Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 104729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“She refuses to leave the hotel. Apparently, she stays in her room, and if my contacts are correct …”
“Yes?”
“She’s been sick.”
My brain thinks of everything she ate while we were on the island when we were together. Could something—or someone—have hurt her?
Did she get sick? An infection? She got hurt … was that what happened? Did I not see it? Is she okay? Maybe it was the starfruit? It can be deadly for people suffering from kidney problems.
Shit. That could be it.
As much as I know I shouldn’t see her, I need to know if she’s okay. I have to see what’s wrong with her.
“Did you call Matteo and tell him to remove the hit on Michael?” I ask, settling back into my chair.
“I wasn’t able to get a hold of him, but I told Lorenzo. I’m sure it will be taken care of.”
Looking away from him, I stare off into the distance. This is where I caught her. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to look at this boat—hell, even the ocean—and not think of her now.
Turning back, I see Cristian staring at me. “Tell the captain we’re sailing to New York,” I say to him.
“I already did,” he says, and I level him with my stare.
“That was a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but I have been with you for years. I see how you have been since you’ve been back. I knew you would want to see her.”
“You were right. But, Cristian …”
“I know. I know.”
He walks out of my office, and I look around. This room isn’t any different. Of all the damage that was done to my yacht, it wasn’t completely ruined.
The lives that were lost, though, those lives will haunt me for the rest of my life.
It’s become very obvious that someone else was trying to kill me that day.
They weren’t after Phoenix, after all. That doesn’t mean Michael didn’t kill my brother, but it leads me to some questions.
A part of me wonders if there is more to this puzzle I’m not seeing. Like a colossal piece is missing, and I’m just not finding it.
* * *
It takes us ten days to sail from Miami to New York, but instead of staying there, we make the trip a little further, ending up at Cyrus Reed’s instead.
On the way to New York, I tried to call Phoenix every day. Every time I did, I was met with a dead end.
Michael has her locked away on the top floor of a posh hotel in the city. Despite my best efforts, my attempts to get in contact with her have been futile. This is why I find myself on a detour. If anyone can help me, it’s Cyrus.
When we are docked, I find my host standing on the edge of his property, waiting with his arms crossed.
He really is a prick when he wants to be, but I can trust him, and trust is hard to come by in my business.
“Alaric Prince, to what do I owe this honor? The last time you just stopped by, you unloaded a shit ton of guns and then never picked them up.”
“Hello to you too, man. Aren’t you glad I’m alive?”
“As if getting lost at sea could stop you? Now, cut the shit. As much as I like you, and I do, you are kind of interrupting.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Fuck no, but now that I have Ivy, I don’t really like to be bothered with anyone else.”
“Duly noted, but for the amount of money I pay …” I raise an eyebrow.
“And this is why I haven’t pulled one of your guns from my basement and killed you.”
“And to think we are friends. How do you treat your enemies?”
His lips tip up. “Bullet in the brain.”
“I do remember that.” I chuckle, and then Cyrus does something I don’t expect. He chuckles too.
Sick bastards, the both of us.
We both start to walk toward the house, toward my … scratch that Michael’s guns.
“So now that you’re here, tell me what exactly I can help you with?”
“The guns.”
He stops walking and turns to face me. “Are you finally taking them?”
“Not exactly.” When I don’t elaborate, he starts to walk again, and so do I.
He leads me toward his office, and once inside, he gestures for me to take a seat. He pours himself a cognac and me a glass of scotch, and then after we both drink, he levels me with his stare, telling me with no words to proceed.
“I need you to give them to Michael Lawrence.”
That makes him put the glass down, the liquid spilling over the rim and onto his desk from the force.
“The fuck? You mean the bastard who killed your brother?” Cyrus asks, his brow furrowed and his jaw tight.
“That’s another thing,” I interrupt. “I need to look into that and into the attack on my yacht.”