Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“Yeah.”
I stare at the online article, my eyes scanning the headline. “Who rules Miami?” I say, my blood getting hotter with every word I read about The Brit and The Enigma, and the FBI, who is powerless to stop them running amok in Miami. I finally get to the reporter’s name. The reporter who clearly has a fucking death wish. “Who the fuck is Natalia Potter?” I ask. And where the hell has she got this information from?
Have I ever asked such a stupid question?
It’ll never be over. We know that, which is why the boatyard has been repaired after we blew it up. It goes unspoken, but the girls know we’re not out. We need control of Miami. So long as we maintain control, we’re in control. Power equals safety. Keep a presence to keep a life outside Miami. Disappearing isn’t an option because we’ll always be found, so we must keep a finger on the pulse to keep our lives. Simple.
“I’m working on it,” Otto says, hanging up before I can bark my order to take her down. A reporter, James. A female reporter, who clearly has no fucking idea who she’s dealing with.
I take a few breaths and dial Chaka.
“Is he dead?” he asks in answer.
I look at Danny in the distance, my frown returning. What the fuck has happened? “I’m afraid not.” I start heading back to our beach hut. The beach hut that is far from a hut. “Just a bit distracted at the moment.”
“Ah, Daddy Black,” Chaka says, a little laughter in his tone.
I slow to a stop, surprised. News travels fast, but not all the way to fucking Africa, and definitely not when everyone has purposely been keeping Rose’s pregnancy under wraps, for obvious fucking reasons. I hum a noncommitted reply and look back up the beach, seeing Danny in the distance. How the fuck does Chaka know? “We still good for the delivery on the nineteenth?” I ask.
“We might have a problem.”
“I’m sure we don’t, Chaka,” I say, watching as my toes sink into the silky sand with each step I take. The problems are piling. “Because we’ve stepped on a few Russian toes and promised the Mexicans a really fucking great deal, and not delivering on the deal isn’t going to look good. Could cause some bad feeling, if you know what I mean.” Or have them turning back to the Russians for their supplies. Do not make me threaten you.
“I’ll express your concerns.”
“To whom?”
“The person in charge of the Coast Guard training course happening the day of our scheduled delivery.”
I look to the beautiful blue sky. Fuck it.
“We’ll need to deliver on the Monday.”
“That’s three days late, Chaka.”
“You want me to deliver on a weekend?” he asks on a laugh.
He’s right. The area is heaving on a weekend. “I’ll confirm.” I hang up and kick the sand on a curse.
“Something up?”
I still.
Smile to myself.
That voice.
I drop my head and find her on the veranda. In a bikini. A small one. Her blonde hair wild, her dark eyes shimmering. She has a piece of mango in her hand, her lips wet with the juice. And all of my problems melt away. I hear music coming from inside, and I cock my head when London Grammar’s Lose Your Head registers. Our track. Her smile is fucking everything. So is the fact that she hasn’t ripped strips off me for something that is way out of my control. She’s affected, of course she’s affected. Quiet, contemplative.
Clingy.
Needy.
Can’t say it’s unwelcome.
But I see acceptance. It’s so fucking stunning on her. She knows I’ll end this eventually. Whether today or tomorrow, I’ll end it. I won’t stop until I find him and kill him. It’s just life now. Our life.
I walk toward her, the music getting louder, and she drops her mango, backing up slowly, smiling knowingly. I follow her through the beach hut, stopping to get out of my wetsuit—which takes much longer than I want—leaving it on the lounge floor as Beau drops her bikini top. I follow it to the tile. Peek up. Oddly, it’s not the vision of her perfect boobs that holds me rapt, but the sight of her eyes sparkling wildly. Alive. Even now when we’re once again facing uncertainty, she’s alive.
Light.
It’s been four weeks since her last period. It’s gone unspoken but is screaming loudly. As are her words last night before the shit hit the fan at dinner. She wants to try. She wants a baby. I was hesitant before we got the call that’s going to take us back to Miami—she’s still delicate. But at the same time, I want that with her. A beacon of peace. Light in our darkness.
For Beau to find that sense of tranquility again.
But is she ready? Is her body ready? Her mind? And, more painfully, after everything her body has been through, is it capable of carrying a baby? I know Beau is terrified it isn’t. She needs to know she’s not physically broken. I need to give her that.