21. Twenty-One
Twenty-One
Liam
It's been two weeks since I’ve been back to Saint-Tropez, fourteen days since I’ve felt the salt and warmth rising again in the village. I would've stayed in Marbella longer, but as we were methodically raiding one yacht, I got an interesting update from Mateo's guy I hired to monitor Sara.
My phone buzzed, and what Riviera said next was not on my casual Monday list. Incongruously timed as I had my silencer pressed against a trafficker's forehead, the metal digging into his sweaty skin as he whimpered, piss already staining the polished deck beneath him.
“She's being watched,” he said.
I nearly laughed. “No shit, Sherlock. I'm paying you to watch her.”
Then his voice dropped. “Not just by me.”
Something cold slid down my spine, my fear suddenly matching the pleading eyes of the man beneath my gun.
“I'll be there tomorrow,” I told him. “Don't lose sight of her.”
After hanging up, I pulled the trigger and observed another problem vanish.
Below deck, I remained focused and discovered a terrified missing girl whom I recognized from our database of lost girls.
This database contained records of girls who were reported missing but lacked family or papers.
I asked Damien to bring her back to Saint-Tropez, where one of my guys would make her a passport, an ID, and a debit card with some money to get herself on her feet.
As if the girl hadn’t gone through enough, Sara had to push her out the door, and I shit you not, I got hard for a second, but that poor girl didn't need more aggression.
I have never seen Sara with rage burning hot enough that it made the air hurt. I haven’t seen her in two months, and I underestimated how she had gotten under my skin. She's the ache that sits between my teeth when I try to sleep. And the truth hits me with brutal clarity.
I’m not keeping an eye on her. I’m keeping her.
I've been trying to shake her loose for months, but even in her absence, she dug deeper.
The way she felt, my face buried in her neck as she was rolling her hips on my lap, I didn't know what it was like to hold on to someone you had promised yourself to hate until that line blurred with something else much more powerful, and I fear there is no going back until I have her completely.
The irony now is that she refuses to acknowledge my existence while I monitor her house.
At first, I was a sneaky shadow, parking my bike down the street. But eventually, I shrugged off any pretense and crept closer each day until I was practically pitching a tent by her gate, all while flashing a devilish Care Bear smile whenever she or her mom dared to peek out the window.
Howdy, neighbors.
I can only wonder what stories she has spun to her mother about the brooding figure outside, but honestly, I am having too much fun stirring the pot.
I knew the little vixen would eventually boil over, so stunningly fierce, she can probably set fire to the rain.
And yeah, she’s livid with me, but here’s the kicker: I can’t identify when the tables flipped and I became the moth drawn to her flame.
I treated her horribly, yet she still felt abandoned by me, and double yet, I missed her as if I had always possessed her in ways I denied myself.
Probably for Joe's sake, probably because I never wanted to love at the risk of turning into my dad. She is challenging hidden truths I want to bury. The need to ruin her, for my eyes only, and burn any man that’s ever touched her, is brewing to life inside of me.
The past week has been quiet, and I haven’t seen anyone stalk her, no shadows trailing her, no unfamiliar cars idling across the street.
Whoever they are, know I have assigned myself to the very job of keeping her safe.
They know I’ve claimed this territory now.
I catch myself checking her windows in the middle of the night, wanting to count her breaths through the glass.
I'm breaking every rule I made.
And the worst part? I still don't know what kind of trouble my dead brother's girl has stumbled into or who's hunting her, but I’ll find them, and I’ll kill them.
Simple, really.
Usually, I'd handle this like any other protection job where I keep myself detached and efficient. But when Mateo mentioned Sara might be in danger, something primitive clawed up my throat. I haven’t felt this same rage with the other girls I have given their lives back; I maintain boundaries: save them, set them up, move on.
Clean.
That is the code I've built to keep myself sane in this business. I am there for one goal only, and my empathy can never be personal. I have to keep the entity, and the nature of the job separate. When my dad would beat my mom, I had to separate the father figure from the monster, and one day, I decided we couldn’t live like that anymore, for my mom’s sake, but also for Joe’s and mine.
I killed him.
And I couldn’t feel sorry for him even if I tried.
I only felt sorry that he had to turn into a monster from his own upbringing, but ultimately, I refused to feel sorry for a wife-beater, and the only pain that never left my soul is the one I carry for my mom.
Who didn’t deserve the assaults, the pain, the bruises, the shame.
She kept her head high and raised us with strength that only strengthened me more.
Since Sara is hell-bent on acting like I am a ghost, I guess what’s another Laurent dead to her; I figure it is time to focus on leveraging other connections.
Her best friend Artemis’s grandfather, Henry Murio, runs the Cigarette boat empire in Saint-Tropez of those sleek, gleaming missiles that practically scream 'I have more money than God.' The old man isn’t just selling toys to the wealthy; those boats are iconic. A real Riviera symbol.
Whispers around town paint him as something of a local king, while some murmur mafia, but I call him a businessman with boundaries.
Damien reminded me that Murio mentioned offloading his yacht division years ago, before refocusing the company on the Cigarette boats.
Those records might contain exactly what we need, which are the original ownership papers for yachts now conveniently untraceable, particularly the Velastra, and others on our watch list.
The door to the Murio’s office is unlocked when Damien and I step inside, it smells of lemon polish and old luxurious leather.
Floor-to-ceiling windows catch the last of the afternoon light on a wall of framed nautical charts with orchids on a marble center table with pamphlets of Saint-Tropez on water for exquisite rent-a-day Cigarette in paradise.
Artemis is behind the desk, hair falling out of a bun as she scrolls through files on the computer.
As we approach the desk, to my disbelief, Sara’s silhouette appears against the corner window, and the first thought crashing through my brain? Whoever I'm paying to watch her, who claimed she was home twenty minutes ago, is absolutely fucking fired. I regret giving Riviera a break.
She’s pretending to study the harbor below, but her shoulders are tight, every line of her body screaming that she feels me standing here.
Damien lets out a low whistle. “Didn’t expect a welcoming committee, but a hello would be nice.”
Artemis finally looks up. Her eyes spark. “You’re early. You must be the muscle, the shipping boxes are upstairs, door to your right.”
He grins. “Depends on what needs lifting.”
She tilts her head, unbothered. “The equipment for the boats going out today.” She pauses, and her eyes drift to me, “Liam, h-hi. What do you need?”
Damien sets his hands on the edge of the desk and gives her a cheerful glare, do-you-know-who-the-fuck-I-am?
“No, baby girl, that’s not what we’re here for.”
Sara finally turns around. “What do you two want, Liam?”
I clear my throat, addressing Artemis. “We need access to manifests tied to the Velastra. The original registrations, if you’ve got them. I spoke to your grandfather, and he said to come get it anytime.”
Artemis taps a few keys, looking away from Damien. “Okay, give me two minutes.”
Damien leans in with a side smirk and whispers loud enough for all of us to hear. “What’s your name?”
She doesn’t even look up. “Why? You want to know if it sounds good with your last name?”
He laughs, surprised. “No, but now I’m curious how it’d sound on my tongue.”
Finally, she meets his stare. “I’ll give you a hint—goddess of the hunt. Maybe you can brush up on your mythology until next time you come sniffing around.”
He mouths it once, quietly. “Artemis.”
A small, victorious smile curves her mouth. “Ha! There’s a brain under all the tattoos.”
She plugs a flash drive in while Damien and her have entered their own western shootout scene.
Behind her, Sara folds her arms, and I look over when she glances back long enough for our eyes to catch, half a second, maybe less, but it hits harder than any argument we’ve had.
“Why do you need this anyway, Liam?”
Before I can answer, Artemis straightens. “Here.” She hands Damien the drive. “Some of it is messy, but you’ll figure it out.”
Damien takes it, holding onto her hand, and I roll my eyes. “Appreciate it.”
Damien pockets the drive, still watching her like she’s another kind of puzzle.
“Tell your grandfather thanks,” I say.
Artemis smirks. “Tell him yourself next time. I’m not your secretary.”
Sara looks back at me, her voice calm but razor thin. “Do you have what you came for?”
It lands like a shove out the door, and I almost drag her back with me to give her a lesson for talking to me like this.
“Yeah,” I say instead. “We’re done.” And I see a glimpse of a sting in the tone of my voice.
We start for the door, and behind me, Damien throws over his shoulder. “Nice meeting you, goddess.”
Artemis calls back, “Don’t get lost in your own mythology, tattoo boy.”
Outside, the air feels heavier. I glance once through the glass and Sara’s still by the window, staring out at the water, pretending I was never here.
“She hates you,” Damien says, almost cheerfully at his observation, which is quite obvious.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets. “You don’t say.”
“I guess you got her to keep quiet,” he continues, because Damien never stops when he should.
“And the other one, Artemis, I’ll be losing sleep over that face for a while.
I’ve seen her around, but I never talked to her before.
About fucking time! Woohoo!” He jumps with his fist in the air like a moron.
“You lose sleep over anything that moves.”
“Maybe. But you—” He glances sideways, eyes narrow. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks. Tell me you’re not still playing watch outside of her house? Hire someone!”
I take the steps two at a time, boots hitting hard. “I’m firing the guy who’s there right now, who assumes she’s cooped up inside her house — and drop it.”
He whistles low. “So that’s a yes, you’re playing watch.”
Across the street, gulls circle the masts in the port. I should think about the Velastra, about the drive in my pocket, about how close we’re getting to whoever’s running this network. But all I can see is the reflection of her in the window, refusing to look back.
Damien slaps my shoulder. “You know what they say, man. The ones you can’t save always stick the longest.”
“Is that what they say?” I walk toward the bike. “And the ones you shouldn’t want, shouldn't chase, and stay away from?” I ask.
“They stick harder.”
“Yup.” I chuckle with depressing mirth. We step over our bikes and bring the engine to roar to life, drowning out the rest of my thoughts.