The sea wind shifted against my skin. I pulled my sunglasses down just enough to stare at the horizon. It was beautiful, the kind of beauty that felt expensive and cruel.
I closed my eyes and exhaled, trying to quiet the storm in my chest.
I’d played dangerous games before, but never with men like them. The Markovs weren’t marks or targets or names on a mission file. They were storms. Beautiful, brutal storms that you couldn’t run from. You could only decide how to survive.
And the worst part?
Some quiet, treacherous part of me wanted to see what would happen if they found me again.
CHAPTER 11
Dmitri
Most men mistook control for the ability to make others move. They shouted, they threatened, they brandished guns and money and thought that meant they ruled the world.
The truth was quite different, though.
Power was when you didn’t have to raise your voice to be obeyed.
The ARCHEON yacht gleamed in the morning light, anchored just off the coast like a floating kingdom of glass and arrogance. Even from a distance it radiated wealth, the kind that could buy privacy and sin in the same breath.
It had taken me less than three hours to find it.
Anton sat beside me in the launch, dressed in his usual black suit, which looked out of place among the harbor’s bleached luxury. He checked his watch once, then looked up at me. “The yacht’s name isErebus, registered under a shell corporation inLuxembourg. Owned by a consortium that doesn’t technically exist. Guess who their last contracted client was?”
“ARCHEON,” I said.
He smiled faintly. “Of course.”
The sea air whipped across the deck as the launch cut through the water. I could see the guards standing on the upper deck of the yacht, their posture too rigid to be casual. Private security, likely ex-special forces, loyal to whoever paid best.
Anton reached into his jacket and handed me a small envelope. “Fifty thousand in unmarked notes, and the rest wired directly to the captain’s account. Cash is old-fashioned, but it still opens doors.”
“Money opens doors,” I said. “But fear keeps them open.”
He gave a short, amused hum. “Which are we using today?”
“Both.”
When we reached the side of the yacht, a uniformed officer was waiting for me. He leaned over the railing, voice crisp and polite. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, this is a private vessel. You’ll need clearance?—”
I stared back at him. That was usually enough.
Anton handed him an envelope. The man hesitated, his professionalism flickering as he felt the weight of it.
“Captain Mikkelsen is expecting us,” Anton said smoothly, though he wasn’t. “We won’t take much of his time.”
There was a brief exchange of glances between the officer and the guards, a nod, a few words murmured into a radio. A minutelater, the guards stepped aside, and the boarding ramp was lowered for us.
As I stepped onto the yacht, the deckhands straightened, their gazes skimming away. Every part of my body language told them I didn’t need permission to be here.
The captain met us on the bridge. His uniform was pressed to perfection, but his eyes were wary.
“Mr. Markov,” he said, his accent Scandinavian, his voice careful. “I wasn’t informed you’d be joining us.”
“That’s because I didn’t ask,” I said.
Anton handed him another envelope, much thicker than the first. “Consider it a gratuity for your discretion.”
