CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CASH
Tatum uncorks a bottle of vintage Pinot Noir—likely worth thirty grand—and helps himself to a sip. As a resort owner myself, it twists my gut because the curators of this priceless collection didn’t ask for this. But when you commit to an illusion, it requires you to go all in.
In Tatum’s defense, Jax gave him a potent joint about a half hour ago, so the guy is higher than the kite he flew and in the perfect mindset for our spectacle.
Ever the producer, Tatum was the theatrical element we needed to pull this off.
We dressed up as kitchen staff and marched down here like we ruled the menu.
And the island. Tatum claimed we were giving Maddox and Jax a tour.
Since we had the name tags, access cards, and codes, no one questioned our story.
It was smoother than we’d anticipated, so now we put on a show.
Sleight of hand isn’t limited to card tricks or pickpocket skills. It’s a state of being. And right now, we’re the chaos that can’t be ignored so Sylvie can do her thing.
Our resident actor-producer-director is mighty proud of our scheming and completely oblivious to our grand plans. It’s that detail that takes the entire scene up a notch in believability. But the vagueness being reported over the comms is a certain form of torture.
Sylvie is capable of handling any-damn-thing she does.
She is a master at her craft, but selfishly, I want to be the one who can always show her the way.
Maybe that’s my childhood trauma talking or years of a nightmare depicting me failing at that very task for my mother.
But I suspect it’s because without my little bandit, I was a plastic version of wealth and swagger and happiness.
Unbalanced and empty. I’m not sure when I fell in love with her, but when she sped away, doing a wheelie while standing on the seat in a ballerina pose, I think I craved being anchored for the first time in my life.
She’s oxygen and gravity, the steady rhythm and erratic thrumming of my heartbeat.
Maddox steps into character seamlessly. To be fair, he’s playing himself. He blares “Red Red Wine” from his phone and breaks into a jig while twirling his Karambit knife.
I take a sip of the Bordeaux I chose and join the dancing as my phone buzzes with a text in the encrypted group chat.
Sylvie: Removing the transom window. Should be about fourteen minutes from here. Can we get eyes on the B route? Options would be nice.
She’s nervous. Unease prickles my skin because my girl has a keen sixth sense.
The B route is another way out of the basement.
Weathered outdoor steps lead to a door that is only used for overflow storage, primarily during the winter months.
It’s around the corner from one of the most populated outdoor eateries, so it is a last resort.
Wells: It’s not visible on the security camera. Maintain focus. If you need it, we’ll move in.
Tessa: I’ve got it covered. I’m near there anyway.
Tatum holds up two bottles of vino in a we-are-the-champions pose from his slouched position on the terra-cotta-tiled floor. “We were fucking made for this.”
Jax puffs on his joint, catercorner from Tatum. He dips his chin, plainly reading between the wines. “Riesling and Noir. Not … spelled our way, but, yeah.”
That astute observation and the nonsensical conversation that follows take a back seat to the mayhem on the comms.
“Security has been notified about the tasting,” Liam says, right before the telltale FaceTime ring and Axel’s voice break through.
He’s in a strategy session upstairs with Zara.
“My apologies. I need to take this.” He pauses before urgency filters through to us. “Ryker, everything okay? Is it time?”
“It’s time,” Ryker croons, doing his part from across the pond. “I know you’re busy, but … your nephew isn’t willing to wait.”
He’s having a girl, so that’s to let us know that Mercy’s bun is still firmly in the oven.
Axel’s boisterous laugh blasts into my ear, combatting “Closing Time” now playing for our theme music and a chorus of congratulatory sentiments.
“Looks like we need to get packed up,” Zara squeals. “Tell Mercy we love her, and we’ll get back as soon as we can.”
As I’m soaking that in and pondering what’s happening with Sylvie, Tatum toasts us with a deep thought.
“I like stories because they’re more controllable than reality. An escape.” He waves his hand between all of us. “But you lot … no matter where you are, you are the escape.”
Let’s hope so.