March, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to share my misgivings. After he’s hung up, he leans down to brush his lips to my temple. “It’s going to be all right, Island.”
I hope so. I mean, it’s not like it could get much worse, right?
Antonio said it’d only take an hour . . . and that was almost three hours ago. Morning rain patters against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Berlin Schönefeld’s jet terminal. Everything is gray and sucks, and my soul aches because, six hours behind us, Joy remains presumed dead. Huddled at March’s side, I slump in the soft cushions of a leather sofa while we watch a Mercedes van back out of the parking lot. The Rotwangs will have breakfast in their Charlottenburg apartment. Struthio wins again.
“How’s the pretzel?” March inquires, glancing at the paper bag I’m still holding. I only took a single bite, and it felt like wood chips in my mouth.
“Okay,” I lie. “Has Antonio texted you back?”
“Not yet.” He shifts closer, trailing the back of his knuckles in my hair. “Island, I’m sure she’s going to be fine. Come now, I hate to admit it, but I really need to sleep a few hours somewhere marginally comfortable. A car seat might even do at this point.”
It’s not until March says this that I realize he and I have been awake for . . . God, the fact that I’m even struggling to count is a telltale sign of complete exhaustion. I glance down at my Nutella pretzel and remember that the reason I bought it in the first place after we landed was because I needed the sugar rush to even stay on my feet. Momentarily forgoing March’s rule that neither Struthio personnel nor any members of our couple may get frisky in public, I crane my head to press a kiss to his jaw. The rasp of newly grown whiskers reminds me he hasn’t shaved or had a proper shower either, and it must be nagging at him. “I’m sorry. Let’s find a cab and go to the hotel.”
“It’s all right; I’ve booked a car.”
“Nope. You’re not driving right now, and neither am I. I don’t want my birthday weekend to start with a crash into a döner st—”
I lose track of my rant midsentence when, at long last, the low buzz of my phone rises from the depths of my black tote. Springing upward like a jack-in-the-box, I plunge a hand in the mysterious abyss March never dares to look into, where keys and tampons float among candy wrappers and receipts. Private number: I pick up anyway.
There’s a gasp, a sniff, the hum of an engine in the background—I’m guessing a car—and at last, Joy’s brittle voice. “It’s me . . . Thank you so fucking much!”
My eyes roll upward in silent thanks to our Lord and Savior. Hallowed be thy name, Raptor Jesus: you bailed Joy out. The lingering headache that was buzzing under my temples seconds ago fizzles out, and I feel a smile tug at the corners of my lips. March sits and flashes me a little wink that seems to say, see?
“You’re okay now,” I reassure her. “It’s all that matters. I was already picturing you joining a gang and shanking wardens.”
Her giggle is a breeze of fresh air. “Good news is there were no gangs . . . but the cell was so dirty, I think March would have passed out. I saw a roach the size of a van. One of the girls was here for possession, I think, and at some point, she threw up, but she missed the bowl.” She goes silent, draws a weary sigh, and adds, “March’s friend says Cachemire won’t press charges. Honestly, I’m not sure about that. If I were her, I would, and I’d blackmail my ass into settling out of court.”
“Maybe she told the cops she wouldn’t. I think you can trust his intel. He’s well connected,” I suggest evasively.
“I kinda figured. He showed up with a whole motorcade. Black limo, sunglasses . . . like in a movie or something.”
My jaw hangs limp in silent amazement. I had no idea Antonio was that big a wig. “Where are you now?” I ask, not wanting to dwell too much on topics I’d have to lie about.
“I think we’re driving on Tulum Avenue.”
“Hotel zone, then. Okay, we’ll book you a room in a resort. Can I speak to Antonio for a second? I wanna thank him.”
There’s a beat of awkward silence before she asks. “Who’s Antonio?”
This time it’s my turn to pause as last night’s tension boomerangs back into my chest. “He’s, um . . . he’s the guy who picked you up.” Right?
“No.” Joy sounds completely lost. “That’s not him.” I hear her ask someone in the car. “You’re not Antonio, right?” A low, deep voice murmurs something to her that I can’t make out in response to her inquiry, and every single finger and toe I possess curls like a goddamn fern when she says, “He’s Antonio’s brother-in-law, Angel.”
Five
El Cuñado
Quentin tore open his yellow vest and the shirt underneath, revealing the powerful muscles of his ducal chest. “You’ve tempted the wrong Duke, Josepha!”
—Christina Thorbrad, The Quavers #1: Taste of a Duke
“Island, are you still there?”
I am. Sort of. My heart clanked to a stop, but I can already feel it roaring back to full speed. I was so wrong. Things could and did get worse. Antonio stabbed me in the back, and he’s never invited to a barbecue on my terrace again.
He rang Angel of all people.
Quick recap: I only met Angel Somoza once, and to his credit, at the time he stepped up to help us save the world from getting nuked by my sketchy uncle. However, Angel is also the very reason Antonio ended up trussed up in March’s trunk, as I mentioned earlier. Because, despite his indiscriminately offloading weapons to dictatures and cartels alike, Angel is a devout catholic, and as such, he exploded in just wrath upon discovering that Antonio had gotten his then eighteen-year-old sister pregnant. Outside. Marriage. Angel handled the Lord’s trial like any sane, concerned Christian would have; he hired a world-class hitman to eliminate the father of his sister’s unborn child. If that doesn’t speak to his volatile character, I don’t know what does.
And that’s the guy who just bailed Joy out of jail. No guns, no trouble. Right, Antonio?
Meanwhile, March’s eyebrows bounce back down after they took off all the way to his hairline, and he holds out his upturned palm, silently requesting the phone.
“I think March wants to speak to Angel.”
“Sure. Are you okay, though?”
I croak out a brittle cheer. “Of course! Putting March through.”
“Okay . . .”
March pulls me against his chest and rubs my shoulder with one hand while he takes the phone with the other. “Good evening, Angel. How have you been?”
“Busy,” he replies, the single word wrapped in his signature sandpapered Spanish drawl.
March persists, undeterred by this frigid greeting. “Island and I are infinitely grateful that you took the time to personally handle Joy’s legal troubles.”
“Antonio called from Guayaquil and asked me to cut my business meeting short.”
“And you did that?” I gasp, loud enough for him to hear.
“Beatriz insisted it was a matter of life and death.”