I am standing on a sidewalk next to a pirate.

“Seriously?” I say out loud.

I flick my hand at the man sprawled in front of my newspaper building. A black hat with a purple feather hides most of the guy’s face.

“A drunk pirate? Today?”

We’re the only ones on the street, but he doesn’t hear me. Because he’s out cold. If his belly weren’t rising and falling, I’d take him for dead. Dirty green pants, black boots, and a black vest. No shirt. His torso is fish-belly white, naked and flabby. The sour stench of beer hits my nostrils, and my nose wrinkles instinctively. A thin sigh escapes my lips. The guy had probably gone on a bender over the weekend during the city’s annual pirate festival. He’d run out of steam and stamina here on the concrete in front of the St. Augustine Times, the final stop on the Sunday night parade party route.

A strand of green beads hangs limp around his neck, and I curl my lip in disgust.

Because it’s the city’s biggest tourist draw, my newspaper celebrates the ten-day soiree of stupidity with a snappy headline. As it has for every pirate festival, every year, for decades. Hell, I even wrote the headline this year because, as publisher of a small paper, sometimes you have to step in when your city editor’s on vacation.

Pillage the Village: Like Mardi Gras! With Pirates!

I snort out loud. Pirates. Tourists. Florida.

Ridiculous.

Now it’s Monday morning and I—the youngest female newspaper publisher in America—am the cleanup crew. On the day I’m supposed to look gorgeous, sound sharp, and make a case for salvaging my business.

Fucking awesome.

“Hey. Excuse me? Hey!” I shout in the guy’s direction, and he doesn’t move. I don’t need this, not today. Taking a few steps, I prod the pirate’s forearm with my black, pointy-toed stiletto that’s already rubbing my heel raw. He’s not budging.

Larry, the newspaper’s security guard, opens the front door and peers down at the slumbering man. I take a few steps back and grimace. It’s all I can do to contain my annoyance that Larry didn’t deal with this when he arrived that morning. I wave my hand at the drunk.

“We need to do something. Now. Call the cops. We can’t have a potential investor stepping over a passed-out pirate on their way into the paper this morning.”

Larry ducks back inside, and I pace, the skin of my left heel eroding with every step. I check my watch. It’s eight-thirty, and the morning air is as putrid as the beer that’s in the plastic cup sitting a few feet from the pirate. Already a bead of perspiration is trickling down the back of my thigh.

I pause on the corner, trying to figure out if we can somehow drag the drunk out of sight, near the loading dock where the circulation crew tosses newspapers into the trucks at three every morning. Moving the guy ourselves might be quicker than relying on the local sheriff’s department, which hasn’t been thrilled with me since the paper did a kickass exposé six months ago on a string of officer-involved shootings in the city’s black neighborhood.

I sweep my long hair off my neck, hoping to cool off, then let it fall to my shoulders in a thick, sticky curtain. Why had I taken the time to blow it straight when I could have slept for an extra half-hour? I hate wearing my hair down when it’s this hot. My natural waves are fighting the humidity already.

The humidity’s winning.

Maybe I should retreat into the air-conditioned comfort of my office, twist my hair in a bun, and pretend I never saw the drunk. Feign ignorance when the vice president from the private equity investment fund shows up for our meeting at nine.

No. Can’t do that. It’s too cowardly. A real woman looks a challenge in the eye and winks.

I tap my foot faster. The guy’s beefy, and I doubt if Larry and I could handle him on our own. Who else can help? Is anyone even in at this hour? Over the past few weeks, since rumors about our impending bankruptcy started to swirl in the city’s alt-weekly newspaper and on a local blog, reporters and editors and ad salespeople have been coming in a few minutes later each day and leaving a few minutes earlier every night.

My gaze falls on the newspaper’s building, a four-story concrete-and-stucco behemoth built by my great-grandfather. To me, the building always had its own personality. Imposing. Serious. A place of importance.

It takes up an entire block. It’s an ugly building, but it’s my ugly building and I’m trying like hell to save it.

I sigh. Crap, I forgot to tell maintenance how I’d driven by the previous evening and the light of the letter s on the building’s sign no longer illuminated. The Time, it said in bright green letters. Add it to the long list of broken things at the paper.

I’m item number one on that list.

“Justine!”

Diana, the paper’s chief finance officer and my oldest friend, bursts out the front door, belly-first. She’s pregnant. Very, very pregnant. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her tanned skin—I keep telling her to use sunscreen or else she’ll look like an alligator in ten years—is shiny with sweat.

“Hey. Watch out for the pirate.” My hand instinctively goes to my forehead, and my thumb circles my temple. I shouldn’t have had that second glass of chardonnay last night while preparing for today’s meeting.

“Oh, hell.” She steps around him and rushes to me, breathless. Why is she in such a hurry? She’s never in a hurry, pregnant or not.

“Yeah, we need to get him out of here. Do you know if Larry’s calling the cops?”

“No idea. Did you see the Wall Street Journal this morning?”

She flips a copy of the paper at me. It’s folded twice to a manageable rectangle.

“No. Only had time to read our paper, get ready, and guzzle a gallon of coffee. And stress about today. What’s up?”

“Florida Capital.”

“What about it?” I snatch the paper from her.

“Read the article.”

“Later. The meeting’s in fifteen minutes. I’m waiting for the VP to show up. I don’t want him to see that drunk—”

“I know when the meeting is. That’s why you need to read this.” She points to the bottom of page one with a chubby finger. Pregnancy and humidity have conspired to make her fingers look like sausages, but I won’t tell her that.

Squinting, I read the first sentences aloud. “In a surprise move, MDA of Miami has agreed to buy a majority stake in Florida Capital. As part of the $800 million cash deal, MDA will assume all of Florida Capital’s investments and continue to expand its acquisition of media properties and other companies throughout Florida and Latin America. Assets under MDA are valued at $18 billion.”

The article jumps onto another page, and I don’t bother to search for it. I look up into Diana’s wide, blue eyes and shrug. “So? Sounds like this is good news. They’ll be more likely to take a chance on giving us money. Score!”

She takes the paper and smacks my arm with it. “Read the rest.”

I shove the paper toward her. “I need to deal with this pirate. Do you think you, me, and Larry can haul him across the street? Wait, no. You can’t. You’re too pregnant. Is anyone in the newsroom?”

“A couple of guys. But keep reading. Second paragraph. Top left column.” Diana’s lilting Southern accent is uncharacteristically blunt.

“Okay, Jesus, you’re pushy today.” I grab the paper, flip it over, and read fast, out loud in a buzzy voice. “Founded just one year ago, MDA backs midmarket companies in a variety of industries, including media, consumer and business services, consumer products, distribution, and financial services. MDA is owned by Florida’s wealthiest man and number 275 on the Forbes 500, Miami condo king Rafael Menendez de Aviles…”

My voice trails off, and my chest tightens. My eyes read the name five times. I haven’t said it aloud in years.

“Oh God,” I whisper. It’s suddenly hotter than hell and half of Florida. I fan myself with the newspaper and look around. My headache erupts with a vengeance. “Oh God.”

“I think it’s the same Rafael.”

“Thanks. Of course it’s the same Rafael.” For a second, I suspect a vein in my temple is going to burst. I inhale.

This is bad. Worse than bad. Disastrous.