25. Twenty-Five #2
Riviera shifts his weight, exchanging a glance with Mateo, “Liam, we need to be smart about—”
“Smart?” I laugh, the sound hollow and threatening. “Smart was five minutes ago. We're way past smart now. Smart would’ve been your dumb ass not letting her get on the fucking boat in the first place.”
“And what, Liam? Abduct her? Be reasonable,” Riviera says talking with his hands.
Damien steps closer, his eyes meeting mine without flinching. “You go in there guns blazing, you put her in more danger, not less. We should approach this strategically. Storming a yacht full of rich assholes with armed security—”
“I don't give a fuck if it's guarded by the entire French military,” I snarl. “Sara is on that boat and what armed security? Look at those losers. They’re just wearing a security T-shirt. I'll make them choke on it faster than they remember where their fucking guns are.”
Mateo steps forward, physically inserting himself between me, Damien, Riviera and the pier leading to the yacht. He pulls something from his tactical vest and thrusts it into my hands.
Binoculars.
“Liam, listen to me,” he says, his voice low and steady, he points to the main restaurant’s terrace on the port, about hundred feet from us.
“There's a better way. Café De Paris has one balcony on the second floor facing the yachts. It’s high enough, you'll have a perfect view of the Velastra’s deck. You can confirm she's there, assess the situation. Nothing is going to happen, and if the boat leaves, I have the Cigarette boat docked right over there.” He extends his arm over his shoulder, and I spot his boat, Artemis's grandfather’s company. “It’s ten times faster. We’d have plenty of time to get to her. We’re good. Breathe.”
I grip the binoculars so tightly that the metal edges dig into my palms. “She’s there, that’s established. How do you expect me to just sit around and watch?”
“Because rushing in blind is stupid,” Mateo says bluntly. “Ten minutes. Give me ten minutes to set up a perimeter while you get eyes on her.”
I stare at Mateo, my vision blurring with fury.
Ten minutes. He wants me to wait ten fucking minutes while Sara is with God knows who, doing God knows what on a yacht that points to be trafficking women.
My hands shake and I bite my lower lip, looking at the ground for a second of lucidity that I can’t reach.
“Fine,” I growl through clenched teeth. “Ten minutes. Not a minute more.”
The click of a lighter cuts through the tension, catching my attention. Damien stands off to the side, cigarette dangling between his lips as he cups his hand around the flame. He takes a long drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke that drifts between us, his expression infuriatingly casual.
“Anyone thought about just calling her?” he asks, eyebrow raised, voice dripping with smug nonchalance.
The simplicity of the suggestion hits like a slap. Everyone freezes, looking at him with expressions ranging from disbelief, and I want to knock him out.
“Let's go,” I growl, already moving. “Café De Paris. Now.”
We cut through the port like a blade, the three of us moving as Mateo stands back to do what he needs to do.
We stroll with a synchronized purpose that parts crowds without effort.
I'm vaguely aware of the stares we attract—three men radiating tension, power rolling off us in waves.
We're predators among sheep, and everyone knows it, especially the locals.
The café's exterior is quaint, Mediterranean charm hiding the perfect vantage point Mateo promised. I take the stairs two at a time, shouldering past a waiter, until we make it to the balcony, and we definitely have a decent view. I technically wouldn’t even need the binoculars, but I want to see every freckle, every raised hair when I call her and threaten to spank her.
I adjust the binoculars, scanning, feeling like a hawk circling its prey. My breath catches when I spot her.
She's perched at the edge of a jacuzzi that glows an obscene neon pink against the twilight, its garish light casting strange shadows across her face.
The black silk dress she's wearing clings to her slender frame, cascading over her legs that dangle lazily in the bubbling water. She looks comfortable. Relaxed even.
Something dark and possessive latches onto my soul.
“Found her,” I mutter, not taking my eyes off her.
Damien leans over the railing, squinting. “The pink hot tub?”
“Yup.”
The sight of her in that ridiculous pink jacuzzi, surrounded by strangers, makes something primal twist in my gut. I can't tear my eyes away from her face—the way she's laughing at something someone said, how at ease she looks in this den of wolves.
My Sara. My fucking Sara.
“Call her,” Riviera says, eyes still trained on the yacht.
My thumb hovers over the call button, then presses dial. I watch her reach for a small clutch beside her. She pauses, looks at the screen, and something across her face signals me she was expecting me to call her, and she loves it.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Get off the fucking boat, Sara.”
Damien cringes at my delivery, I guess it could’ve been a little refined, but I can’t help myself.
“Wait, what? How do you —”
“Sara, I don’t know what compelled you to leave the house when you have a stalker on the loose and then go on a boat that’s foreign territory.”
“I’m not a foreigner to boats Liam, I’m fine!”
“Look up Sara, do you see the flag? What country is it?” I say grinding my teeth.
“Uhhh… no idea what that flag is.”
“That’s right, sweetheart, Panama, and do you know what that means?”
“No… a vacation?” she asks mockingly.
“It means that if anything happens to you on that fucking boat, you’re on foreign motherfucking territory. Meaning, different laws, and authorities can’t do shit if you need help.”
“Liam… You’re pushing it. I can’t stop living, it’s just a party—”
“GET OFF THE FUCKING BOAT, NOW.”
“Or what Liam? what are you going to do?”
“Don’t try me.” I pause, looking at her through the binoculars, and she blows a kiss in the air assuming I can see her, and she’s right, I can see every inch of her in that silk dress molding to her body, her hair gently swaying in the wind.
I want to kill someone.
“I hope you’re a good swimmer,” I say, and Riviera gives me a double take.
She giggles. “Come here, fishy, fishy.” and… HANGS UP ON ME.
She must be drunk. She must be out of her goddamnn mind.
“I take it you’re going on the boat?” Damien asks biting his lip, smirking.
“We. It’s a We. Are. Going. On. That. Boat.”