Chapter Thirty-Seven
Valencia, Spain
Francisco Morientes thanked the barista with a bright smile and stepped out into the morning sun, a double espresso in hand.
The scent of the sea, mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread from a nearby panadería, drew another smile from him.
He loved this town, and he loved his life. He was living the dream.
As he walked along the curved path that followed the marina’s edge, he passed a row of sailboats, their freshly polished hulls catching the sunlight.
He recognized one of the sailboats, a six-year-old, forty-six-foot Beneteau Oceanis.
Its previous owner, a lovely lady who had inherited it from her husband, had given him the listing.
The boat hadn’t sold, and the lady had ended up gifting it to her son who wasn’t using it more than once or twice per month.
In Francisco’s opinion, the boat was being underutilized, which was a shame.
A bit farther on, he spotted a Riva Virtus, a sixty-three-foot Italian beauty he’d never seen before at the marina. The boat had aggressive lines and a low, muscular profile. Boats like these made his heart beat faster.
It’s probably a transit, he thought. But he made a note to come back a bit later and introduce himself to its owner. Who knew, maybe he could convince them to move into an even bigger, newer yacht?
Francisco smiled at a crew hosing down the deck of a Sunseeker, then waved at a harbormaster he’d gotten to know over the last year.
Francisco liked people, and they liked him back.
He had a quick smile, always made time for a chat, and was good at remembering their names.
But under that easygoing charm was a relentless drive.
He wasn’t in this game to be liked—though in this business it helped that he was—he was in it to win.
His parents had never understood his love for the yachting industry. His father had sold cars for thirty years and still lived in the same two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Valencia. His mother, a nurse, had always told him to find something stable.
“Get a government job, Francisco,” she’d said. “One with a pension.”
Instead, Francisco had followed an attractive yacht broker on Instagram when he was sixteen.
That woman’s feed had changed his life. Every post of hers had fed Francisco’s ambition.
It seemed that every week she was on a different superyacht or at a different boat show.
And the car she drove, that Maserati convertible she raced along Monaco’s streets .
. . that’s the life he wanted. And he knew it was up to him to build it. It wasn’t going to be handed to him.
So, he’d studied hard, got good grades in high school, and got accepted at the IE Business School in Madrid.
His parents didn’t have the money to support him, so during the summer months, he’d worked fifteen-hour days, six days a week, washing boats to pay for his tuition.
And he’d taken his job seriously, always going above and beyond.
The owners appreciated his hard work, and he’d befriended many of them.
During his last year of college, he had made friends with trust fund kids by starting a yachting club, which had given him the experience he needed—and the connections—to get a job as a junior yacht broker in Valencia.
Now, at only twenty-four, he was already closing deals the other junior brokers at the brokerage firm could only dream about.
He still lived with his parents, yes, but not for long.
Not if he kept closing these lucrative deals.
Francisco arrived at the brokerage’s glass-fronted office and opened the door.
He stepped into the cool air-conditioned space and made his way to his desk, waving a hand to Esmeralda, the hardworking receptionist and office manager.
Francisco’s desk was located by a large window with a view of the canal that linked the east and west sides of the marina.
He tossed the empty espresso cup in the bin, sat down, and woke up his computer.
The screen flickered to life, showing the digital dashboard of the brokerage firm’s yacht-management system.
He rubbed his hands together, looking forward to whatever was coming his way that day.
Francisco’s last deal, a two-week charter for the Azimut S8 he managed for the owner, had brought in close to 45,000 euros in commission for the firm. He’d only pocketed 30 percent, but that was still over 13,000 euros in his account.
Tonight, he was taking his girlfriend, Jana, out to celebrate.
He’d met her in business school. She was brilliant, funny, and gorgeous, especially with the oversize sunglasses that made her look like a movie star.
Francisco could already picture the life they’d build together .
. . in Monaco. Once he’d gotten his promotion to senior broker, he would pitch his boss the idea to open a branch in the principality. A branch he, Francisco, would manage.
He opened his inbox. No new inquiries for the yachts he had for sale, but there was a new notification. He clicked on it. The app was no longer in contact with the Veloce’s onboard systems. It had also lost the GPS signal over the weekend.
Francisco frowned. “Weird,” he muttered.
It had happened before. Network issues with the application weren’t as rare as the people selling it claimed they were.
But Francisco had seen other causes too.
A faulty antenna, a skipper disabling the system by mistake, or a failure of the electrical system on a yacht.
In theory, the system would reset itself automatically.
Still, Francisco was the kind of man who liked to stay ahead of things.
If something had gone wrong, he wanted to be the guy who’d already dealt with it when the others walked in.
He glanced at his watch. 9:35. His colleagues would be here shortly.
He pulled up the Veloce’s charter contract from the file cabinet and found the skipper’s number. He remembered the man. A former US Navy officer named Justin Burton. Francisco had gone out of his way to make a good impression when the man had come to pick up the yacht last week.
“If there’s anything, anything at all, just call me, day or night,” Francisco had said, handing over his business card like it was a backstage pass to a Taylor Swift concert.
He dialed Burton’s number, but it went directly to voicemail.
Probably out of range.
Then, a new notification pinged on his screen.
A lead!
He opened it. Another broker was in town with a client and had stumbled on his boosted Instagram post about the Absolute Navetta 52 he had listed not even forty-eight hours ago. She wanted to know if it was still available.
Francisco grinned. That post had cost him sixty euros to promote.
If that post was all it took to sell the yacht, it would be the best sixty euros he’d ever spent.
He typed a crisp but professional reply to let her know the yacht was indeed available and that it was in immaculate, show-ready condition.
And that he’d be delighted to arrange a visit.
Two minutes later, the broker responded via text.
She had a tour at 12:00, but she was free now.
He typed his reply.
Perfect. I’ll meet you at the dock in fifteen minutes. Sending pin.
He checked the asking price of the Absolute Navetta 52 again. 1.35 million euros. Ten percent commission. Half for the seller’s side, which left 67,500 euros for his brokerage. Out of that, Francisco would net 20,000 euros.
He jumped from his seat, grabbed his sunglasses, and practically bounced out of the office. Maybe the Maserati in Monaco wasn’t so far away after all.