He felt like a million bucks. Fuck it, he felt like a billionaire. Lars stretched at the window of his room, gazing out through the clear glass at the landscape below. This side of the villa looked out over distant, craggy mountains and desert scrub. Nothing moved down there, despite twilight drawing near and color-washing the horizon with pink and purple hues.

Maybe it was the cologne. He was definitely going to shove a few of those into his pockets before he left. Maybe the shower, big enough for an orgy…with room to spare for some waiters in penguin suits.

No gold faucets, though. That had been mightily disappointing. He’d really wanted to see some gaudy bathroom fittings. How could Javier proclaim to be a capo if he didn’t have—

A knock at his bedroom door interrupted his thoughts. He swung around as the handle turned and Milo walked inside.

“Almost glad you made me stay,” Lars said. He swept out his hands to take in the room. “I mean, fuck the Four Seasons. This is more like—”

“We’re leaving.”

Lars let his hands fall to his sides with a slap. “What, now? What happened to ‘dinner’ and ‘first thing in the morning,’” he said, putting airquotes around the words.

Milo didn’t seem to notice his sarcasm. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“Fuck it.” He flicked his hand and went over to the dressing table where his jacket hung over the back of the chair. “Who wants to eat caviar on crackers anyway? God knows, champagne always gives me the runs.”

“Lars—”

“Don’t worry, Milo, I know my place.” He swung around to face Milo. “I’m at your fucking beck and call, master.”

“Lars, I—”

“You fucking nothing.” Lars charged for the door, sliding into his jacket. “Where’d they take our guns, you think?”

He ripped open the door, startling the maid standing outside with one hand raised to knock. She was a small, petite thing, dressed in a cute little frock with a hat and everything. Latino…then again, why wouldn’t Javier hire illegals to work for him? He probably despised anyone who had paperwork. What criminal would want to associate himself with people that did things by the book?

“Hola,” Lars said, stepping aside. He saw the bundle of fresh towels and sheets in her hands. “No need, miss. We’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” Her eyes went wide. “I’m sorry, señor, I came as quick as—”

“It’s not you,” he said, grabbing her shoulder and giving her a squeeze. “It’s him.” He used his chin to indicate in Milo’s direction and then sidled past the woman. “Now, if you can just show us to our weapons…”

The maid stood in the threshold of his room, looking from him to Milo, who’d taken up a silent, brooding station by the foot of the bed.

“Señor, please. You must stay.”

“Had just about enough of people telling me what to do,” he said through his teeth. His jaw was starting to ache from how hard he clenched it. “Just show us our stuff, and we’ll get out of your hat.”

The maid reached up to touch her little hat, and then scowled at him as if he’d insulted her. “No,” she said, sniffing and disappearing into the bathroom.

Lars’s eyebrows almost touched his hairline. “Now this, Milo, this is what makes ordinary people start believing in shit like fate. Because right now, every fucking thing seems determined to have us stay here.”

Milo let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I was being an idiot earlier.”

“Ya think?” Lars snapped back. He came back inside the room, trying to keep his voice low and failing miserably. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be having a fucking vanilla shake right now, thanking fuck I’d never see Princess Cora again.”

“I said I’m sorry.” Milo crossed his arms over his chest, which made his muscles seem even more pronounced than before. It looked like he’d also gone through his guest closet. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like he’d had as many choices as Lars, being a triple-x-l and all. That black t-shirt looked like he’d significantly shortened its lifespan.

Lar’s dark jeans and button up shirt hung like someone had hand-tailored them for him. Then again, he’d always had a model’s body. He could never bulk up, no matter how hard he’d tried.

Some of his anger deflated. It wasn’t that he was pissed at Milo…he was pissed at the chit of a girl who was messing with his friend’s head. That was why he wanted out of here. If he could just get Milo away, the guy could gather his fucking wits and be done with her.

Then, as if his thoughts had been a signal, the sun disappeared behind the horizon. Whatever ambient light had infused his room died and the shadow grew more substantial.

The maid exited his bathroom, his clothes thrown over one arm.

“Hey, where you taking those?”

“To clean,” she said slowly, like he was an idiot. Which he probably was, if he’d had to ask.

“You don’t have to do that. I said we’re leaving.”

Then she laughed. She actually fucking laughed. She stabbed a thumb at the window, where the purple sky was settling into banded colors like a poorly mixed cocktail.

“You’re too late, señor. No one can leave after dark.”

And with that mysterious statement, she left again, his clothes tucked under one arm as she pulled the door closed behind her.

When he turned back to Milo, the man was wearing a deep frown.

“Oh, woe is me,” Lars said… shoving his hands into his armpits and leaning his weight to one side. “Guess we’re stuck in Count Dracula’s fucking castle for the night.”

“No one leaves after dark?” Milo repeated, shaking his head. “What the fuck is that about?”

“Paranoid drug dealers, Milo. I guess they can be unreasonable sometimes.” He rolled his eyes and turned for the door. “You of all people should know that by now.”