CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CASH
“My father always told me to trust my gut. And there’s a whisper inside me, insisting this day will rip through us.” Sylvie’s fingers crawl up and down my arm, soothing scratches despite the eerie nature of her admission.
Like always, we’re intent on savoring the last five minutes we have in bed before we need to get ready, even as the linen curtains billow with the morning breeze, shooing us to get on with it.
Unfortunately, the paradise backdrop and our penchant for clinging to one another can’t erase what lies ahead.
When the stakes are this high, it’s hard to sift out warranted apprehension from sixth sense, but we’re in this now. Turning back wouldn’t provide a cleaner exit route. And moving forward beneath a foreboding cloud will become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
I shift her slightly so I can clutch her tighter, and she moans because my cock is still nestled in her divine cunt—from fucking her before we fell asleep, staying tucked inside her to ward off nightmares, and rocking against one another when the golden gleam of morning glimmered through the open French doors to our balcony.
Sex mid-heist did indeed occur, and it was glorious.
“You’re going to be fine. Just like you were when we were in Boston. I’m your armor, your shield, your weapon. I’ll die before I let someone harm one hair on your head.”
She bolts upright, dislodging my formerly sated and now-disgruntled dick, before she storms around the room, gathering what she needs for the day.
Naked, radiant, and ranting. “Let me be really fucking clear, Cash Noire.” She hisses my name like a slur and points in my direction with a fistful of undergarments.
“If you sacrifice yourself for me—in any capacity—I will never forgive you.”
She doesn’t mean that, but her father sacrificed himself for their family when he took full blame, so Sylvie holds the mentality that it’s her responsibility to carry it all.
And she’s scared. Her mother texted me, concerned about Sylvie making amends with Flora because of the timing.
I reassured her that her daughter was fine, but the truth is, Sylvie has been mentally preparing herself to go down.
As long as I or anyone in my family has breath left in our bodies, that will not happen.
“That’s not an effective threat, baby girl.
” I climb out of bed and trail the line of her frantic pacing.
“I would die happy, knowing you were safe, even if you hated me for making it so. I’d rather rest, content that your magic still existed, than choke on the smoke of the world I burned in your memory. ”
She freezes, and her lips pop open—a hitched breath, a half-formed argument, a baffled question about how the hell we got from our masked meeting to a place where we bare our souls because nothing matters outside of us.
Maybe that last thought is all me. But either way, I don’t give her a chance to express any of that.
Grabbing my phone, I play “All of Me” by John Legend and toss it and her fisted undergarments on the bed. Then I dance with her, soaking up every second we have with a memory we can cherish. She trembles in my arms, clinging to who we’ve become.
No words, just an understanding building between us. This is worth it all.
With the final notes, I grip her hip and trap her body against mine, conquering her mouth with one butterfly-inducing swipe after another before I leave her weak-kneed and cruise to the bathroom.
“My family would make sure you never forgot what we’d meant to each other.
That’s a strong outlook for a ghost, but I’d still haunt your fine ass for fun. ”
It’s the New Orleans way after all.
I shut the door and jump in the shower, leaving her alone with her irritation over me taking care of her.
She’s a pro, but even so, there’s been a lot thrown at her.
And in thirty minutes, we’ll be embarking on a day that won’t end until we’re either sailing into the sunset with the power to change her and Rena’s lives or I’m utilizing the afterlife to wreak terror on the bastards who do.
But whatever my fate, I will not let her fall with me.
Breakfast is served on long wood-slatted tables on a sun-soaked cobblestone patio that juts out from the natural landscape.
The cacophony of laughter and boisterous discourse color the morning as getaway perfection, far surpassing the vibrant flowers and deep green trees cocooning the space.
Even the cream-and-teal umbrellas and chairs melding with the kaleidoscope of blue water and the jagged white limestone, marking the boundary of land and sea, are no match.
It’s sea salt and sunbaked skin, lemon zest, yeast, and rich, dark coffee. The allure of a jackpot when someone at the table is holding the Dead Man’s Hand.
Our family is joined by several others that are La Lune Noire members or acquaintances of members.
Friend or foe remains a mystery about many, but we’ve garnered intel on countless guests and have a strong list created of those who might be involved in Kratos or X—the unknown group that Kratos is stealing from.
Sylvie is a vision in an indigo halter jumpsuit and sexy sandals.
She nonchalantly skims her hand over my thigh while laughing at a story a gentleman a few seats down is sharing.
But as the tepid breeze washes over us and she sips her coffee, it’s Lemon Wilkeshire taking a seat behind us that draws her attention.
One of our biggest findings came after we returned to the family suite last night. That little tidbit about Lemon Wilkeshire being Agent Glines’s widow had sparked something in Axel.
“I’m reaching out to Vargas,” he announced as we all settled in for a debriefing, and even from the yacht, Wells agreed with that idea.
Sylvie rubbed her forehead, exhausted from all the moving gears on her once-straightforward job. “Who’s Vargas?”
“He’s an FBI agent, who was in hiding for quite a while because a Mafia wanted him dead.
They’ve been mostly eradicated, but he’s still been lying low.
He’s invested in the same sort of things we’re invested in.
” Axel waved that all away and dialed. “None of that matters, but I think he might be your guardian angel.”
Sylvie pressed into my lap, burrowing her head into the crook of my neck, unsure but intrigued.
“It’s been a while. To what do I owe the honor?” Vargas answered, drier than the Sahara.
Axel didn’t bother with a greeting, always strategizing to catch someone off guard. “Sylvie Palmer.”
Vargas was quiet for thirty seconds, probably analyzing every angle. “What about her?”
“You left a note at her apartment,” Axel stated matter-of-factly, leaving no room for argument, despite it merely being speculation.
Vargas cleared his throat. “I didn’t know she was involved with you guys at the time.
I assumed your brother was just … being him.
He had a tail on her, but all signs pointed to it being because she wouldn’t give him the time of day, which was fucking fun to watch.
” He chuckled at my expense, but like my amused family, he reined it in.
“I knew she was working for a person of interest, and I didn’t want Cash muddying the waters. ”
“Someone from Kratos.” Axel took a seat, working his tie off while the rest of us held our breath.
“Yes.” Vargas paused again, but silence on our end had him continuing, “I wasn’t aware you … there’s a lot unknown. I was trying to follow her and see what I could find.”
Axel dipped his chin to Sylvie, who was glued to my lap, her lungs barely functioning. His sapphire eyes conveyed his customary assurance because he was five steps ahead. “Why not just approach her and make a deal?”
“Well … history suggested she wouldn’t be open to it, and it didn’t appear to me that she knew much.”
“You got Glines’s files when he died, and Heath’s case was in it,” Axel surmised.
“Yes.”
Sylvie’s palm rubbed over her throat as she likely envisioned her father telling the FBI he wouldn’t help them catch thieves and dying for it anyway.
I coiled my arms around her more firmly so she could feel the weight of our support.
And Zara moved closer with the need to offer comfort, taking Sylvie’s hand in hers.
“Any idea who came after her in Boston?” Axel probed.
“Yeah.” Vargas hesitated for only a beat. “Her own handler.”
“What?” Sylvie gasped.
“Ahh,” Vargas murmured. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Palmer. I assumed you were present for this friendly chat.”
“I would have disclosed everyone in the room, but it seemed like we weren’t doing the forthright thing anymore,” Axel retorted.
“Things have been a little shaky over here, but noted.” Vargas groaned because the man had been tangled in some shit, much of it cleaning up his dead fellow agent’s cases, so his penchant for keeping things quiet, even from us, was expected.
“The guy you’re working for, Miss Palmer, planned to kill you and take the keys for himself.
I’m guessing he didn’t appreciate your Noire alliance.
But from what I could tell, the men were instructed to have all three keys in their possession first, so maybe it would’ve been a negotiation.
We would have considered moving in once they extracted you, but things seemed to resolve themselves. ”
A chill skittered over Sylvie, maybe because Vargas was aware of how that night had ended, or maybe because she remembered how close those assholes had gotten to her.
But me? My blood boiled at his use of considered.
The FBI—corrupt or not—always played it that way. Small fish sacrificed for the whales.
“Jesus,” Sylvie hissed. “E probably assumed I had all the keys on me, in case I needed to compare them. I didn’t, but … it just keeps getting worse.”
“Sorry to call in the middle of the night,” Axel said in preparation to hang up, grinning when Vargas didn’t correct him about it only being dinner time on the East Coast. “One more thing though. Are you still looking after Glines’s widow, Lemon?”
Vargas was quiet for a beat. “Always.”
“It’s good to have you nearby.” Axel spun his luck on his watch as he signed off. “We’ll be in touch.”
Sylvie spiraling is understandable, and yet as we meld with the Minds of Our Time’s guests, she masks it like a pro, shining as bright as the glint off the waves. She’s currently debating hidden meanings from famous paintings with a museum owner, who is fascinated by her take.
The waiter cruises by, marking the midpoint of the meal by filling waters and drinks and asking if we need anything.
“Oui.” Zara beams, ordering another cherry croissant in French because as a polyglot, she can’t help but slip into the language. “Je voudrais un croissant aux cerses, s’il vous plait.”
Axel chuckles, adoring his wife’s cherry obsession and her influence on others. Three other people at the table, who were using English up to this point, wield their language skills, and Zara smiles to herself.
Maddox and Tessa share a strawberry crêpe while she discusses spicy art with the twenty-something daughter of one of our members.
And Jax’s lips tilt into an enthusiastic grin as he slides his chair back with more oomph than he traditionally expels—outside of his acrobatic ventures. “What’s up, man?”
I swivel to see who he’s talking to, catching sight of Tatum Riesling, the Hollywood producer and bestower of the flamethrower.
“Christ, mate,” Tatum bellows in his English accent, chuckling and raking his hand through his shaggy brown hair. “You are everywhere.”
“Just not usually … where you are,” Jax returns. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Yeah, well, you know”—Tatum raises his index finger to his mouth with sarcasm—“hush-hush. My neighbor brought me.”
Jax slants his head, soaking that in. “Bodhi?”
“Nah, mate.” Tatum claps Jax on the back. “But he said you were a hell of a dinner companion. High praise from a monk. And Holt Moss. I hear you roasted a fucking duck for them with the flamethrower. Epic.”
That garners the attention and laughter from our whole family. The duck, the monk, and Holt Moss, who is an A-list actor that Jax failed to mention in his flamethrower saga.
I stand and fling my arms out, aghast. “You cheated, bro. You didn’t state prior experience when we made s’mores.”
Tatum clasps his hands as his head falls back with a howl that ricochets off every surface of this outdoor dining space and awakens the boring guests. With all eyes fixed there, it provides a perfect window for me to swipe a key card I need off a nearby attendee.
“I knew I gave it to the right guy. Fuck.” He waves apologetically to all the tables. “Sorry.” Turning back, he flips his hand between us and Maddox. “I gotta get into some trouble with you lot this weekend.”
Jax’s face breaks into that terrifying mastermind grin, glancing at me to see if I’m on the same page, and once he gets the go-ahead, he lays it out. “Let’s … get drinks.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Tatum roars as he checks his watch and breaks into a jog. “I’m off to fly a kite. It’s a metaphor for resilience or something. Find me after.”
I peer at Sylvie, who’s sipping her coffee and drinking in our well-directed mayhem, and I wink at my breathtaking bandit. A heist, like this, where you’re fraternizing with the very people you’re robbing, comes down to a million tiny details falling into place.
And the final passenger on our ship just came in.