I've held back my rage for a long time but today I feel like pummeling someone—anyone—into next goddamn week. When I find out who screwed me over … I just hope I can control myself long enough not to kill the fucker and end up in a goddamn jail cell. Then again, getting convicted for a crime I actually did commit might be a whole lot more satisfying than getting burned for one I didn't.

I walk through the door of my penthouse office and shut the door. What I feel like doing is slamming it, smashing the place up and hunting down the asshole who put me in this mess. But those days are long gone. I'm not an amped—up punk any more. I'm a level—headed over—achiever with an Ivy League degree under my belt, five luxury properties to my name and a net worth of more than four hundred million dollars. I am—was, until earlier this afternoon—CFO of a Fortune 500 investment company and Chairman of the Goddamn Board of Directors.

I make a point of keeping my cool.

Barely.

I run a hand through my hair. I need a haircut. Hell, maybe I won't even bother. I won't be seeing the inside of a boardroom anytime soon. I stuff my $5,000 Armani jacket into one of the cardboard boxes now sitting in my office. Usually I don't show my tats at work but who gives a fuck? Today it doesn't matter. I roll up my sleeves and yank off my tie. My shirt feels too tight, possibly because I've been working out like a goddamn maniac lately. I start packing a few things from the shelves into the boxes.

My phone rings.

I almost don't answer it, but my brother's name flashes up on the screen. We have a deal: we always answer. No matter how shitty our day might've been. And today pretty much takes the cake.

Rafe launches straight into it. "Home detention's no reason to bail on me. Come out to dinner with us tonight."

"No. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Max," he says. "I'm getting married in two days. I need my best man there tonight to help me celebrate. Besides, Lexi found a place that's right around the corner from your office. We're heading down there now to meet Lexi's maid of honor, Tess. You met her the other night."

I got convicted of insider trading today and my brother bailed me out on the spot. Instead of a jail sentence, I'll be serving a three—month stint of home detention. I've been fitted with an electronic bracelet which, if I happen to step outside my jurisdiction, will blow my fucking head off. Okay, maybe it won't. But it might as well. I've been ordered by the judge not to leave the three—block square where my apartment and my office are located. I can walk between the two, or drive my Ducati, or any of the other six cars or twelve motorcycles parked in my private garage. If I get caught outside the zone I'll get thrown in jail for at least three years with no possibility of parole. I've also been "asked" by the Board of Directors to take a break from my job as CFO of my brother's largest investment company.

I don't really feel like dinner but, hell, I owe him one. In fact I owe him a lot more than one. Six fucking million, to be exact. "Shit. All right," I say.

The only reason I'm agreeing to meet my brother and his fiancée is because they're about to get married. I want to see them. But I wish it could be the three of us and not a foursome with some over—eager friend who's guaranteed to drool over me all night. I'm really not in the mood.

I haven't been in the mood for a while.

"I didn't do it, by the way," I say. "And I'll deposit the six mil into your Bahamas account later tonight."

"Didn't do what?"

"Leak the info."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean someone framed me." I could have told him before but there was no point. There's zero evidence to back up my claims. A stack of emails written from my private account was presented to the court, making an airtight case against me. "Someone hacked into my account and sent the emails. I didn't give out any insider information. I'm clean as a goddamn whistle."

Rafe's silent for a couple of seconds, like he can't believe what he's hearing. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

"Because I knew I didn't stand a chance in court. And I didn't want to draw it out." I have a long list of criminal offenses. Mostly minor shit I did when I was younger. Even though I've spent the past ten years trying to make up for all that by working my ass off and heading several major companies, I have enough of a record to skew any judge's opinion of me in the wrong direction. I know what I look like to a judge: a badass. A shady delinquent with a history. The kind of guy the law has a problem with.

Rafe knows all this.

"I have a few ideas about who might've framed me," I tell him, "but there's no point naming names until I have proof."

"You should've told me," Rafe says again.

"I didn't want it to look like we were trying to cover something up. Then the whole company looks dirty. This way, it's just me."

"Jesus, Max."

When you're dealing with the kind of money we throw around on a daily basis, it's dog—eat—dog, everyone knows that. I earn ten million dollars a year working for my brother, plus commission, which is usually double my salary, and sometimes more. Everyone who works with me wants my job and they all think the only reason I'm there is because my brother owns the company. Which used to be true. Not anymore. I'm good at building companies and I'm good at making money. It took me a while to get on track in life but these days I can spot a winner from a mile away.