Chapter 1 Bellamy
BELLAMY
“If I’m ever rich enough to forget a hundred and fifty grand in cash on my boat, I want you to slap me in the face,” my sister whispers, twisting a massive emerald ring so the marina spotlight fractures green light across the master berth.
The light flickers over the walls, too bright, too clean. I snort softly and shove another banded stack of bills into the backpack at my feet. The zipper rasps, loud in the quiet.
“Lola, if you ever have a couple-million-dollar yacht, maybe leaving a hundred and fifty grand lying around isn’t exactly . . . memorable.”
She grimaces but pops the ring free, fingers lingering like it hurts to let go. She tucks it into a hidden pocket sewn into her vest—the kind we built ourselves so jobs like this stay smooth, everything flat, everything close enough to protect with our bodies if it comes to that.
“Okay,” she says, voice tipping conspiratorially. “But remind me again why we’re not just stealing this?” She gestures around the velvet-lined cabin. The bed, the polished wood, the quiet luxury humming under our feet. “The whole yacht. Three million, easy.”
The urge to sigh presses up my throat. I swallow it down and let the pressure sit there instead—hot, familiar, like a warning flare my body learned to light a long time ago. My sister has never met a boundary she didn’t want to poke.
I slide another stack of cash into my vest. My fingers know the motion by heart.
“Because fencing jewelry is a hell of a lot easier than fencing a yacht registered to—” I tilt my chin toward the gold nameplate bolted to the bulkhead “—whatever offshore shell corporation Daddy Warbucks is hiding behind this month.”
Lola smirks. “So you’re saying no one would miss it.”
“I’m saying we’re here for the things we can move.” I cinch the zipper. “Quickly.”
She unzips another pocket and slips in a diamond-heavy bracelet; the stones catching even the low light like they’re trying to be seen. “You’re no fun.”
“And you’re still breathing because of that,” I mutter, closing the last drawer.
I straighten, and the space presses in around me. Salt. Teak polish. The faint ghost of expensive cologne soaked into the upholstery like a life that doesn’t worry about how much anything costs. A life so soft that even the dust smells rich.
Last summer, this was just a cleaning job.
Tonight, it’s rent. Groceries. Insurance. A sliver of safety I can almost feel between my fingers.
And a solid payday if we don’t overstay our window.
I check my watch. The second hand sweeps in perfect sync with our brother’s on the tender outside, like he’s holding his breath with us. “Come on. Two minutes before Beckett panics and pulls away without us.”
Lola rolls her eyes. “Please. Our little brother would never leave without us.”
“He will if the harbor patrol shows.”
She opens her mouth to argue—and then a faint creak rises from the companionway. We both freeze.
The air thickens, going syrupy in my ears. My fingers curl around the bills still in my hand, pulse kicking hard enough I feel it behind my eyes.
Footsteps. Slow and deliberate. A low voice follows, then another.
Oh fuck.
Lola’s eyes go wide. “I thought you said the owner left,” she hisses, barely audible.
“He did.” I force my hand to move, shove the cash into my vest, and zip it shut. My mind snaps into clean lines—lies, exits, timing—like it always does when fear gets too close. “Maybe he came back. Let’s go.”
“Shit.” She reaches for one last velvet pouch, fingers stretching.
I catch her wrist and stop her before she can touch it. “No,” I whisper, sharper than I mean to be. My grip tightens. “We have enough.”
She looks at me like she might fight me for it. Her jaw flexes. “But—”
“Lola.” My voice sharpens, a blade pressed flat between my teeth. “It’s not worth it.”
This job was supposed to be easy. Soft entry, softer exit. A score that didn’t leave bruises—on bodies or nerves.
I grab her wrist and tug her toward the forward cabin door—the one that opens onto the narrow side deck near the bow. Behind us, the voices climb another step closer, and adrenaline slices up my spine, cold and bright, like a warning shot fired inside my veins.
We slip through the door and ease it shut with a click that sounds deafening in my ears. We flatten ourselves against the exterior bulkhead—a smooth stretch of fiberglass with no windows to betray us.
The night air hits sticky and warm, sliding down my back like sweat under a fever. It feels more humid than before. Or maybe that’s just my pulse hammering under my skin.
I pull in a slow breath, forcing my thoughts into clean, tight lines. Escape route. Noise levels. Timing. Beckett.
I risk a glance over the railing. Beckett’s borrowed tender bobs on the far side of the pier, its bow light cutting a thin line across the dark water.
We’re too high to jump clean. Even if we could make it without being seen, the cash would soak through in seconds.
Bound stacks turn to pulp fast—we learned that the hard way.
Swimming under the pier would mean pilings, rebar, fishing lines, and luck we don’t have time to pray for.
No, we need the pier. And we need to get to it fast.
Lola leans in, breath hitting my cheek. “Okay, but what if we—”
I clap a hand over her lips. “Shh.”
Inside the cabin, slow, heavy footsteps echo—unhurried, like whoever’s walking doesn’t expect trouble.
A low rumble of voices follows.
My heart kicks hard and fast. I’d never say this out loud, not even to my sister, but something electric unfurls under my ribs, buoyant and reckless. It’s been a long time since anything made me feel this alive. Like I’m a footstep away from floating straight off the deck and into the ether.
Lola mumbles into my palm, and I glare until she goes still.
Her eyes scream at me. We can’t wait forever.
I narrow mine back. I know. Give me a second.
A scrape sounds from inside. Something dragged. Then the unmistakable clink of metal on wood—too close, too sharp. Their movements bleed through the wall like heat through thin fabric.
From the half-open saloon window a few feet away, a voice cuts the night. “What the fuck is this? There’s nothing here.”
Another man snaps, “Nothing? Move. Let me see.”
Metal rattles. Then a third voice—lower, rougher—growls, “The safe’s already open. And it’s fucking empty.”
Lola’s eyes snap to mine, panic flickering bright.
Not yet. I shake my head once and bite my lip, holding back the feral grin clawing its way up my throat. This is not the time for that.
“Maybe he took the cash with him,” someone mutters. “Or, fuck, I don’t know, the cleaning crew stole it.”
Something inside me loosens. Not relief exactly—more like a rope going slack after being wound too tight. Because if it were the owner, there’d be shouting. Threats. Calls being made. Men who believe the world belongs to them don’t sound confused when something goes missing.
These voices don’t know what they’re looking at, which means they didn’t expect this.
And that means, for now, we’re still ahead of them.
“Then why’s the place trashed?” the first guy spits. “Safe’s empty, drawers dumped. Only—” A pause. A metallic rattle. “A couple of gold bangles? That’s it? What the fuck, man.”
Lola mouths, Let’s go.
I mouth back, Wait.
A heavy thud slams into the bulkhead, rattling the fiberglass against my spine. Lola jumps, and I fist the front of her vest, steadying her before she can make a sound.
“This was your one fucking job,” someone snarls. “You were on recon all week. How the fuck did you miss this?”
“I don’t know what the fuck happened.”
“Yeah, no shit,” someone else says with a scoff.
“Fuck you,” one guy snarls.
Bodies collide. Furniture scrapes. Frustration splinters the air in jagged, violent cuts.
“Fuck this. Take what we can, and let’s get the fuck outta here,” a man growls.
“There’s nothing here!” another shouts, punctuated by another thud.
That’s it. The window slams shut on our timeline.
I grab Lola’s hand, fingers locking tight around hers. “Time to go.”
We break into a sprint down the narrow side deck, the yacht rocking gently beneath our feet like it’s oblivious to the chaos boiling inside it.
I stay low, legs pumping, eyes locked on the foredeck where the bow rail curves in a clean arc.
Lola nearly slips on a coil of dock line, and I yank her upright without breaking stride, my grip bruising, unyielding.
The ladder to the pier comes into view—metal rungs bolted to the hull. Lola starts climbing, fast and silent. I’m right behind her, adrenaline snapping sharp in my veins like broken glass.
Halfway down, noise explodes behind us. Shouts, the slam of the cabin door, and the unmistakable thud of feet hitting the deck.
My heart flies straight into my throat.
We’re out of time.
Lola hits the pier in a low crouch. I skip the last two rungs and hit hard, sneakers slapping against the planks, momentum jolting up my legs. I catch myself on one hand, breath punching out of me, then shove upright.
“Move!” Lola snaps, already pulling at my wrist.
We tear down the pier. Lights smear past in bright, useless streaks, and the ocean murmurs beneath us like it’s in on a private joke. Someone shouts behind us, close enough to feel, but I don’t look back. Looking back has never saved anyone.
We’re almost at the end of the pier when a motor coughs to life. The sound cracks the night wide open.
Beckett.
God bless my brother.
Instead of waiting like we planned, he’s already spinning the tender in a tight arc, bow cutting through the dark water as he races toward us, not away. The engine snarls, white spray flaring out behind him.
“Jump!” he shouts.
Lola doesn’t hesitate. She launches herself onto the boat without a backward glance.
I follow a heartbeat later, pushing off the pier hard. For a split second, when my feet leave solid ground, panic claws up my spine and my brain betrays me—I swear I feel someone lunging, fingers reaching for my ponytail.
My breath snaps tight.
But nothing touches me. Just my brain doing what it always does—building monsters out of shadows when I don’t have time to fight them.
I crash into the tender, stomach lurching violently. The boat dips under our combined weight, then steadies as Beckett guns the throttle.
Wind slams into me, tearing at my hair, dragging salt spray across my cheeks. The backpack and vest drag heavy with cash and jewelry and the kind of hope we can’t afford to look at too closely.
“Go, go, go!” Lola screams.
Beckett doesn’t need the encouragement. The tender launches forward, engine snarling like it’s trying to outrun the night itself.
I twist toward the yacht, begging my pulse to settle down. My lungs still can’t decide whether to burn or freeze.
Shadows race across the deck. Chaos moving in human shapes.
And then someone steps onto the bow. He plants himself directly beneath the marina lights, tall and broad-shouldered, both hands braced on the rail like he’s holding the world in place. The spotlight hits him hard, carving his face into sharp lines I’ve spent six years trying not to remember.
The world tilts.
Because I know that face.
I’d know it anywhere. I memorized it before I understood what it meant to lose things.
The first boy I ever loved. And the first boy ever to break my heart.
Gage Calloway.