Lucy could not get warm. Burrowing her hands into the shearling throw, she snugged the edges more securely around herself, but still she felt numb.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see her associates exchange glances as they shifted crates and uncovered furniture. Eddie ran a hand underneath the open collar of his shirt to lift his hair off his neck and Gunther's beefy face and shaved head were flushed and shiny, but they said nothing and left her undisturbed.

Who am I kidding? Lucy thought darkly. Mood I'm in, they're probably just glad I'm not mowing them down with a nail gun. She pinched the bridge of her nose, rubbing it. Or offing myself. I might, as long as it meant I wouldn't hurt like this any more.

She became aware of a presence at her elbow and a curl of delicious steam that filled her nostrils.

"Scud, you're hovering." A smile tugged at her lips despite herself, and she opened her eyes to look up at her best friend.

He smiled in return as he held out to her a large mug of coffee; its top swirled thickly with cream and the scent rising from it told her that he'd added a healthy slug of Jack. "What, I can't bring someone a drink without being accused of overprotectiveness?"

"No. And before you ask again, no, I don't need a pillow, another blanket, or a nursemaid, thank you very much. But I will take this," she added, liberating the heavy mug from his hand before he could move it teasingly out of reach. "Jesus, Scud," she rasped after the first sip, "did you use the whole bottle?" Her eyes watered and for a long moment it seemed that she exhaled pure whiskey fumes.

"Strictly medicinal," said her friend, watching her closely as he flopped onto the other end of the sofa. "Besides, you've got all the major food groups in there: sugar, caffeine and hooch."

"You left out chocolate." Prepared for the kick now, she sucked down a large mouthful, savoring the burn.

They sat in easy silence, idly watching the flames dance in the huge fireplace. It was an expensive indulgence here in Reykjavik, especially when the house already had geothermal heating, but her father had always emphasized the impact of conspicuous consumption. Rather like the meticulously restored classic vehicles he kept at each of his residences — now hers alone, she had to remind herself — a straightforward display of wealth and power sometimes sent a message that no mere words could convey.

After so much loss, she would take her comforts where she could find them.

"Hey, Luce?" said Scud quietly after — how long? She wasn't sure.

"Yeah?"

"What's our next move?"

She sighed. "I don't know. Hang out here for a while, I guess."

His blue eyes widened. "'Hang out'? And what, knock over a museum or two? 'Cause I gotta tell you, there's not a big demand for Icelandic art, though there's a couple sculptures at the Sveinsson that would look pretty cool in the den — "

"Scud." She found her words grinding out between clenched teeth. "We are not knocking over any museums. We are not robbing banks on Borgartún. We're not even going to drive up the price of fireworks on New Year's Eve. We're just going to... hang out."

Scud digested this for a moment. "Can't we at least corner the market on alcohol? There's like four hours of sunlight a day now, what else do these people have to do besides drink? We could make a killing — "

"Scud!"

"Right." Another long silence, during which she massaged her temples and willed the muscles in her jaw to unknot. "Lucy?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

At that she looked over and thought once more that Scud had the kindest eyes of anyone she knew. Her friend, her confidant, her right hand, closer to her than her brother had ever been. And just about the only person in the world whose sympathy she could tolerate. "Thanks."


Five years ago...

"Daddy, I don't see why I have to go to business school. I'm learning everything I need to know about running the syndicate from you."

Lucy usually got her way when it came to her father but on this matter he was being uncharacteristically inflexible. He leaned forward at his desk, steepling his fingers together. "Lucinda, I've told you again and again: I need someone I can rely on absolutely, someone who knows the ins and outs of our legitimate holdings as well as our illegitimate ones. And that means having a respectable face with impeccable credentials."

"So make Frankie go. At least he's been to college."

Her father's mouth tightened. "Your brother... doesn't have your aptitude."

That was certainly euphemistic. Frank Jr. was a chronic underachiever. His only talent appeared to be using his family connections to finance his hobbies, which consisted mainly of chasing girls, opening nightclubs, and losing money on both. Even a number of quietly sizeable donations and the establishment of a scholarship hadn't been enough to keep Chico State from expelling him halfway through his sophomore year.

She tried another angle. "Daddy, I'm an 18-year-old high school dropout. How the hell am I even supposed to get in?"

"Ah." Her father smiled at her enigmatically. "That's where our new secret weapon comes in."

Lucy frowned. This was the first she'd heard about it; she hated being left out of the loop on any decision, however small. "And that would be... ?"

"Me."

Whirling around in her chair, Lucy stared at the pale skinny boy who had been observing them without her realizing it from a corner of her father's office. He had large blue eyes, prominent in his pinched face; his jaw was smudged by what she at first thought was dirt, but on closer inspection turned out to be stubble a few shades darker than his fair, flyaway hair. She also noticed that he was wearing both suspenders and a belt.

His eyebrow quirked as he acknowledged her glance. "My philosophy in life," he said dryly. "Never get caught with your pants down. If one method fails, always have a backup."

That made her snort. "Mine too. Maybe not quite so literally as yours." She extended her hand. "Lucy Reynolds."

His face briefly registered surprise at the strength of her grip and the hard callus of her palm. His hand was much softer, but then he probably hadn't had babysitters taking him to the firing range and teaching him street fighting from the age of five. "Diamond," he said.

She blinked. "Your name is Diamond?" The ranks of her father's associates included guys with names like "Chainsaw" and "Snake," so she supposed she shouldn't make hasty judgments, but "Diamond" was pretty much the last thing she would have expected.

"No," said her father, startling her. "Yours is."