25. Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
Liam
Damien came over this afternoon to the house and is hovering over my shoulder in my office, breathing down my neck as I scroll through the flash drive I got from Artemis's grandfather.
The constant crunching of chips right by my ear is driving me insane.
One more loud chew and I might jam that entire bag somewhere that would require medical intervention to remove.
My temples throb, and it's only partly from staring at this damn file.
I'm not a killer by nature, I've crossed that line when necessary, but I've never enjoyed it.
Even when they had it coming. I don't care to call it divine intervention or cosmic balance but I became the answer to desperate prayers, the last resort for those women and parents brought to their knees by monsters. For them, I’ll pull the trigger without hesitation.
But right now? I’m murderous for a different reason: Sara didn't sleep in my bed after eating her out last night, and that left me...
unsettled. I force myself to breathe, to think.
This situation of her absence is temporary, and I will rectify it, immediately.
We may both feel the guilt of betraying Joe, dancing around a truth that is eating us alive, but she is mine, and I do not seek redemption any longer.
As of right now, I have to focus on the information in front of me, and nothing quite stands out like I hoped it would; Names scroll past. Flags of convenience. Ownership transfers that loop back on themselves. Paperwork written to exhaust anyone dumb enough to chase it.
Then one entry stops me cold.
The first registered owner is a shell company under Lakemore Chica, purchased almost ten years ago.
I lean closer.
The name… That has to be a coincidence.
My jaw tightens…
Damien notices my pause. “You recognize it?”
“It's odd that the name is—”
The sound of the house’s front door hinges cuts me off mid-sentence. I'm on my feet in an instant, the chair scraping against the hardwood.
I look at Damien, still chewing on those damn chips. “I'll be right back.”
I stride down the hallway, passing those damn family photos that never fail to punch me in the gut. My boots echo against the polished floor as I yank open the front door, but nothing but Sara’s scent lingers.
“Fuck.” The word escapes me through clenched teeth. She slipped out of my bed last night, only to vanish.
I wanted to talk, for once, but when I approached her this morning while she was gardening, she had her headphones on and seemed distant. I can read a fucking room.
I watched her plant new flowers next to my mom’s, take pictures, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure she sent her artwork to her mom and mine. Yes, apparently now my mom and her have been in contact.
She found her phone number on the fridge under “Emergency” numbers and gracefully asked her if it’d be alright to plant new flowers.
My mom immediately said yes, and of course, called me for a whole thirty minutes asking about Sara and if this was serious.
She was so excited, and I’d do anything for my mom, so of course I said what any men who loves their mom would say, 'She’s a keeper!
' And now I have no intentions to break my mom’s heart. God damn.
I'm not usually one to give space, and lately giving it to her has felt, against all odds, like pulling teeth. I don’t ruminate about killing someone, but I feel like a walking sin in admiring Joe’s girl a lot more than I should.
I’ve crossed so many lines already; I don’t even see the line anymore.
I’m trying to keep some dignified distance, but at what point does dignity turn into the inevitable?
This disappearing act will not become her specialty because, one step at a time, I’ll make her realize that there’s no one besides me she wants and needs.
Need. The need. I want her to need me, but we’re toxic in denying what we both clearly want…
Last night anchored that there’s no way I’ll ever get enough of her. There’s no doubt that I've slowly become obsessed with her, and one taste of her is enough to measure a hole in the dirt deep enough to bury a man who’d mistake her for theirs.
My jaw tightens, still reeling from the fact that she left the house, and I don’t know where to. My muscles coil like steel cables beneath my skin.
“Tsk, tsk. Not on my watch.” I massage the tension in my jaw, feeling like I could crush steel.
When I turn, Damien's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, lips curled into that shit-eating grin that makes my fists itch.
“Your little lamb made a run for it?” His eyes dance with amusement. “Want to go be the big, bad wolf?” he says in a mocking voice dripping with satisfaction.
“Shut the fuck up.” I brush past him, shoulder deliberately clipping his, with restraint the only thing keeping his perfect teeth in his mouth.
He straightens his designer shirt, unfazed. “Well, you’re in luck. Dress-up cowboy, Mateo called. Velastra just docked.”
“No shit?” I turn around to look at him and contemplate one more thing as I head to Joe’s, now Sara’s bedroom. “Okay, fill me in, but first, I need your help with something.”
“What now?” Damien rolls his eyes.
“It's a no questions allowed, so shut up and do what I ask.” I say between my teeth.
I wedge my jeep into a prime spot at the port, flashing a mock salute to the harbor officer who frowns at my parking job. Beside me, Damien unfolds from the passenger seat with the casual arrogance of someone who's never been told "no" in his life. Something I can relate to.
The sunlight catches on the intricate artwork crawling up his neck and sprawling across his knuckles like a tapestry of ink that makes everyone and their mother step aside without even realizing they're doing it. Most people see the tattoos and the icy stare and miss everything else.
They don't know that beneath the hardened exterior is someone who once cried watching a documentary about rescue dogs. They certainly don't know about the nights he spent in jail for a crime he didn’t commit and relentlessly assumed he’s had it easy because he’s a trust fund baby.
He was framed. We’re still looking for the guy, and until we find him, he is unapologetic about who he is.
I’m already scanning the harbor, luckily, it’s not too crowded. The sleek lines of luxury yachts bob against the horizon, their white hulls gleaming like teeth in a predator's smile.
My pulse quickens, irritation flooding my system not knowing where Sara is. Which reminds me, I can’t believe I haven’t tracked her phone yet. My moral compass is blurry with keeping what’s mine, safe.
I see Mateo and his crew of about four guys, and they can easily be mistaken for a swat team, which ironically enough, is discreet in this village considering the appeal it has with millions of tourists and is now to date, one of the most secured villages in Europe.
Although even in the most secure places, obscurity can be right under anyone’s nose.
Mateo catches my eye, beckoning me closer with a subtle head tilt.
I close the distance between us, my boots heavy against the dock’s white stone.
His expression is calm, professional, betraying nothing to casual observers.
“Velastra's prepping for a party tonight,” he says in a low voice, handing me a bulletproof vest. The weight of it is familiar, almost comforting. “Put this on. Under your jacket.”
I take it without argument, slipping it beneath my leather jacket. “What kind of party are we talking about?”
“So far, nothing alarming. Elegant gathering, from what we can tell.” His eyes track the yacht's movements. “We’re just observing tonight.”
My jaw clenches. “And we're not raiding because...?”
"We need more than just suspicions, Liam. Let’s tone it down a bit.”
“What’s my say in the matter?” I clench my hands.
“It’s your village, your territory, Liam. I’ll follow your gut feeling, but don’t be stupid. Nothing seems alarming yet.”
I clasp Mateo’s shoulder and nod. When my phone buzzes in my pocket, instinct has me reaching for it while still scanning the harbor.
It's Riviera.
I haven't spoken to him since I had him track Sara months ago—back when I needed to know her routines, her habits and before I accept the call, I spot him walking toward us, phone to his ear. He's in tactical gear, part of Mateo's team tonight.
“Liam,” he says, ending the call as he approaches. “Was trying to reach you.”
"Riviera." I nod, sizing him up. “Didn't know you were on this operation.”
He shrugs, a half-smile playing at his lips. “Mateo called in a favor. I have certain... skills that come in handy for surveillance.”
I cut through the pleasantries. “Actually, you’ve got perfect timing too. I need you to find Sara for me.”
Riviera's eyes flick toward the Velastra, then back to me. “That's the thing, I don't need to find her.”
“What are you talking about?” My voice drops dangerously low.
“She's already here.” He tilts his head toward the gleaming yacht. “She boarded the Velastra about an hour ago. Wearing a black dress, looking...” he pauses, choosing his words carefully, “That’s why I was calling you.”
Something primal ruptures inside me. The world narrows to a pinpoint, blood roaring in my ears. My vision literally tints red at the edges, like I'm seeing through a filter of pure fucking rage.
“She's what?” The words come out as a feral growl.
Damien grabs my arm. “Liam, think for a—”
I wrench free with enough force to make him stumble. I pinch the bridge of my nose, inhaling deeply as my chest threatens to explode.
When I look up at Damien, Mateo, and Riviera, my voice comes out dangerously quiet.
“Do I need to fucking spell this out for you? What exactly do you think I'm about to do?”
My words slice through the air between us. “I will burn this entire goddamn dock to the ground if anything happens to her. There won’t be a single boat left floating. Are we clear?”