Page 77 of The Art of You

Swipe after swipe. Image after image. I finally settled on one video that didn’t piss me off. No headline or caption. Just our names beneath the two of us dancing at the party to “Unchained Melody.” I had to admit, we looked good together.

Screw it.I decided to screen record the video so I could keep it. While it saved, I watched again, realizing I’d missed something important the first time.

The downward angle of the shot meant the camera had to have recorded us from above, so the footage had to have been pulled from the CCTV cameras from within the house.

I opened up the profile of the person who’d posted the video on X. No name. No description. A random string of numbers and letters for a user name. And the only content was this one video.

There was an Instagram username listed, so I switched to that app. I only had an account for my bar for promo and shit, so I had to use that profile to check it out. I typed in the account name, but it was private. No profile picture either. Zero followers. Not following anyone. And yet, 363 posts.

On the off chance someone wanted me to see this and follow them, I went ahead and made the request. I copied the profile link and sent a text to the Costa brothers, explaining what I’d stumbled upon.

Alessandro: Well, that’s creepy as fuck. I’ll look into it.

Me: My thoughts exactly. Thanks.

I looked up to see my father’s helicopter in the distance on approach.

Me: The governor is here. Be in soon.

Alessandro: Copy that.

Figuring it’d take my father a few minutes to land and make his way over to me, I used my time to scroll through Instagram with one target in mind. I ignored my notifications for my bar profile and went to one of the few names I followed.

Bella’s last two posts were from Nashville. One was of her with Alessandro and Callie at their wedding, and the other was from the next day when she’d gone on her first horseback ride.

Of course, I had no choice but to join her on that little adventure. Contrary to popular stereotypes, even though I’dgrown up in Texas, I wasn’t exactly a cowboy. But I knew my way around horses, and I’d been worried about her safety.

Bella had bought cowgirl boots while in Nashville and had proudly worn them to ride. Saddled alongside her, it’d taken all of my restraint not to steal her away and make love to her in a field while she wore those boots, and nothing but those boots.

I’d managed to behave that day. But as of this weekend, I’d officially shot that “good behavior” to hell. I’d snapped in the bathroom last night and lost my control in bed this morning.

I closed out the app and bowed my head at the memory of Constantine walking in on us, clearly assuming I’d been having sex with her. Damn close to it. The only reason I’d held back was because of that nagging fear in the back of my head I’d one day lose her forever.

More concerns, along with decades’ worth of mistakes, filled my mind as I waited for my father. I was almost relieved when he approached, needing a reprieve from my guilt.

My father was without his entourage, so I had to assume they were back in the helo waiting for him. “I don’t have much time,” were his first words to me.

I stood and stowed my phone, ready to get this conversation over with. “Fine.” I motioned to the house and started walking, in no mood for small talk on the way.

“I’m sorry.”

He dropped the apology so quickly, it took me a few seconds to stop moving. I was on the steps leading to the back deck, and I remained there while turning to confront him.

Standing down below, he cupped his mouth and met my eyes, shaking his head. Was he throwing up in his mouth at having to utter those two words?

“For?” I prompted, resting my palm on the railing at my side.

His hand fell and he copied my move, reaching for the railing. “For withholding information from you. That decision could’ve cost you your life on Friday.”

“What kind of information?” My body tensed as I waited for answers.

My father looked around. First, up toward the roof where a sniper sat on a long gun. Then off to the garden where another security guard walked.

“The kidnappers never wanted money, did they?” I went ahead and made it easier for him to spit out the truth.

He shook his head. “Do you remember the attack at our embassy in Algeria last October?”

I nodded, unsure where he was going with this. “Two Marines were killed while protecting a diplomat there,” I answered. “What does that have to do with Spain and Ambassador Aldana?” I went down the three steps to join him on even ground. I’d wanted to have this conversation with the others, but if my father would be more candid if it was just the two of us, then so be it.

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