Hold on, Lila. I'm coming.
I reach into my jacket pocket and feel the small velvet box. My mother's ring. Reset just today.
Lila’s ring now. Whether she knows it yet or not.
The engine starts. I pull out into empty streets. Industrial area. No traffic this time of night.
I push the speed limit. Then pass it. I don't give a shit about cops right now.
A yacht makes sense. It’ll make the women look like regular strippers heading to entertain rich men. Just another boat party. Not trafficking victims having their futures destroyed.
Smart tactic. I'd almost respect it if I weren’t planning to kill everyone involved. Every single person who touched her. Who scared her. Who made her feel unsafe.
I park three blocks from the pier. I can't risk being obvious. Need to blend. Need to look like I belong.
The trunk holds a fresh suit. It’s my father's advice fromyears ago—always have a change of clothes in the car. You never know when you need to look legitimate. To look respectable. To look like money.
I change quickly, stripping off the blood-stained shirt and the jacket with cocaine residue. I replace it with clean fabric.
The suit transforms me into another rich asshole heading to a party. Money buys assumptions. Money says, ‘don't ask questions.’
The pier is lit but quiet. Most legitimate boats are secured for the night. It’s late enough that honest people are gone.
The yacht sits at the far end. Massive vessel. White hull reflecting dock lights. Multiple decks. Perfect cover for moving cargo nobody's supposed to see.
Two guards stand watch at the gangplank. Both thick necked. Both armed under their jackets. But they're scanning for threats. For danger. Not for customers.
Not for someone who looks like money.
I walk up to them with a confident stride. Head up like I own the place.
They look at my suit first. Then at my watch—the real Patek now, not the disposable one. Then, at the way I carry myself. The way money speaks without words.
No ID check. No questions. Just a small nod.
Too fucking easy.
I'm in.
The interior is what I expect. Lavish in that way rich people think is classy but just looks tacky. Bottles of champagne everywhere. Soft lighting designed to hide flaws. Music playing low enough to talk over.
And women. Dozens of them decorate the space. All in revealing outfits that barely cover anything. All looking miserable despite the luxury surrounding them.
I scan the crowd for blonde hair. For green eyes. For her.
Come on. Where are you?
No Lila.
Fuck. She has to be here. The captain said Pier 19. He said the yacht. Said tonight. He had no reason to lie with a gun to his head.
I move through the crowd, passing men who look like buyers assessing merchandise. Passing women who won't make eye contact. Passing servers carrying drinks that nobody's really drinking.
I bump into one and knock his tray. Glasses shatter against the deck.
"Shit. Sorry."
He waves it off, already crouching to clean.
