TRISTAN
This place is crawling with scumbags.
I scan the crowd from my position near the main staircase, separating the ones I've already mentally recorded from the new faces that need putting away. Marchetti is holding court by the champagne tower, his laugh carrying across the deck like he didn't orchestrate the disappearance of three hundred women last year alone. Becker lingers near the bar, nursing a whiskey with the dead eyes of a man who's done unspeakable things to children. And somewhere in this crowd is Dashkov—the fucking pig I've been dying to get my hands on. After Calder, of course.
I heard he came here in a wheelchair. Fucking gold.
Scattered between them are the lieutenants, the financiers, the lawyers who make it all look legitimate on paper.
My fingers itch for a weapon.
I've been patient for so long, and now that we're nearing the end, I just want to kill all these motherfuckers.
Across the deck, a familiar face catches my eye.
Aaron is dressed like old money—charcoal suit, no tie, effortless taste and allure that makes people assume he inherited his life rather than earned it in blood and sweat. His eyes sweep the room the sameway mine do, cataloging, memorizing. When his gaze lands on me, he bites his cheek, stopping himself from smiling. But it's all in his eyes.
It's good to see you too, buddy.
He dips his chin, then looks down toward the back of the boat.
My signal to head to the basement utility room.
I glance around, pretend to do another sweep. That's when I see Keira, standing ten feet away from me, trapped in conversation with the wife of some shipping magnate.
Dom walks by. He doesn't look at me, but he adjusts his earpiece.
He's heading down as well, which means I'm next.
I wait thirty seconds, then slip through the back toward the service entrance.
I descend two levels, past the engine room and the crew quarters, until I reach a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Three taps.
The door swings open, and standing around a small table in a converted storage space are my friends.
No. They're family.
Cat looks up first. The blonde wig she's wearing brings back memories from when she worked at Blooms with Zoe. Who knew at the time she was such a fierce woman? Slitting the throats of powerful men and making it look like an accident. She's fucking badass. I hope Aaron reminds her of that daily.
"Took you long enough." Cat's smile breaks wide as she runs toward me, pulling me into a hug. "I was starting to think you'd snapped and we'd find Calder's head in a freezer somewhere."
"The night is young."
She scans my face, grimacing a little. "You look…"
"Like I've been edging myself on murder for three months? Because that's exactly what it's been."
"I was going to say ragey. But sure, let's go with that."
"Potato, psychopath." I shrug.
She nudges my shoulder, grinning despite herself. "How's the invisible bodyguard act holding up?"
"I've only killed one person who wasn't on the list, so I'd call it a success."
Her eyebrow arches. "Who?"
