I close my eyes.
The tears don’t ask permission. They surge up hot and helpless, burning their way out. They slide down my cheeks, mixing with the sting of the slap, the salt of the wind, the sour taste of his breath still phantom in my nose.
I press my forehead to the deck, the paint cool against my skin, and I let myself cry. Not for long. Not loud. Just enough that the pressure in my chest finds a seam.
Behind my ribs, something ugly and hard answers back.
Whoever took me…they got me on a ship. They put cuffs on the bed and a chain on my ankle. They gave me rules and thought I’d be grateful for a brush.
They think distance is the same as safety.
I curl my fingers into fists against the steel, feel the dried blood on my knuckles crack.
They’re wrong.
6
Maverick
“Come on,firebird—help us find you.”
I say it to the empty living room because if I don’t say something I’m going to put a hole through the drywall and then Storm will give me that look, the one that says rage is a tool you sharpen or it cuts you first.
The penthouse feels wrong. It’s too quiet, too clean, like the place is holding its breath. My phone is face down on the coffee table, the screen lighting up every few minutes with a new “call me back,” a new “working on it,” a new “we’ll ask around,” a new number I don’t trust but can’t afford not to.
I’ve called every family we’ve ever done business with from Savannah to Miami. I’ve called two who hate me and one who owes me and one who promised I’d never hear his voice again. I’ve called a guy whose yacht has a helipad and another whose tugboats move “things that aren’t fish,” and three port rats who know every dockhand down to the guy who hoses seagull crap off the bollards.
I’m waiting for any of them to tell me something that isn’t a stall.
Atticus is still locked in his office, the door panel slid back, lights down low. I can’t see him, but I can picture the screens—three monitors and a map with a single blue dot that refuses to blink again. He hasn’t come up for air since he pulled the last ping off my poker chip and found it at the pier. If he’s not eating, I’m not eating. And I’m not going to be the guy who knocks and gets an Atticus-sized knife in his eye because I broke his concentration.
Conrad is still at the emergency vet, which might as well be a war room at this point. He’s got Zeus, who might have more grit than any of us at this point. Con will sit there and sign every form and stare down every tech until they give him a minute-by-minute update, and then he’ll stare at the wall and blame himself for not keeping a dog from doing what dogs do—protecting their person.
He is not okay. None of us are okay. But Conrad’s not okay in that way that means everything else will burn if we don’t aim the fire where it needs to be pointed.
Storm is—where the hell is Storm? He was with Con but I don’t know where he went after that.
My phone buzzes. I flip it and see a name I haven’t seen in years: AZZURRO. I take the call.
“Mav,” he says, his Neapolitan accent soft, like he’s calling from a café and not some dirty dockside office. “You don’t call unless you want something I can’t sell you.”
“I want the harbor list for last night, midnight to one,” I say without preamble. “Private, commercial, tug. Anything that moved. And I want the people who see things they’re not supposed to. Your price or theirs isn’t an issue.”
He makes a small, approving sound. “You’re late. Your quiet one already asked.”
“Atticus,” I say, only a little exasperated. “He forgets to text and keep me looped in.”
Azzurro laughs. “It’s fine. The list I can get. The people? They got jobs, Maverick. They don’t talk about shadows if they want to keep their hands and dicks attached.”
“Find me someone who likes money and is willing to take the risk.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Azzurro—if you help me and I get her back, I’ll owe you. If you don’t, and this goes where it’s going, everyone will owe the wrong man. And when I torch the fucking city, everyone is gonna be without a job. Because I don’t mean figuratively. If she’s gone? I’m destroying everything on my way out.”
That shuts him up. He knows what I mean without me saying it. There are only a handful of “wrong men” at this level, and only one with a taste for leverage that lands on women. My stomach turns just thinking of his nickname.
“I’ll call,” he says finally. “Keep your phone on.”
“It’s staying on,” I say, and end the call.
I text the group thread because my brain is wired and I can’t help myself.
