Usually, I'd handle this like any other protection job where I keep myself detached and efficient. But when Mateo mentioned Sara might be in danger, something primitive clawed up my throat. I haven’t felt this same rage with the other girls I have given their lives back; I maintain boundaries: save them, set them up, move on.
Clean.
That is the code I've built to keep myself sane in this business. I am there for one goal only, and my empathy can never be personal. I have to keep the entity, and the nature of the job separate. When my dad would beat my mom, I had to separate the father figure from the monster, and one day, I decided we couldn’t live like that anymore, for my mom’s sake, but also for Joe’s and mine.
I killed him.
And I couldn’t feel sorry for him even if I tried.
I only felt sorry that he had to turn into a monster from his own upbringing, but ultimately, I refused to feel sorry for a wife-beater, and the only pain that never left my soul is the one I carry for my mom. Who didn’t deserve the assaults, the pain, the bruises, the shame. She kept her head high and raised us with strength that only strengthened me more.
Since Sara is hell-bent on acting like I am a ghost, I guess what’s another Laurent dead to her; I figure it is time to focus on leveraging other connections.
Her best friend Artemis’s grandfather, Henry Murio, runs the Cigarette boat empire in Saint-Tropez of those sleek, gleaming missiles that practically scream 'I have more money than God.' The old man isn’t just selling toys to the wealthy; those boats are iconic. A real Riviera symbol.
Whispers around town paint him as something of a local king, while some murmur mafia, but I call him a businessman with boundaries.
Damien reminded me that Murio mentioned offloading his yacht division years ago, before refocusing the company on the Cigarette boats. Those records might contain exactly what we need, which are the original ownership papers for yachts now conveniently untraceable, particularly the Velastra, and others on our watch list.
The door to the Murio’s office is unlocked when Damien and I step inside, it smells of lemon polish and old luxurious leather. Floor-to-ceiling windows catch the last of the afternoon light on a wall of framed nautical charts with orchids on a marble center table with pamphlets of Saint-Tropez on water for exquisite rent-a-day Cigarette in paradise.
Artemis is behind the desk, hair falling out of a bun as she scrolls through files on the computer.
As we approach the desk, to my disbelief, Sara’s silhouette appears against the corner window, and the first thought crashing through my brain? Whoever I'm paying to watch her, who claimed she was home twenty minutes ago, is absolutely fucking fired. I regret giving Riviera a break.
She’s pretending to study the harbor below, but her shoulders are tight, every line of her body screaming that she feels me standing here.
Damien lets out a low whistle. “Didn’t expect a welcoming committee, but a hello would be nice.”
Artemis finally looks up. Her eyes spark. “You’re early. You must be the muscle, the shipping boxes are upstairs, door to your right.”
He grins. “Depends on what needs lifting.”
She tilts her head, unbothered. “The equipment for the boats going out today.” She pauses, and her eyes drift to me, “Liam, h-hi. What do you need?”
Damien sets his hands on the edge of the desk and gives her a cheerful glare, do-you-know-who-the-fuck-I-am?
“No, baby girl, that’s not what we’re here for.”
Sara finally turns around. “What do you two want, Liam?”
I clear my throat, addressing Artemis. “We need access to manifests tied to the Velastra. The original registrations, if you’ve got them. I spoke to your grandfather, and he said to come get it anytime.”
Artemis taps a few keys, looking away from Damien. “Okay, give me two minutes.”
Damien leans in with a side smirk and whispers loud enough for all of us to hear. “What’s your name?”
She doesn’t even look up. “Why? You want to know if it sounds good with your last name?”
He laughs, surprised. “No, but now I’m curious how it’d sound on my tongue.”
Finally, she meets his stare. “I’ll give you a hint—goddess of the hunt. Maybe you can brush up on your mythology until next time you come sniffing around.”
He mouths it once, quietly. “Artemis.”
A small, victorious smile curves her mouth. “Ha! There’s a brain under all the tattoos.”
She plugs a flash drive in while Damien and her have entered their own western shootout scene.
