Page 46 of Twisted Fate

As if that’s my fault.

The helicopter ride took longer than expected. The pilot said something about the wind.

When I’d seen the helicopter waiting for us on the roof of Harrah’s, I’d been torn between demanding if it was safe and jumping up and down in excitement. I’d never been in a helicopter before. I’d glanced down at the strappy sandals I’d chosen to go along with my flowing hot pink maxi dress and wondered if I’d have to bend and run under the blades like they do in the movies. Turns out I did.

In moments, we were flying high above Vegas. The city gave way to sand. The sand gave way to red sandstone that, under the glare of the sun, looked like it was on fire. It felt like minutes, but was probably closer to a couple of hours before we reached the California coastline. We flew along the coast, with the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean next to us.

There was a car waiting when we landed, and it brought us here: The Marina at Dana Point. There are what look like thousands of boats in front of us—sailboats, motor boats, big boats, small boats—and behind us, cliffs rise toward the sky.

“The Luciana,” Damian says.

“Pretty name,” I say, as I stare at the ship with wide eyes.

“It was my mother’s name.”

I glance at Damian, struck by the whisper of soft emotion in his voice, but he’s already walking away.

I know very little about Luciana Russo, other than the fact that she died.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Luca says.

“Yes,” I say, with a wary glance at Damian. He’s been off, tense ever since we left the condo this morning and it’s making me nervous. “Did you know her? Luciana Russo?”

“I did,” Luca says, his expression hard to read. Wistful? Pensive? “She was kind to me when she had no reason to be.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

We board the floating hotel—Luca tells me the gangplank is actually called a passerelle—and I try my best to look like this is something I do all the time. That my eyes aren’t drawn to every line, every detail, as I try to memorize it all since I know this will never happen again.

Which is a good thing, of course.

The helicopter, the yacht, they remind me that these possessions were purchased by criminals. That every foot of this ship is soaked in blood, in drugs, in unspeakable horrors I can’t even imagine and don’t want to.

Blood money.

These are not good people. They are villains.

Damian is a villain. He is the bad guy. He is the nightmare—the monster hiding under the bed.

And Luca, as amiable as he’s been, helps that monster in ways I don’t want to think about.

And my brother… I think my brother is part of this, too. Not at the level of Damian and Luca, but he’s involved somehow. Markus didn’t just play a few games of poker with Damian. He works for him. I know it in my gut. It would explain the texts that go back for years. It would explain why Damian trusted Markus to walk out of a room owing him a million dollars. They know each other. And that isn’t a comforting thought.

At the end of the passerelle is a large basket. Damian and Luca slide off their shoes and put them in the basket. I watch, bemused.

“You need to take those off,” Damian says, gesturing at my sandals.

“Off? Why?”

“High heels can damage the teak decks. We go barefoot or wear boat shoes. Non-marking soles. Wear these,” he says and hands me a pair of beige crocheted mules with a triangle logo that reads: Prada Milano. I have a feeling these aren’t knock-offs.

I slip off my sandals and slide on the mules. They fit perfectly.

I cut Damian a sidelong glance. “You…bought these for me?”

He smiles at me, his real smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Like them?”

I nod.

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