“Anyone thought about just calling her?” he asks, eyebrow raised, voice dripping with smug nonchalance.
The simplicity of the suggestion hits like a slap. Everyone freezes, looking at him with expressions ranging from disbelief, and I want to knock him out.
“Let's go,” I growl, already moving. “Café De Paris. Now.”
We cut through the port like a blade, the three of us moving as Mateo stands back to do what he needs to do. We stroll with a synchronized purpose that parts crowds without effort. I'm vaguely aware of the stares we attract—three men radiating tension, power rolling off us in waves. We're predators among sheep, and everyone knows it, especially the locals.
The café's exterior is quaint, Mediterranean charm hiding the perfect vantage point Mateo promised. I take the stairs two at a time, shouldering past a waiter, until we make it to the balcony, and we definitely have a decent view. I technically wouldn’t even need the binoculars, but I want to see every freckle, every raised hair when I call her and threaten to spank her.
I adjust the binoculars, scanning, feeling like a hawk circling its prey. My breath catches when I spot her.
She's perched at the edge of a jacuzzi that glows an obscene neon pink against the twilight, its garish light casting strange shadows across her face. The black silk dress she's wearing clings to her slender frame, cascading over her legs that dangle lazily in the bubbling water. She looks comfortable. Relaxed even.
Something dark and possessive latches onto my soul.
“Found her,” I mutter, not taking my eyes off her.
Damien leans over the railing, squinting. “The pink hot tub?”
“Yup.”
The sight of her in that ridiculous pink jacuzzi, surrounded by strangers, makes something primal twist in my gut. I can't tear my eyes away from her face—the way she's laughing at something someone said, how at ease she looks in this den of wolves.
My Sara. My fucking Sara.
“Call her,” Riviera says, eyes still trained on the yacht.
My thumb hovers over the call button, then presses dial. I watch her reach for a small clutch beside her. She pauses, looks at the screen, and something across her face signals me she was expecting me to call her, and she loves it.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Get off the fucking boat, Sara.”
Damien cringes at my delivery, I guess it could’ve been a little refined, but I can’t help myself.
“Wait, what? How do you —”
“Sara, I don’t know what compelled you to leave the house when you have a stalker on the loose and then go on a boat that’s foreign territory.”
“I’m not a foreigner to boats Liam, I’m fine!”
“Look up Sara, do you see the flag? What country is it?” I say grinding my teeth.
“Uhhh… no idea what that flag is.”
“That’s right, sweetheart, Panama, and do you know what that means?”
“No… a vacation?” she asks mockingly.
“It means that if anything happens to you on that fucking boat, you’re on foreign motherfucking territory. Meaning, different laws, and authorities can’t do shit if you need help.”
“Liam… You’re pushing it. I can’t stop living, it’s just a party—”
“GET OFF THE FUCKING BOAT, NOW.”
“Or what Liam? what are you going to do?”
“Don’t try me.” I pause, looking at her through the binoculars, and she blows a kiss in the air assuming I can see her, and she’s right, I can see every inch of her in that silk dress molding to her body, her hair gently swaying in the wind.
