Wolfe's POV.

I stared at myself in the mirror, the black three-piece suit fitting like a second skin, courtesy of Pete Hilburn, the quiet genius who had been my personal stylist for years. Pete was the kind of guy who let his work do the talking, and damn, did his work speak volumes. The man had a gift—a borderline magical ability to make me look like I had my shit together, even when my mind was spinning like a damn merry-go-round.

This was it. This was really happening. The ...