“Of who?”
“My first wife.”
The words hung heavy between us.Everything about this was wrong.
“You’re her doppelgänger,” he said.
The deck seemed to tilt slightly beneath my feet.Not from the movement of the boat, but from the weight of that.
My mind moved fast.Piecing it together.Obsession.Projection.Replacement.
This wasn’t about me.It was about a memory he couldn’t let go of.Which made my situation infinitely worse.
My options narrowed in real time.
“You’re not going to like how this ends,” I reminded him quietly.
His lips curved faintly.
“On the contrary,” he murmured.“I think I will.”
31
Archie
The wheels shuddered against the tarmac as we landed.Malta rose around us—small, sun-bleached, and deceptively still.A narrow strip of runway carved into rock and sea, with nothing but heat shimmer warping the horizon and open water stretching out in every direction.
The island was too exposed, too open.The perfect place for a pickup.
I was already moving before the jet had fully slowed.
The door swung open, and the heat hit like a wall—thick, heavy, carrying the sharp bite of salt and jet fuel that burned the back of my throat.
“Positions,” Atlas ordered behind me.
There was no hesitation, and no time for wasted movement.
Men peeled off instantly, falling into the plan we’d laid out before we ever left Italy.Everyone knew their role.Their angle.Where to direct their line of sight.
Vehicles were abandoned in staggered placements along the strip, doors left open for quick access.Men took cover behind cargo crates, low barriers, anything that offered even the slightest break in visibility.
It wasn’t much, but it didn’t need to be.We weren’t here to defend.We were here to take her back.
Machado would show up, we knew that much.He had a flight to catch.And we would be waiting when he did.
I moved to the far edge of the airstrip, dropping low behind a stack of rusted cargo containers, metal hot beneath my palm as I settled into position.
My eyes tracked the horizon.It was empty.
Heat rose in waves, wind cutting across the strip.The distant churn of the sea slammed against rock.
My pulse beat heavy and slow—controlled, but coiled tight enough to snap.Every second stretched thin, pulled tight between anticipation and violence.
“How sure are you they’re going to show?”Marcello asked, dropping into a squat beside me, his voice low, controlled—like he didn’t want to disturb the tension sitting in the air.
I didn’t look at him.
“They’ll show.”
