Page 129 of Stealing Blinds

She freezes, and her lips pop open—a hitched breath, a half-formed argument, a baffled question about how the hell we got from our masked meeting to a place where we bare our souls because nothing matters outside of us. Maybe that last thought is all me. But either way, I don’t give her a chance to express any of that.

Grabbing my phone, I play “All of Me” by John Legend and toss it and her fisted undergarments on the bed. Then I dance with her, soaking up every second we have with a memory we can cherish. She trembles in my arms, clinging to who we’ve become.

No words, just an understanding building between us. This is worth it all.

With the final notes, I grip her hip and trap her body against mine, conquering her mouth with one butterfly-inducing swipe after another before I leave her weak-kneed and cruise to the bathroom. “My family would make sure you never forgot what we’d meant to each other. That’s a strong outlook for a ghost, but I’d still haunt your fine ass for fun.”

It’s the New Orleans way after all.

I shut the door and jump in the shower, leaving her alone with her irritation over me taking care of her. She’s a pro, but even so, there’s been a lot thrown at her. And in thirty minutes, we’ll be embarking on a day that won’t end until we’re either sailing into the sunset with the power to change her and Rena’s lives or I’m utilizing the afterlife to wreak terror on the bastards who do.

But whatever my fate, I will not let her fall with me.

Breakfast is served on long wood-slatted tables on a sun-soaked cobblestone patio that juts out from the natural landscape. The cacophony of laughter and boisterous discourse color the morning as getaway perfection, far surpassing the vibrant flowers and deep green trees cocooning the space. Even the cream-and-teal umbrellas and chairs melding with the kaleidoscope of blue water and the jagged white limestone, marking the boundary of land and sea, are no match.

It’s sea salt and sunbaked skin, lemon zest, yeast, and rich, dark coffee. The allure of a jackpot when someone at the table is holding the Dead Man’s Hand.

Our family is joined by several others that are La Lune Noire members or acquaintances of members. Friend or foe remains a mystery about many, but we’ve garnered intel on countless guests and have a strong list created of those who might be involved in Kratos or X—the unknown group that Kratos is stealing from.

Sylvie is a vision in an indigo halter jumpsuit and sexy sandals. She nonchalantly skims her hand over my thigh while laughing at a story a gentleman a few seats down is sharing. But as the tepid breeze washes over us and she sips her coffee, it’s Lemon Wilkeshire taking a seat behind us that draws her attention.

One of our biggest findings came after we returned to the family suite last night. That little tidbit about Lemon Wilkeshire being Agent Glines’s widow had sparked something in Axel.

“I’m reaching out to Vargas,” he announced as we all settled in for a debriefing, and even from the yacht, Wells agreed with that idea.

Sylvie rubbed her forehead, exhausted from all the moving gears on her once-straightforward job. “Who’s Vargas?”

“He’s an FBI agent, who was in hiding for quite a while because a Mafia wanted him dead. They’ve been mostly eradicated, but he’s still been lying low. He’s invested in the same sort of things we’re invested in.” Axel waved that all away and dialed. “None of that matters, but I think he might be your guardian angel.”

Sylvie pressed into my lap, burrowing her head into the crook of my neck, unsure but intrigued.

“It’s been a while. To what do I owe the honor?” Vargas answered, drier than the Sahara.

Axel didn’t bother with a greeting, always strategizing to catch someone off guard. “Sylvie Palmer.”

Vargas was quiet for thirty seconds, probably analyzing every angle. “What about her?”

“You left a note at her apartment,” Axel stated matter-of-factly, leaving no room for argument, despite it merely being speculation.

Vargas cleared his throat. “I didn’t know she was involved with you guys at the time. I assumed your brother was just … being him. He had a tail on her, but all signs pointed to it being because she wouldn’t give him the time of day, which was fucking fun to watch.” He chuckled at my expense, but like my amused family, he reined it in. “I knew she was working for a person of interest, and I didn’t want Cash muddying the waters.”

“Someone from Kratos.” Axel took a seat, working his tie off while the rest of us held our breath.

“Yes.” Vargas paused again, but silence on our end had him continuing, “I wasn’t aware you … there’s a lot unknown. I was trying to follow her and see what I could find.”

Axel dipped his chin to Sylvie, who was glued to my lap, her lungs barely functioning. His sapphire eyes conveyed his customary assurance because he was five steps ahead. “Why not just approach her and make a deal?”

“Well … history suggested she wouldn’t be open to it, and it didn’t appear to me that she knew much.”

“You got Glines’s files when he died, and Heath’s case was in it,” Axel surmised.

“Yes.”

Sylvie’s palm rubbed over her throat as she likely envisioned her father telling the FBI he wouldn’t help them catch thieves and dying for it anyway. I coiled my arms around her more firmly so she could feel the weight of our support. And Zara moved closer with the need to offer comfort, taking Sylvie’s hand in hers.

“Any idea who came after her in Boston?” Axel probed.

“Yeah.” Vargas hesitated for only a beat. “Her own handler.”