Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Dorian
Leaving Isla alone is a test of my willpower, much like trying to tear myself away from the pull of gravity.
And before I head inside, I take a last glance at her.
She’s still sprawled on the lounge chair, the gauzy sundress clinging to her curves. And with her bare legs and the ridiculous floppy hat framing her face, she’s my downfall.
Despite my best attempts at resistance, my cock stirs, hardening against my linen pants, and I curse under my breath.
More than anything, I want to be with her.
But I need to talk to Brennan.
He left us mid-shower, and I know him. He wouldn’t walk out and stay away unless something’s turned sideways.
I need to know what detonated.
Reluctantly I shake my head to clear it and move on.
Still, with every step, her image sears my mind.
I see her cuffed to the bed, blindfolded, her body trembling under our touch, lips parted in a moan that still echoes in my ears.
She’d been a glorious vision of surrender and fire. Her beautiful trust in us unraveled me in ways I didn’t expect.
And then, when I showed her the library, her eyes lit up, and she smiled at me as if I’d offered her the best gift imaginable.
As I watched her, I marveled at her joy in simple pleasures.
The women I’ve fucked in the last couple of years were all flash and greed, their smiles as shallow as their hearts. As long as I offered over my black credit card, they made no real demands.
But Isla…
She wants none of that. In fact, she sees my money as a liability, not a prize—and men like me as a problem.
Moments later, I find Brennan where I expect, at the small bar just off the galley, fingers white on the glass of scotch that’s fuller than he usually leaves it.
“Whatever it is”—I drop onto the stool next to him—”start talking.”
He doesn’t look up immediately. Just taps the side of the glass and mutters, “Your phone off?”
I check the device. Shit. Still on silent.
“Moretti wasn’t in the mood for voicemail.”
Moretti? A chill creeps in. “He called you directly?”
Brennan finally meets my gaze. “You didn’t pick up. So yeah.”
“And?”
He downs half the glass before answering.
“Marco is talking to the feds.”
Every muscle in my back tightens. Fuck. The goddamn feds? “Why the fuck is he still in jail?” We paid the DA half a million to take care of this .
“DA played, but the feds won’t.”
I signal for the bartender. “Make it a double.”
Moments later, the drink is in front of me.
When we’re alone, I shove the glass aside. “How bad is it?”
“He’s singing like a fucking canary.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Told them to pick any year. Any random shipment. Telling them everything—from artifacts to cash to weapons—got moved through Vale Imports.”
There’s enough dirt there to bury half of Houston’s elite and torch the rest.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to stay calm. “They have proof?”
“Not yet. But they’re listening. Moretti says they’ve got ears in places we can’t see. The senator’s name came up. He’s sniffing around, maybe trying to use the story to leverage a DOJ move.”
Jesus H. Of course he is. Cecil Ellery treats his Senate seat like a damn throne that he intends to sit on for life.
“Marco was supposed to be buried,” I say. “Literally or metaphorically, I didn’t care which.”
“He was. Until someone in his old crew got nervous or greedy. And now, they’re flipping. As Moretti said: ‘The dead don’t stay quiet unless you shut the mouths of the living.’ ”
I hiss out a breath. “Is he demanding we handle it?”
“No,” Brennan says, his voice suddenly flat. “He’s warning us. This wasn’t a threat—it was a favor. ”
That hits harder than I expect. A favor from the Moretti family isn’t generosity. It’s a chess move. They don’t warn you unless they’re already playing you. “You believe him?”
Brennan shrugs. “I believe he wants the fallout to stay out of the press. I believe he wants to keep the other families from panicking. If Marco’s chatter drags out secrets about other shipping records, he’s got just as much to lose as we do. ”
“And we’re the ones with a fucking Senate campaign on the horizon.”
“Exactly.”
I drag my drink closer and stare into the depths. Then I glance back at him. “What’s the ask?”
Brennan looks at me sharply. “You’re assuming there is one.”
“There always is.”
His jaw tightens. “He didn’t say it, but it’s clear. We keep the judge on our side. Keep the feds busy with headlines, not subpoenas.”
“So we pretend it’s all business as usual.”
“And keep Vale Imports squeaky clean from this moment forward.”
I finish my whiskey and slam the glass down. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. We paid every debt. We closed every loop.” And none of us figured Marco would be the one to break—not after everything that happened in the past.
The yacht creaks gently around us. The sea is calm, but the air feels wrong. Like a storm is sitting just beyond the horizon, waiting for the signal.
Above deck, Isla is probably enjoying her cocktail, reading her book like the world isn’t tilting.
I close my eyes for a second and picture her—curled up in a chaise, hair loose, drink in hand, thinking she’s escaped.
But the past is clawing its way forward.
And I just brought her right into the heart of it.
As if my thoughts have conjured her, the door slides open with a whisper. Isla stands just inside, no hat, her hair wind-tossed and slightly damp, clinging to her cheeks. She’s gripping her phone like it might shatter in her hand. Her face has drained of color.
“Isla.” After exchanging a glance with Brennan, I cross to her and gently fold my hands around her shoulders. “Is something wrong?”
Behind me, Brennan straightens from where he was leaning against the bar, alert now. He moves closer, not intruding but present. Watching. Assessing. Always a heartbeat away from taking action.
“Isla?” I prompt again.
“There was a message.” Her voice is too soft. Too controlled.
“What kind of message?”
She hesitates for half a second, her gaze flicking between me and Brennan. Finally she says, “About you.”
I release her to take her phone. Then I swipe the screen to see the words.
Tell your husband to watch his back.
Debts don’t disappear.
Cold fury rushes through me, icy and precise. I lock my jaw to keep from reacting violently—to keep from hurling the phone, from punching the nearest bulkhead, from shouting for the crew to track the bastard down.
I hand off the device to Brennan. The message came from a burner, no doubt.
“What does this mean?”
She’s not panicking, not crying—but she’s afraid. Her bravery fucking humbles me.
When I don’t answer, she presses on. “You know what this is about.”
“I have a pretty good guess.”
She meets my eyes, steady, unblinkingly. Bravely. “Are you really in danger?”
I drag my hand into my hair as I suck in a breath. “Isla?—”
“Don’t,” she interrupts, reminding me of earlier, when she stood for me against Everett. “I have a right to know.”
“Nothing I can’t handle. ”
She sighs. “Which means yes. You’re in danger.”
“Look…” I struggle to keep my voice calm and neutral. My instincts are screaming to shelter her. To throw my body between her and this world I never wanted her to see. But the truth is, I failed once. I couldn’t protect Lena. And I won’t—I won’t —fail again. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“Don’t you damn well patronize me.” Her tone isn’t sharp, but it’s direct.
My wife is a force to be reckoned with.
“Whoever sent this knows my phone number.”
Without blinking, she meets my eyes and adds, “So stop your bullshit.”
Her words jar me.
I curl my fingers into a fist. But instead of yielding to my baser instincts, I blow out a breath and force myself to stay in control.
“Let’s sit.” Brennan’s voice is an oasis of calm.
He draws her to a small table and pulls back a chair.
Then she wraps her arms around herself.
Brennan places the phone on the table between us, screen down.
“It’s real.” I drop into my chair. “But it’s not for you to carry.”
She shakes her head. “That answer won’t do.”
I don’t respond immediately.
“Something to do with the call Brennan received?”
Brennan doesn’t look at her, but his posture tightens. He’ll let me do the talking—for now.
My Isla— our Isla—is quicker at piecing things together than I hoped.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “It could be connected.”
“Is it about your business? Or the campaign?”
I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to relax as the deck rocks gently under us. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of, Isla.” My admission is reluctant, at best. “We both have. Brennan. Me. But we won’t let any of this touch you.”
“It already has.”
The wind picks up, carrying the distant clang of a halyard somewhere above. Belowdecks, I hear faint music. One of the crew must have turned something on in the galley. Life moves on, oblivious to the way mine is unravelling.
She curls more tightly around herself.
“This is in the past. And it needs to stay there.”
“Dorian… Stop. I mean it.” She looks me in the eye.
My throat tightens.
“We’re married. I have a right to know.”
No , I want to rage. You don’t.
But when she said I do, she became entangled in the dark mess that is my past. And Brennan’s too.
Maybe because I don’t want to face this, I look away, out a window, across the vast expanse of open sea.
“Enough is enough. I want to know. Now.”