Chapter 3
brEAKFAST, WITH A SIDE OF TENSION
ROARKE
Three days into life with Mia Rossi, and I'm starting to understand why prisoners go insane in solitary confinement.
Not because they're alone.
But because they're not alone enough.
"Uncle Roarke, did you know that Mia knows all the words to Hamilton?" Isla bounces in her chair across from me at the breakfast table, Captain Feathers perched on her shoulder like a tiny green terrorist. "She taught me the rap parts!"
I pause, coffee cup halfway to my lips. "The rap parts?"
"Yeah! Listen!" Isla launches into what I can only assume is supposed to be music, though it sounds more like an auctioneer having a seizure. "Lafayette, I'm taking this horse by the reins, making red coats redder with bloodstains!"
"BLOODSTAINS! BLOODSTAINS!" Captain Feathers squawks enthusiastically.
"Isla." I set down my coffee. "Perhaps we could discuss something that doesn't involve violence before breakfast?"
"But it's history, Uncle Roarke! Mia says musicals make learning fun. She's gonna teach me Chicago next!"
"Absolutely not."
"Why not? It's just about—"
"Murder. Corruption. Catherine Zeta-Jones doing the splits. The answer is no."
Captain Feathers tilts his head. "MURDER! MURDER! PRETTY BIRD MURDER!"
I glare at the bird. "Stop encouraging her."
"He can't help it," Isla giggles. "Mia says Captain Feathers is just expressing his artistic side."
Of course he is.
Because in three days, Mia Rossi has somehow convinced my niece that her delinquent parakeet is a misunderstood genius.
She’s also turned bloodshed into breakfast entertainment. And single-handedly transformed my yacht into an off-Broadway rehearsal space.
The crew hums show tunes while polishing brass. Claire now organizes files by color like it’s a Pinterest board. Captain Martinez—my battle-hardened former first officer—was caught doing jazz hands on the bridge yesterday.
“Also Miss Mia says,” Isla continues, stabbing her scrambled eggs, “that we should have a talent show! Captain Feathers could do his Shakespeare, and I could sing, and you could—"
"Work. I could work. Like I'm supposed to be doing."
"But Uncle Roarke, all you do is work. Mia says—"
"What else does Mia say?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know.
Isla's eyes light up. "She says you're probably lonely because you don't have anyone to sing with. And that Captain Feathers thinks you need more fun in your life."
I look at the bird, who's currently dismantling the sugar packet holder. "Captain Feathers thinks I need more fun?"
"UNCLE ROARKE GRUMPY! UNCLE ROARKE NEEDS LOVE!"
"I'm adding voice coaching to that bird's training regimen," I mutter.
Two hours later, I'm sitting in Club Nautique's private poker room, surrounded by crystal decanters and the comfortable energy of Monaco's most exclusive betting club.
The familiar ritual of cards and expensive whiskey should be calming my nerves.
Sitting around a felt green table with my buddies Donovan Whitfield (luxury hospitality CEO), Zander Kane (renewable energy head), and Prescott Hayes (private equity genius), my head usually clears—empties.
Instead, I'm still thinking about show tunes.
"You're distracted," newcomer to our poker game Connor Reeves declares at my right, dealing another hand. "And you've been checking your phone every five minutes."
A new friend and bonus edition to today’s game after he and fellow Seattle bigwigs bought a yacht from my growing fleet, his ocean-blue eyes are amused as he glances over.
"I'm fine." I study my cards, trying to focus on something that doesn't involve parakeets or musical theater.
"Sure you are," Donovan chuckles, his hospitality empire having apparently taught him to read people like menus. "What's got you wound up? The charter launch?"
"Speaking of launches," Zander leans back in his leather chair, "how's the new nanny situation working out? Heard you found someone."
The words ‘found someone’ makes my heart rattle beneath my ribs.
“We have.” I clear my throat. “She’s adequate.”
Prescott raises an eyebrow. "Adequate? That's not exactly a ringing endorsement."
"She keeps Isla entertained. That's all that matters."
"Entertained how?" Connor asks.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. Then starts ringing.
I excuse myself, twisting in my chair to take the call.
"Mr. West…”
Claire. Her voice sounds calm. A little too calm.
"I need you back at the yacht. Immediately."
"I'm in the middle of—"
"There's been an incident with Isla, Captain Feathers, and Miss Rossi. No one's hurt," she adds quickly, "but you really need to see this."
I can hear shouting in the background. And what sounds suspiciously like...singing?
"I'll be right there." I stand, tossing my cards on the table. "Gentlemen, I have to—"
"Go handle your adequate nanny situation?" Donovan grins. "This should be interesting."
Twenty minutes later, I board my yacht to find what can only be described as controlled chaos.
The crew is gathered on the main deck, some laughing, others looking vaguely traumatized. Captain Martinez is nowhere to be seen, which is never a good sign.
"Claire!" I call. "What the hell happened?"
She appears from the salon, blonde hair slightly disheveled. "Well, Captain Feathers somehow got into the main salon and decided to... redecorate."
"Redecorate how?"
"See for yourself."
I follow her into the salon and stop dead. Every single piece of white furniture is now decorated with tiny green footprints.
The coffee table has been turned into what appears to be an obstacle course using couch cushions and decorative bowls. And standing in the middle of it all, covered head to toe in what looks like green paint, is Mia.
“Claire, it’s really not that—“ She’s covered in paint, her thick dark hair covered in streaks of neon. Her brown eyes dim when she sees me. “Oh. Mr. West.”
I take another step closer, heart hammering. “Yes. Mr. West. Now, where the hell is Isla?"
"Oh, she's fine. She's in the galley with the cook, learning how to make bird-safe cookies for Captain Feathers' reward training."
"Reward training?"
"Well, we figured if he's going to redecorate, he might as well learn to do it artistically."
I look around the destroyed salon. "This is artistic?"
"Abstract expressionism. Though I think Captain Feathers leans more toward chaos theory."
As if summoned by his name, the bird swoops down from somewhere above, landing on Mia's paint-covered shoulder.
"PRETTY BIRD ARTIST! PRETTY BIRD PICASSO!"
"See?" Mia grins, and despite the paint and the chaos and the complete destruction of my salon, I feel something spread on my face.
Feels like a…smirk.
"He's developing his artistic voice,” Mia explains.
I stare at her.
Paint-covered. Cheerful. Completely unfazed by the disaster surrounding her.
The woman’s all over the place. Unpredictable.
Which is exactly why Mia Rossi is going to be a problem.
"Claire," I say without taking my eyes off the paint-covered nanny, "cancel my afternoon meetings. Apparently, I need to have a little chat with Miss Rossi here about abstract expressionism."