying smile.

"Oh, I am in," I say.

"Good," Brad says. "You have until midnight."

He checks his own watch.

"That gives you three hours. Better get running."

"We won't need three hours," I say.

"Cocky," Brad says. "I like it. It makes the failure sweeter."

He turns his back on us. He goes back to his group of sycophants. They are laughing. They think they just sent us to our execution.

I turn to Mara.

"Stealing a watch," I say. "How original."

"The Dean's office," she says. "That is the building with the brick facade on the quad?"

"Yes."

"I noticed the lock on the side door yesterday," she says. "Standard pin tumbler. Five pins. Maybe a spool driver."

"Child's play," I say.

"And the cameras?" she asks.

"I have a jammer in my pocket," I say. "Habit."

She looks at me. Her eyes widen slightly.

"You carry a signal jammer to a party?"

"You almost brought a knife to a fistfight," I counter.

"It was a steak knife. It was already there."

"You were going to use it."

"He was being rude."

"He was being suicidal," I say. "He just didn't know it."

She smirks.

"So," she says. "Are we doing this?"

"Do you have anything better to do?"

"I have an Ethics paper due tomorrow."

"Screw ethics," I say.

"I agree."

She puts her glass down on the table.

"Let's go steal a watch," she says.

"After you," I say.

We walk toward the door. The crowd parts again. They are looking at us like we are dead men walking. They are whispering.

"They are going to get arrested."

"Idiots."

"Brad set them up."

I catch the bouncer's eye on the way out. He looks nervous.

We step out into the cool night air. The door slams shut behind us, muting the terrible jazz music. The silence is beautiful.

"Dante?" Mara says.

"Yes?"

"If we get caught..."

"We won't."

"But if we do."

"I will buy the university," I say.

She stops walking. She looks at me. She is trying to decide if I am joking. I am not joking.

"You are crazy," she says.

"I am determined," I say. "And I really want to see you sit in his chair."

"Why?"

"Because," I say, unlocking my car—a black sedan parked in the fire lane. "It will drive him insane."

"I like that," she says.

"I knew you would."

I open the passenger door for her.

"Get in, Mara," I say. "We have a crime to commit."

She slides into the seat. She looks comfortable. She looks like she belongs in the dark, plotting felonies.

I walk around to the driver's side. I look back at the frat house. The lights are thumping. Brad is probably making a toast to his own genius right now.

I smile. *Wolves among sheep,* I think.

I get in the car and start the engine. It purrs.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Drive," she says.

I punch the gas. We disappear into the night.