I’ve been around enough weapons in my life, so I’m not too startled by what I’m seeing, but still—I’m a bit in awe at the sheer volume. The room looks military, for sure. One wall is lined with firearms of all sizes. Bulletproof vests, other tech unknown to me, and computers that look like they double as heavy duty briefcases sit on top of shelves on the other side of the room.

“Wow. An MK23 MOD 0 45-caliber handgun with a suppressor and laser-aiming module.” Cade lifts one of the guns, eyeing it. The way he handled the gun back at my apartment suggests he’s used one before.

“Say what?” I murmur.

Owen comes up alongside Cade, his eyes fixated on the gleaming metal. “You know your weapons.”

“I may not have served like you, but I know a few things. How else do you think I let off steam?” Cade looks back at me, his eyes telling. I’m pretty sure there’s one more way . . .

My stomach tightens at the thought of him letting off some steam with me.

Cade repositions the gun on the shelf and faces Owen, his stance wider, his shoulders square. “Who are you, really? I know you said this place belongs to the CIA—well, one of their dummy shelter companies—but I doubt you could get us access just because this guy is a friend.”

Owen’s attention shifts to me for a moment, and I can see it in his eyes: distrust. I can’t exactly blame him, given who I am. I’m sure he’s been itching to ask me why I waited ten years to finally roll over on Rory. Maybe I’ve been asking myself the same question, but it’s not like I didn’t try to get away before.

But did I ever try to get any of the McCullens, or my father, locked up?

The word no echoes through my mind when Owen looks back at Cade.

“Are you still government?” Cade’s question sounds accusatory.

Owen works for Scott & Scott Securities, right? He can’t be a civilian and government—aren’t those words a contradiction?

“All you need to worry about is that I’m on your side. And, if her dad shows up here we have enough tools at our disposal to start a small war.” Owen winks at me, catching me off guard, and a little of his sudden frost starts to dissolve. “Of course, I’m under strict orders not to let the Cubans know I’m here, so we gotta be discreet with our weaponry.”

But he’s right. He’s on our side, thanks to Cade, and I’m not sure if any of this would have been possible if Cade didn’t have a friend like Jessica.

How was I ever planning on doing this before Cade galloped into my life on his white horse? He may think he’s the dark character in a fairy tale, but to me, hell no—he’s the prince.

Owen motions to the door. “I’ve got something else to show you.”

A few minutes later we’re at the other side of the huge restored Spanish mansion and in the garage.

“This bad boy is a 1951 Chrysler DeSoto.” Owen smooths his hand over the top of the moss-green vehicle. “This beast is built like a tank, even though it’s fastened together by makeshift parts, including everything from pieces of a refrigerator to a Russian-built diesel engine.” His eyes sparkle as he lifts his palm from the hood and crosses his arms.

Cade looks over at the other vehicle behind us. “I think we’d better stick with the DeSoto. We might attract too much attention from the locals if we drove around in the Ferrari.”

“Agreed. Although I wouldn’t mind giving it a test drive.” Owen flashes me his white teeth before pushing away from the Chrysler to open the garage door. “You feel like exploring the city? No point in sitting around here.”

“It would make me feel less like a prisoner,” I say.

The house has plenty of room to breathe, but I hate the feeling of being trapped.

My teeth sink into the inside of my lip as I wait for Cade to respond, hoping he’ll say yes. We slept in late after being up most of the night traveling. We also slept in separate rooms, which was kind of a bummer. Maybe he doesn’t want Owen to suspect anything is going on between us.

“You’re the expert. If you think we can go into the city, then I’m good with it.” Cade eyes Owen.

“Yeah. I don’t see why we shouldn’t enjoy ourselves,” Owen says.

“Thank you!” I smile. “Let me grab my purse. I’ll be right back.”

Cade nods.

Our shoulders almost touch as I pass him, and there’s a little spark. It’s a quick magnetic pull between us that sends vibrations down my spine.

The door scrapes shut behind, and I rush for the spiral staircase that’s off to the side of the living room.

Once in my room, and the door is shut, I grab my burner phone and power it on.

I don’t have much time, so I dial Mya’s number with nearly trembling fingers. “I’m in Havana,” I say the second she answers.

“What are you doing in Cuba? I thought you were going to stay in Florida for a bit,” Mya says.

I wonder where she is because it’s dead silent in the background.

“Plans changed. My father showed up in Miami.”

I’ve been keeping Mya up-to-date as much as possible. It hasn’t been easy.

Cade almost caught me on the phone yesterday before we left for Florida.

I should tell him what’s going on, but I’m afraid he’ll try and talk me down. I need to wait for the right time to spring everything on him.

“Shit. Sorry about your pops. But being in Cuba might work out even better. I’ll just have to make some adjustments. We weren’t expecting for this all to go down so soon. It’s crazy, right?”

My heart skips. The excitement of finally being so close to the truth—to answers—is overwhelming. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“That’s why you chose me, right? Plus, you knew I’d be a sucker for breaking a story on the mob. We both get what we want.”

Mya’s taken a lot of risks in her line of work, and she’s still alive. Maybe she has a death wish—who knows? When I offered information in exchange for her help, I warned her what could happen if she writes a story about the McCullens. Her response had let me know I picked the right person: If it isn’t risky, the story probably isn’t worth it.

“Gia?” Cade’s voice is like a rumble from beneath the floor. Strong and powerful.

“I have to go, but before I do, did you learn anything new?” I step closer to the door and yell back, “Be right there!”

“I’m in the records department at the police station,” she says. “I found the case file that I think is connected to your mom.”

My eyes fall shut. My breathing slows. Time stands still as I grasp the importance of her words.

It’s no longer a dream, but reality.

“I need some more time to go through everything, but this is it, Gia.”

I drop to my knees in one fast movement, growing dizzy. My eyesight is hazed by a sheen of emotion, by my soon-to-fall tears.

Finally . . .

There’s a rap at the door, and my shoulders flinch. I end the call without saying goodbye. I slide the phone across the floor and under the queen-sized bed.

“You okay?” Cade’s on the other side. He knocks again.

I need to pull myself together.

I need to lie.

“Yeah, I’m just, uh, emotional about everything. It’s all a bit much,” I say, knowing my broken voice and the pooling in my eyes will give me away once he sees me.

The knob turns, but the door is locked. “Can you let me in?” he asks in a soft voice.

My mother’s brown eyes flash into my mind as I stand and let him in.

His large hands are hidden in his pockets, his head bowed before he lifts his gaze to find mine.

And something inside me lets go in that moment. Maybe it’s the news from Mya, or maybe it’s something even more.

I cup a hand to my mouth and stumble forward. He catches me in his arms in one swift movement, holding me tight as I cry. As I let go.

“Sorry,” I say after pulling back a minute later, wiping at my face.

“Never apologize.” His brows pull together, and his lips part, but he doesn’t say more.

I stare at him, curious as to what he’s thinking, and we both stand there, watching each other, but neither of us speaks.

The muscle in his jaw is clenched tight, the veins noticeable in his neck, and I wonder if this is hard for him—dealing with emotions.

It’s hard for me.

I’ve had to bottle up my fear of the McCullens for so long that everything I’ve lived and experienced feels more like memories from some movie and not part of my actual life.

But the violence, the blood, the pain—it was real. It wasn’t scripted.

And then my insides start to shake, and a tightening pain in my gut roars to life.

Guilt. A five-letter word that should be tattooed on the inside of my other arm.

“I should have gone to the police,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “I’m as guilty as Rory. As my father.” The realization that started gnawing at me in the weapons room now pours into every crevice of my mind, of my soul.

“What?” He reaches for my hand, but I pull back and head to the window, observing the water as it bleeds onto the sand before retracting.

“Gia.” He wraps his arms around me, his chin resting on my bare shoulder.

It’s a sweet moment. Almost too sweet for people like us. But I don’t want him to let go either.

“I’ve been living a lie, haven’t I? And it took me getting away to realize it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was silent. I saw and heard things, and I didn’t do anything. I didn’t speak up. I didn’t report my father for murder. I was too afraid.” I close my eyes. “Because of my fear and my desire to live, others died.”

Cade turns me around to face him now, but I won’t open my eyes. I can’t look at him.

“It’s like I killed those people myself. Every time my dad took a life—”

“Stop.” His finger touches my lips.

My shoulders roll forward, the shame weighing me down.

“No. It’s true. I’m the one who needs retribution, not you.” My teeth sink into my lower lip as I finally open my eyes and level my gaze with his. I expect—no, need—for Cade to be my judge, juror, and executioner.

The pad of his thumb glides over my mouth, and then he leans forward and kisses my salty lips, trying to silence my words. But it’s a quick kiss before he says, “Maybe we can help each other find a way back into the light.”

He doesn’t challenge me. He doesn’t tell me I’m wrong.

No, he gives me the truth.

And I fall forward and press my face to his chest.

Eight years ago I asked this man to save me . . . never expecting him to actually do just that.

---

“This city is vintage on steroids.” Cade adjusts his shades as we walk through Plaza de Armas. We take in the sights, people, and the architecture.

Stopping in front of one of the book vendors, I pick up a copy of Little Prince and flip through the pages before returning it.

“Gracias.” I nod at the old man who observes me from his stool, probably hoping I’ll buy something. I start to turn away, but Cade’s hand captures my wrist, and I still at his touch.

“I can buy it for you if you’d like,” he says into my ear.

“Do you have pesos on hand?”

“Good point, but he might take dollars.”

“We’re trying to blend in.” Although I doubt Cade or Owen could ever blend in here.

Everywhere we go they stand out, especially Cade. His confidence, and the way he holds his chin up as he walks, his jaw tight—he could probably part the Red Sea with a look.

Cade releases me, and I continue to browse before facing the white marble statue at the center of the square. I’m not sure who it is, but I assume he’s someone important. Being here reminds me of home: the culture, the soft tunes floating in the air around us—the bright buildings that jump from one shade to another as we walk by.

Color.

My art instructor wanted more color in my life.

And here it is.

I just never expected it to be with someone like Cade at my side.

Owen’s behind Cade now, and I didn’t even realize he’d been gone. “I exchanged some bills for pesos. You guys up for a cup of joe?”

I smile at Cade. “See.”

“What? It’s his job to be prepared,” Cade says.

“Come on. This place is supposed to have the best coffee.” Owen points to a building up ahead.

“Well, I could definitely use a good cup. My mother used to make the best coffee.” I was too young to drink it. But I knew based on the aroma it had to be the best tasting in all of Brazil.

Once we have our coffee we sit at a table in front of the café, which is open to the square.

I cross my legs and lean back and close my eyes, allowing the sun to absorb my problems.

“This is good,” Owen says, dragging out the last word.

I open my eyes, and there’s foam on the top of his upper lip from the latte. “You got a little something.” I point to his mouth, and he smiles and wipes it off and licks his finger.

I don’t know Owen that well, but he seems to enjoy life and have fun. It’s hard for me to picture him ever being military. He doesn’t fit the straight-edge image I have of soldiers. Although, back in that war room, he did start to look the part.

Of course, my dad was Irish military. And so . . .

People have layers.

My eyes go to Cade’s lion tattoo, and the sun splays over his arm, making the red ink flare.

He has a lot of layers. I never thought I’d get a chance to peel any of them back, but maybe there’s time.

“What exactly do you do at your company?” I ask him.

He grumbles and adjusts his sunglasses as if the topic makes him uncomfortable. “Mostly we buy struggling companies and sell them for parts.”

“Hm.” I take a sip of my drink, relishing the bold flavors that pop in my mouth. “Not sure what to think about that.”

“There’s a reason both his sis and brother bailed from the business,” Owen says.

“Listen,” Cade begins while placing his elbows on the round, black wrought-iron table, leaning forward, “every company would have gone out of business, regardless of my interference. And some we saved. But the others, well, they benefited financially from our deals.” He lifts his broad shoulders, defensive. “What we do now, at least, is not as bad as it sounds.”

I raise a questioning brow to give him a hard time and flick my gaze to Owen, who appears to be loving every minute of Cade’s discomfort.

Owen fights a laugh. “I don’t know, man. Jess says differently.”

“Yeah, well, Jessica fucking hates me.” Cade scratches the back of his neck.

“She can’t hate you that much since she’s helping you,” I say, setting my drink on the table.

“No, she does,” Owen says. “But she used to wish his corpse would rot in hell. It’s a vast improvement.”

My lips part, but Cade doesn’t seem the least surprised by his words.

“She’s best friends with his sister. And let’s just say he hasn’t always been brother of the year. Word is he was a major tool.”

“At least he’s speaking in past tense.” I fight a tremble of laughter that rises in my chest. “At least you’re not a tool now.”

Cade’s mouth forms a tight-lipped smile. “True.” He removes his sunglasses, which is dangerous for me because I’m not sure if I’ll be able to hide my feelings once he’s looking at me. Every time our eyes connect, it’s as if time stands still. Like we’re dancing alone in the middle of a stage, and a thousand people could be watching, and I wouldn’t even know. I wouldn’t care.

I suck in a breath as he does just that—look at me in the way only he can. It’s not like he’s undressing me with his eyes. No, it’s like he’s looking right into my soul.

“So, where’s your brother?”

Cade’s the one taking a breath now, and for the second time, it looks like he’s uncomfortable. “He’s in Vegas.” His Adam’s apple moves in his throat as he fights to counter whatever emotions are seizing hold of him. I’m learning to read him better, even though he tends to hide behind a six-by-two concrete fence.

“What’s so bad about Vegas?” I’ve never been, but it can’t be as bad as the Hangover movies, right?

“He’s racing. Illegally.” Cade rolls his eyes and secures his sunglasses back in place.

“Why does he do that?” I ask.

“And that’s the million-dollar question.” Cade raises his palms in the air. “No goddamn idea.”

Owen pushes away from the table and stands. “It’s obvious. The adrenaline rush.”

“Of course an adrenaline junkie like you would say that.” Cade starts to rise, but Owen pats the air, motioning for him to stay seated.

“I’m going to grab us some takeout to bring back to the house. You guys wait here.” Owen nods my way and starts through the plaza, and now Cade and I are finally alone. There’s so much more I’d like to ask him about who he is and what his life has been like, but I hate when people ask me questions, so I decide not to be a hypocrite.

“My sister’s pregnant.”

His words, his admission of something so important, catch me off guard. It takes me a second to look up at him. “Congratulations.”

“She’ll make a great mom. Twin boys.” He reaches for his mug. “And her husband was a SEAL, like Owen. He gave it up for his daughter. Had a rough time adjusting, but Noah seems to make my sister happy.”

“And if he didn’t, why do I get the feeling you’d break his legs?” I wince at my choice of words. That’s the mob in me speaking.

“Hell, yes,” he says matter-of-factly.

Is it strange that I like his response?

What the hell has living in the world of the McCullens done to me? How have I not realized who I’ve become until I’m away?

I finish what’s left of my coffee, wondering if he’s thinking about our earlier conversation and my confession of guilt as if he were my priest.

Speaking of . . . “Are you religious?”

“My parents never took us to church. I don’t know all that much about it, to be honest.”

“My mother took me every weekend. We lived in a village outside of Rio, but we still had our own church. I think that, during prayer, she was always asking for God to deliver my father to us.” My hands fall into my lap, and I thread my fingers together. “How could she want to be with him, knowing what he did? My mother was such a good woman.”

“Sometimes love is complicated,” he says slowly. “I was in love once. I think I was, at least.” He pauses for a moment, and his forehead wrinkles as if he regrets his words.

His attention is cast down, toward his tattoo. “Samantha and I were polar opposites.”

“Oh? What happened?” My heart rattles in my chest.

“I was in college in California, and she was this wild bartender slash tattoo artist.” His chest lifts as he smiles and looks up, but his eyes are hidden by his glasses, and it keeps me from witnessing any real emotion. “She was a couple of years older than me and was always partying and having fun.”

“Let me guess—you weren’t a partier.” He likes to be in control too much to let loose.

“I was focused on being valedictorian. The pressure from my father was intense, but she got me to have fun sometimes.”

“She gave you the tattoo?”

His fingers rush down the ink, stopping at his wrist. “She said I was a lion. Powerful.” He smiles. “How could I say no to that?”

I chuckle, but I know there’s a punch coming.

“Anyway, I was prepping for my final exams, and I wasn’t paying attention to what started happening to her.”

“Drugs,” I mouth the word, unable to stop it from slipping free when I put two and two together.

I’ve seen so many people fall captive to drugs at Rory’s hand.

He nods, slipping a hand beneath his glasses to his temple, pushing two fingers against his flesh as if there’s a sudden throb there. “I found her on graduation morning.”

The nerves fist in my stomach and my heart breaks for him.

“I never made it to the graduation ceremony. I went to her apartment to pick her up to bring her with me . . . and I found her on the floor. The tubing was still wrapped around her arm—her eyes open.”

“Oh, God.”

“I checked her pulse, I tried to bring her back, and when nothing worked, I called the one person I never should have. Dad was in California for the ceremony.” His forehead has a slight sheen of sweat, and the veins in his forearms darken.

“Do you know what the prick did?” His voice deepens, hate searing through each of his next words as he says, “He took fucking pictures of her body before calling the police. He threatened that if I ever messed up or hung out with the so-called wrong person again, he’d share the pictures of Samantha with my mom and sister—hell, the whole world.” The chair legs scrape on the concrete. “My father was an asshole who pretended to be a good guy in a suit.” He stands. “At least your father didn’t fake it.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper the words, knowing such an overused phrase probably won’t mean much, and so I stand, too, maneuvering around our table to come before him. I reach for his sunglasses, remove and fold them, holding the black shades in my palm before finding his eyes.

There’re no tears. But there’s fury, bright and almost toxic, and I can recognize it because I know how it feels to hate someone so much.

I can see now why he likes to go shooting. His father is his target.

Because I’m not good at handling situations like this, I say, “I’m still going to give my dad the worst-father-of-the-year award. But”—I gather some of his shirt in the palm of my free hand, tugging him closer to me—“I’m pretty comfortable with giving your dad second place.”

He stares at me for a long moment, and I wonder if I blew it—I killed the moment when Cade King bared his soul to me.

But then . . . his shoulders lift, and his head tips back just a touch as rich, velvety laughter flows from his mouth and deep from his stomach.

After a few seconds, he shakes his head and covers my wrist with his warm, sun-kissed hand. I’m still clinging to the cotton fabric of his T-shirt.

Cade’s full lips part, about to speak, but then his attention shifts away.

Owen’s standing there, eyeing us, or more specifically, eyeing my hand clutching Cade’s shirt. “What’d I miss?” The oil is sweating through the brown bag he has tucked under his arm.

“Um.” A gargling sound sputters from my mouth as I attempt to clear my throat, dropping my hand from Cade’s shirt in embarrassment. “I think I have a better idea for food,” I say after I catch sight of the fresh market stands off in the distance.

Cade steps out of my reach, which makes things a little less awkward in Owen’s presence. He glances back, following my gaze. “I don’t have any idea how to cook.”

Copying Owen’s signature move, I wink at the both of them once their attention returns to me. “It’s a good thing I do.”