When we pull up to the dock, we see the sleek yacht waiting, bobbing in the water. It’s massive in size, with ‘The Margaux’ painted obnoxiously on the end. There’s no easy way to get aboard unnoticed in daylight. No shadows to hide in, no cover to cloak our intent.
So we don’t bother.
I adjust the cuffs of my jacket and step out first, my shoes hitting the dock with deliberate weight. Hudson follows, then Archie. We walk straight toward the yacht, every inch of us saying we’re supposed to be here.
Because at this point, there’s no use pretending. We’ve already been seen.
We board without hesitation, the wood of the dock groaning beneath our steps. The sunlight glints off the yacht’s polished metal, the air thick with the scent of salt and silence.
The deck is eerily quiet as we fan out—Hudson heading below, Archie sweeping the cabins with a practiced ease. I move toward the back, where the door to the main salon is cracked open, a whisper of cold air spilling out.
And there he is.
Douglass.
Stretched out on one of the leather settees, barefoot, shirt wrinkled, a half-empty bottle of expensive scotch cradled against his chest. The idiot is asleep.
Not for long.
This feels too easy, too sloppy. But somehow it works for him. He’s not a brilliant man; he’s a cockroach who has useless ideas and threatens people he has no right to.
I shut the door behind me with a sharp click, and his eyes flutter open. He moves slowly, clearly groggy from sleep and the liquor. His fat belly sways with the boat, and it takes him a moment to clear the sleep from his eyes before they go wide with recognition.
“I’ve been looking for you,” I say, my voice like gravel.
Before he can speak, I cross the room and hit him square in the jaw, hard.
The punch lands clean—his head snapping to the side, the bottle clattering to the floor. He groans out, barely registering the hit before I deliver another.
“You stupid motherfucker,” I grunt, as I rain down punches. I feel my rage explode through my fists as they clash with teeth and flesh.
To threaten my wife, to send her a taunting box, to think he could steal her rightful fortune and destroy her is unacceptable, and I’ll make him pay for it.
Lazing on her yacht, reeking of alcohol and unwashed body, taking something from my wife that belongs to her is unacceptable.
Over and over I hit him, grunting with each pounding as my regular breaths turn ragged from physical exertion.
I’ll make him pay for the pain he caused her. For the headache and money it took to track this useless spineless bastard down.
She should be finishing school. She should be coming home from class, to a fine dinner in our formal dining room, kneelingat my feet. Instead, because of this man, she’s in our estate, surely cowering.
“Where is Ford?” I snarl, grabbing the front of his shirt and hauling him upright. “Where. Is. He?”
I have to fix this. I have to fix this for her.
His lip is split, and one of his eyes is already swollen shut—blood blooms red across his straight white teeth.
“I don’t—” he stammers, but I slam him against the wall before he can finish.
From somewhere below deck, I hear Hudson call out, “Clear!” and Archie follows a second later, “Hayden!”
My jaw clenches. My grip tightens.
“Try again.”
Douglass groans as I slam him against the wall again, this time with more force. The whole yacht seems to jolt with the impact. His head thuds against the paneling, eyes rolling for a second before I bring my fist down into his ribs.
Once.
