But today?

  Perhaps it’s my emotions. Perhaps my frame of mind, considering the recent bombshell. I don’t know. I sigh and look across to my friend. She looks together. What I don’t know is whether it’s a front because Beau has certainly played me before. Shown perfect serenity and felt utter despair. “Are you okay?” I ask, turning in my seat to face her. I reach for her sunglasses and pull them off, and she lets me. She knows what I’m doing. There’s no evidence of tears. No squinting eyes from a headache. Perfectly together.

  “No, I’m not,” she says, making me recoil. She plucks her shades from my hand and slips them back on before bracing her arms against the wheel. “None of us will be okay until a certain someone is dead, and since we’re back to wondering who the fuck that certain someone is, we’d all better buckle up.”

  On those words, I reach for my seat belt and pull it on. “Have you got sunscreen on?” I ask, eyeing her bare arm where her scar is visible. I would smile if I was confident her wound was out loud and proud with no underlying reason. Like trying to fool us all that she’s fine.

  “Yes, Mom, I have sunscreen on.” Beau grimaces at the road. “You know he won’t let me leave the house without smothering me in it.”

  “Good.” I get my cell out and text Esther, asking what Daniel’s plans are, since he’s developed a habit of not answering me. Then I drop it in my lap and rub at my head. “Of course The Bear couldn’t be Perry Fucking Adams,” I blurt at the windshield. “And do you know what’s most fucking annoying?” I ask, not giving her a chance to answer. “If I had known what was going on in my husband’s head, if he had bothered to share anything, I would have fucking told him Adams wasn’t capable.” I spent weeks with the idiot, seducing him, stroking his ego. He was bent, corrupt, a liar, and a cheat, but he didn’t have crime on that level in him. I wince, looking down at my cell when it rings. Like Daniel can’t answer my texts, Esther can’t seem to either, but unlike my son, at least she calls me in answer. “Hi,” I say, clicking her to loudspeaker as Beau takes a left toward town.

  “He’s just left with Tank and Fury. Fury’s taking him out on the water, Tank’s had an order from the men to catch up with you two.”

  I turn my tired eyes onto Beau. I knew it. Goodbye freedom. Beau smiles, but it’s small. She feels the same, and Esther knows she will have been telling me something I absolutely don’t want to hear, but she’s bracing me. “Thanks.”

  “How’s the drunken idiot?”

  “Probably getting drunk again.” I reach into my purse and pull out my sunglasses, slipping them on, feeling tears biting at the backs of my eyes.

  “What’s happened now?” she asks, exasperated.

  I can hardly tell her that I said no and he didn’t listen. “Nothing,” I sigh. “We’re going shopping. Need anything?”

  “Nothing,” she says, refraining from questioning me. I bet she grills Danny, though. And, like me, he will lie.

  “See you later.” I drop my cell into my purse and sink into my seat. “How did James take the news?” I ask, turning my head, just catching Beau’s shrug.

  “Quietly. You know James. He doesn’t say much, but he thinks lots.”

  I laugh but not with humor. While my husband brandishes his reputation like a weapon, James keeps his off the radar. The deafening killer and the silent killer. They’re quite different like that, and yet scarily similar.

  “I don’t want him to worry about me,” Beau goes on, and this time I am laughing with humor. What planet is she on?

  “Next to killing, Beau, worrying about us is what our husbands do best.” I frown at the windshield. “Actually, given they killed the wrong man, I think they worry better than they kill.”

  Beau lets out a bark of laughter, and it’s so great to hear, even if our humor is warped. “Do not let him hear you say that.”

  I scoff. “What will he do? Kill me? We just established our husbands are terrible murderers.” I’m talking shit. They’re frighteningly talented at ending lives. They just got the wrong life on this occasion.

  “Anyway,” Beau goes on. “Husbands? I’ve not married my killer.” She smirks at the road.

  “Why don’t you just say yes?” I know he’s asked, more than once.

  “Because he killed Lawrence’s husband,” she says on a shrug.

  What? I stare at her, my mouth open. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I only found out last night before dinner, and in case you missed it, a lot of shit has hit the fan since then.” She gives me a high eyebrow, and I sigh. “It’s going to be okay, you know that, right?” Reaching for my hand, she gives it a comforting squeeze. I don’t know what Beau’s had, but I want some.

  “How do you know?” This is like an unbearable, spinning merry-go-round, everyone’s emotions constantly being tossed from exhilarated to despair.

  “Because you’re married to The Brit, and I am with The Enigma.” She takes her hand back to the wheel, smiling.

  “Did you miss the shit hitting the fan last night?” I ask, completely bemused.

  “I’m meditating. Lawrence insisted.”

  “What, and now you’re all up for war?” I ask, sarcasm rife in my tone.

  “Not up for it. Perhaps just accepting. You should try it.”

  “Accepting?”

  “Meditating. It might lead to acceptance.”

  “I cannot accept raising my baby in the criminal underworld. I’m not becoming a mafia family.”

  “Rose,” Beau sighs, reaching over and giving my belly a rub. “I hate to break it to you, but we’re already a mafia family.”

  I pout and clench her hand, hoping one day I can feel my friend’s tummy and know there’s life in there again for her too. Family. We’re one big fucked-up family. Fucked up, yes, but we all have each other.

  “What do you think it is?”

  “What what is?” I ask, confused.

  “The baby.” She laughs. “Boy or girl?” Her curiosity endears me and pains me. How happy she is for me, and yet so deeply sad for herself and James.

  “I hope it’s a boy, because—”

  “Imagine Danny with a girl.”

  “Exactly.” We both shiver at the thought. He would never cope.

  “What are we shopping for anyway?” she goes on.

  Shaking my head, back to bemused, I pull out my cell. “I’m making that curry I told you about.” I show her the screen and the recipe I saw on TV the other day. Just watching TV. Chilling out. Being a vegetable. Eating. Drinking broccoli juice. Bliss. “I need every vegetable known to man and some goat.”

  “And will you be talking to your husband by this evening when we all descend on you for dinner?”

  “Tonight’s cancelled,” I mumble. “I can’t imagine everyone is up for it after last night, anyway. I’ll eat the curry myself.”

  “Okay,” she breathes, sounding as convinced as I feel. Not about the curry. I’ll eat it all, no problem.

  3

  JAMES

  I knew there wouldn’t be a meeting today. Not after the state of Danny last night, and definitely not after turning up at their villa this morning and seeing both of their faces. All is not well in the Black residence. So I took him out on the water, hoping to shake some life back into him. He managed to pull his head out of his arse briefly in front of Daniel before Fury took the kid back to the villa to do some studying with his private tutor.

  Then . . . back to brooding. I let him be. I’ve learned during the short time Danny and I have known each other not to disturb him when he’s sulking like a brat. He’ll talk when he’s ready.

  “I’ll see you later,” I say as he trudges off up the beach toward his villa, raising a hand in acknowledgment. I frown at his back. “Is now a good time to talk about the next shipment from Chaka?”

  “No.”

  “What the fuck have you done, Danny?” This despondency, Rose’s face, neither are a result of too much alcohol on his part and a meltdown on hers. Something’s happened.

  “I’ll see you later for dinner,” he calls, ignoring my question. “And get some fucking sunscreen on your back.”

  I rake a hand through my wet hair and roll my shoulders, feeling my skin becoming tight, just from a few minutes’ exposure. I pull my wetsuit back up my chest and call Otto.

  He answers immediately. “I was just going to call you.”

  “Why?”

  “Click the link I just sent.”

  My phone dings in my ear, and I pull it away, doing as I’m told, knowing before I’ve seen what Otto’s sent me that I’m not going to like it. But I massively underestimate how much. “The fuck?” I whisper.

  “Yeah.”

  I stare at the online article, my eyes scanning the headline. “Who rules Miami?” I say, my blood getting hotter with every word I read about The Brit and The Enigma, and the FBI, who is powerless to stop them running amok in Miami. I finally get to the reporter’s name. The reporter who clearly has a fucking death wish. “Who the fuck is Natalia Potter?” I ask. And where the hell has she got this information from?

  Have I ever asked such a stupid question?

  It’ll never be over. We know that, which is why the boatyard has been repaired after we blew it up. It goes unspoken, but the girls know we’re not out. We need control of Miami. So long as we maintain control, we’re in control. Power equals safety. Keep a presence to keep a life outside Miami. Disappearing isn’t an option because we’ll always be found, so we must keep a finger on the pulse to keep our lives. Simple.

  “I’m working on it,” Otto says, hanging up before I can bark my order to take her down. A reporter, James. A female reporter, who clearly has no fucking idea who she’s dealing with.

  I take a few breaths and dial Chaka.

  “Is he dead?” he asks in answer.

  I look at Danny in the distance, my frown returning. What the fuck has happened? “I’m afraid not.” I start heading back to our beach hut. The beach hut that is far from a hut. “Just a bit distracted at the moment.”

  “Ah, Daddy Black,” Chaka says, a little laughter in his tone.

  I slow to a stop, surprised. News travels fast, but not all the way to fucking Africa, and definitely not when everyone has purposely been keeping Rose’s pregnancy under wraps, for obvious fucking reasons. I hum a noncommitted reply and look back up the beach, seeing Danny in the distance. How the fuck does Chaka know? “We still good for the delivery on the nineteenth?” I ask.

  “We might have a problem.”

  “I’m sure we don’t, Chaka,” I say, watching as my toes sink into the silky sand with each step I take. The problems are piling. “Because we’ve stepped on a few Russian toes and promised the Mexicans a really fucking great deal, and not delivering on the deal isn’t going to look good. Could cause some bad feeling, if you know what I mean.” Or have them turning back to the Russians for their supplies. Do not make me threaten you.

  “I’ll express your concerns.”

  “To whom?”

  “The person in charge of the Coast Guard training course happening the day of our scheduled delivery.”

  I look to the beautiful blue sky. Fuck it.

  “We’ll need to deliver on the Monday.”

  “That’s three days late, Chaka.”

  “You want me to deliver on a weekend?” he asks on a laugh.

  He’s right. The area is heaving on a weekend. “I’ll confirm.” I hang up and kick the sand on a curse.

  “Something up?”

  I still.

  Smile to myself.

  That voice.

  I drop my head and find her on the veranda. In a bikini. A small one. Her blonde hair wild, her dark eyes shimmering. She has a piece of mango in her hand, her lips wet with the juice. And all of my problems melt away. I hear music coming from inside, and I cock my head when London Grammar’s Lose Your Head registers. Our track. Her smile is fucking everything. So is the fact that she hasn’t ripped strips off me for something that is way out of my control. She’s affected, of course she’s affected. Quiet, contemplative.

  Clingy.

  Needy.

  Can’t say it’s unwelcome.

  But I see acceptance. It’s so fucking stunning on her. She knows I’ll end this eventually. Whether today or tomorrow, I’ll end it. I won’t stop until I find him and kill him. It’s just life now. Our life.

  I walk toward her, the music getting louder, and she drops her mango, backing up slowly, smiling knowingly. I follow her through the beach hut, stopping to get out of my wetsuit—which takes much longer than I want—leaving it on the lounge floor as Beau drops her bikini top. I follow it to the tile. Peek up. Oddly, it’s not the vision of her perfect boobs that holds me rapt, but the sight of her eyes sparkling wildly. Alive. Even now when we’re once again facing uncertainty, she’s alive.

  Light.

  It’s been four weeks since her last period. It’s gone unspoken but is screaming loudly. As are her words last night before the shit hit the fan at dinner. She wants to try. She wants a baby. I was hesitant before we got the call that’s going to take us back to Miami—she’s still delicate. But at the same time, I want that with her. A beacon of peace. Light in our darkness.

  For Beau to find that sense of tranquility again.

  But is she ready? Is her body ready? Her mind? And, more painfully, after everything her body has been through, is it capable of carrying a baby? I know Beau is terrified it isn’t. She needs to know she’s not physically broken. I need to give her that.

  Do.

  Don’t.

  Fuck.

  I prowl forward again, my body temperature rising with every step, following her until we’re in the bedroom. She stops at the end of the bed. One nudge has her falling to the mattress. The way she gazes up at me could break me. With so much trust. So much love. I plant one fist into the sheets by her leg, the other on the other side, and crawl up, settling just right so my face is in line with her stomach. And I worship every inch of her skin, kissing her from one side to the other, over and over, inhaling her scent, kissing her scar, as she weaves her fingers through my hair, humming happily. Sometimes, just being like this, so fucking close, so fucking in love with her, is as good as being buried inside of her.

  Sometimes.

  I kiss my way up to her face, tasting and smelling the sweet mango, and roll my hips, slipping into her easily. Her legs circle me, her arms hold me, her mouth adores me. Her breathy whimpers, my low grunts, her shallow cries, my extended moans, all mingle and meld together, creating the most beautiful music to make love to. My lips never leave hers. My groin grinds constantly. Her hips meet every roll. And when her short nails sink into my shoulders and she stiffens all over, I kiss her harder, pump firmer, groan louder.

  Her yell of release triggers mine, and I come with force, groaning into her mouth as she whimpers into mine. And our eyes open at the exact same time. Meeting.

  Love colliding.

  I smile, inhale, and bury my face into her wet neck, tasting the salt of the air and of her sex sweat. “I missed you today,” I whisper, wondering why today more than any other day. Perhaps because after the call I took last night I know our time here with the sunshine constantly on our faces is coming to an untimely end. Life in St. Lucia is unbeatable. In fact, before last night, I was considering suggesting we buy a place here. Although I know that was already happening without saying.

  “What’s going on with Danny and Rose?” Beau asks quietly, stroking soft circles across my back, making my shoulder blades pull together, my teeth gritting.

  “You noticed something too, huh?”

  “Yes, but she was cagey.”

  “So was he.”

  “So you don’t know what’s happened?”

  “Not a clue. He hardly spoke a word the whole time I was with him.” I lick her skin, bite at her flesh, kiss her throat, and she writhes beneath me, sighing.

  “So you didn’t discuss the fact that you both killed the wrong man?”

  I smile into her skin before pulling out. “Actually, you killed the wrong man.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “I was getting fed up with you two toddlers arguing about who was going to get the honor and pull the trigger.”

  “Us two toddlers?” I ask, subtly laying my arm over hers above her head, effectively trapping them. She stiffens everywhere, which means her internal muscles squeeze my softening dick. It’s a fight to resist recharging and going again. “You want to recant that?” I walk my fingers down to her ribs, my look expectant, and she’s laughing before I even start tickling her. The sight is nothing short of perfection.

  “Nope,” she says, and suddenly she’s moving. So fast, I don’t have a moment to consider what the fuck is happening and how the fuck it’s happening. I land on my back with a thud and Beau is straddling me. I look around, seeing I’m on the floor. “Do you submit?” she asks, making me grin, my mind invaded with a million flashbacks of the very first time I had her pinned to a floor.

  “Never,” I breathe.

  “Good.” She slams her lips on mine and kisses the daylights out of me, her tongue violent in its swirls, her mouth insatiable. This. Fuck . . . me. I once told Beau I was scared of us. Terrified. And I still am, because loving this hard, loving this intensely, has got to be dangerous.

  I roll us, going at her with equal ferocity, fisting her hair, our mouths mad and clumsy.

  I hiss. “Fuck.”

  Beau pulls away sharply, panting. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I say through gritted teeth, pain searing me. I go back to her mouth, but she turns her head, denying me.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sure, Rambo,” she mutters, forcing my torso up and looking at the dressing on my shoulder. “It’s wet.” Unimpressed eyes land on me. “Why didn’t you put a waterproof dressing on it?”