And they were thorough in their search.
Chloe stops just inside the door, a small, sad sound escaping her throat as she absorbs the destruction. She drifts through the chaos like a ghost, touching things, straightening a crooked picture frame, picking up scattered papers. Her movements are mechanical, disconnected from any real purpose.
She’s going to break soon. I sense the fissures, fracture lines spiderwebbing through her carefully constructed normality.
I need to contain her.
Not just for the mission, but because I don’t know who else might be out there, waiting to grab her the moment she’s alone.
“We could go somewhere.”
At this point, we don’t have a choice. I’d rather she accompany me willingly than force the issue. After what Ioverheard between her and Bree, she’s coming with me either way.
Her connection to the island, to Roman’s past, changes everything I knew about the mission. I’m royally pissed I wasn’t let in on these finer details—history that would help me do my job. But I also understand. There’s an order in the Kozlov Bratva, and I’m not privy to all the secrets. Yet.
She shakes her head, her hands trembling as she picks up a broken mug from the floor. “I can’t just…stop living my life. I have kids waiting for me. And the fire trucks are coming. I have to be normal again.”
I nod, allowing her this temporary delusion. “Okay. You go get washed up. I’ll,” I wave at the disarray, “clean up a little.”
Scurrying over to me, she wraps her arms around my waist and burrows the side of her face into my chest.
I freeze.
I’m not used to being touched like this. Not as comfort or as connection. Pain or pleasure, yes. Sometimes even both. But not this.
I loosely wrap my arms around her to return the embrace. A foreign sensation bleeds through my entire body.
She sighs. “Thank you.”
After she gathers fresh clothes and tennis shoes from her bedroom, I wait for the lock to click on the bathroom door and the water to start running. Then I plug my phone into a charger I find on the kitchen counter and stride through the wrecked living room with silent efficiency.
The job has shifted. This is no longer simply about diamonds.
I need more information. About Chloe and the island and whatever connection exists between her and Roman. My previous investigation was thorough but limited, spent scouring for hiding spots. Now I’m looking for paper. For history.
I head straight for her already upended desk. The drawers lie scattered, contents spilled across the floor. I sift through them methodically. Bills, lesson plans, crayon drawings signed by tiny hands.
Useless.
Nothing connecting her to the island or to twenty million in diamonds. But there’s a method to my search that the previous intruders lacked. They sought valuables. I already tried that and found nothing.
This time, I’m hunting for secrets.
I stroll toward her bedroom, scanning each surface for anything personal.
My gaze lands on a framed photo of Chloe with her parents. I open the back to find nothing.
I pivot to the stack of romance novels on the nightstand and fan the pages of every single one.
After that, I revisit the ornate wooden box. Nothing inside matters.
Except the trinkets matter to her.
Which means they might matter to me.
There’s nothing else of note in the bedroom.
In the small home office, a file cabinet is partially hidden behind an overturned chair, the lock broken and dented in from a hard strike. Inside, labeled folders are tossed about, showing someone rifled through them. I pull each one, scanning the contents until I reach the back of the drawer.
