There. Silver sequins catching the light like scales. She's dancing, or trying to. Her coordination is shot, clearly drunk, maybe more. Hair wild, arms above her head, that dress barely covering anything.
She looks like chaos incarnate. Beautiful chaos.
And there's a man.
My vision tunnels. He has his hand on her waist, fingers spreading possessively over sequins. Leaning in to whisper something. His hand on what's not his.
The Glock feels light on my hip. Too light. Like it wants to be used.
He's touching her, and she's laughing that fake laugh while her body lists to one side. She's using him as a prop to stay upright, but he thinks he's getting lucky. He thinks she's his for the taking.
The red film drops over my vision. My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache.
I kill the engine, let the boat drift to the yacht's stern. Find a ladder. Start climbing.
I board like I belong here, but I move through bodies like a blade through water. Beautiful people too drunk to notice the predator among them. Someone offers me a drink. I ignore them. Someone else tries to stop me, a security type who takes one look at my face and backs away, hands up.
"Rosetti?" I hear someone whisper. "That's one of the Chicago family, or maybe New York, or…"
The crowd parts slightly. Fear is better than invisibility.
Upper deck. Eyes locked on her.
She sees me mid-laugh, still letting that man keep his hand on her. Her face does something complicated. Shock, fear, and underneath, relief.
She wants to be found.
"Nico?" Her voice slurs. "How did you…"
"We're leaving."
"No.No, I'm havin' FUN. I'm at a PARTY. Don' have to…"
"Now."
The man with his hand on her waist puffs up. Expensive shirt, cheap courage.
"Hey, buddy. She said she doesn't want to go."
I look at him. Just look. Let him see exactly what I'm thinking about doing to the hand that's touching her.
His face drains of color. He recognizes what I am. Not just muscle, but Rosetti muscle. The kind that leaves bodies in concrete.
"I mean… whatever. She's all yours."
Smart man. He disappears into the crowd, taking his filthy hands with him.
"You can't jus' SHOW UP and…"
"Watch me."
"This is kidnappin'!"
"This is extraction."
She trips on the ladder. I catch her before she falls. Without thinking, without asking, I throw her over my shoulder like she weighs nothing, which she practically does, hasn't eaten in hours, maybe days, another failure I should have prevented.
The shoulder carry is tactical, efficient. Doesn't explain why my body lights up everywhere she touches, why her warmth burns through my shirt like a brand.
