“You need chairs,” Ava grouses, leaning against the intricate railing.
“I’ll speak to an interior designer. You’ll give your input on the chairs. Anything else?”
A peculiar look falls over her face, tightening her brows.
“What?” I lean an elbow onto the railing, engrossed by her beauty.
“Wondering a few things. How you’re not freezing. However, you’re right. The cool air feels amazing. I’m astonished by half of what flies from your mouth. Such as,” Ava takes on a stately voice, “ ‘I’ll hire a designer, and I’d sure love your opinion.’ ”
I smile. “That’s not what I said.”
“Paraphrasing, sheesh.” Maneuvering her arm outside of the blanket, Ava shifts the left side, which was falling, up her body. As I reach out and assist her, she tucks herself back into the blanket.
A light whisper extends in my direction. “Thanks.”
I cock a brow. “What was that? Come again.”
The air between us crackles with electricity. I’m mentally telling mybawsit’s time for round two as the milky moon reflects in Ava’s gaze.
She takes a step forward, still favoring the railing as we stare at each other. “My . . . um . . . parents had a fishing boat on a private dock in Belize. Nothing luxurious, small-town business owners. Papa made a little extra money selling fish to the market. Primarily, Mama supported his desire to cook.”
A cool wind passes between us, and Ava’s eyes slowly descend for a moment.
“Yeah, Mama was pretty much supporting his passion. Our restaurant patrons consisted of town people. Also, the few tourists who lacked the extra funds for the overpriced cruise-led excursions or those who wandered off the beaten path. Our little place is where they worked; we lived. It was our life.” Her voice cracks into a billion wee fragments, and I feel more like afeckingbawbagwhile Ava sets up the story. A story to which I predict the bitter ending.
“Our slice of heaven,” Ava murmurs in Spanish. Before I can nod, she translates it for me. She adds, “A place on the wharf that the police didn’t patrol. A place?”
“That appealed to the bad guys,” I murmur.
“Very bad,bad guys.” Ava’s chest deflates. “The first round was all intimidation tactics. I remember being six years old and walking home from school.”
My thoughts grow darker than the forest surrounding us. I firmly demand, “Who were these people?”
“Colombians.”
I let out an inaudible sigh of relief. My suppliers are from the Mexican cartel. These days, the biggest Colombian cartel affiliates are Russians. ThosefeckingResnovs forged a connection with them ages ago.
“What were their names?”
A rogue tear glides down Ava’s cheek. She flinches, perhaps recalling her helpless position. Capturing the small of Ava’s back, she gasps as I brush my mouth over the tear.
“Their names, Ava.”
Her gander trails to the silhouette of the stables. “Kier, this was twenty years ago.”
“Tell me all you recall. I insist.”
“One of the guys who came by at all hours of the night was Hector. My father tried to sell our land in secret. That pissed them all off.”
“Any other names? Cartel affiliations?” I ask, skimming the back of my hand over her cheekbone. Her lovely body curls into me while her tear-streaked face settles at the crux of my neck.
“What happened next, little bird?”
“They found out Papa tried to sell my mama’s family land. They were angry. They’d offered him pennies on the dollar. Although he wasn’t asking around for too much more, it was the principle. They burned down the pier, so we ended up with nothing. On the streets of my birth home.”
Enraged, I take a couple of breaths before responding. “Nobody helped you?”That’s what a clan is for!
“In the beginning, Mama’s childhood friends tried. We had support. Hector controlled pretty much the entire town. Even an attorney attempted to assist my parents—a guy who was helping us get back to America the right way.”