Page 134 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
“Marco was supposed to be buried,” I say. “Literally or metaphorically, I didn’t care which.”
“He was. Until someone in his old crew got nervous or greedy. And now, they’re flipping. As Moretti said:‘The dead don’t stay quiet unless you shut the mouths of the living.’”
I hiss out a breath. “Is he demanding we handle it?”
“No,” Brennan says, his voice suddenly flat. “He’s warning us. This wasn’t a threat—it was afavor.”
That hits harder than I expect. A favor from the Moretti family isn’t generosity. It’s a chess move. They don’t warn you unless they’re already playing you. “You believe him?”
Brennan shrugs. “I believe he wants the fallout to stay out of the press. I believe he wants to keep the other families from panicking. If Marco’s chatter drags out secrets about other shipping records, he’s got just as much to lose as we do.”
“And we’re the ones with a fucking Senate campaign on the horizon.”
“Exactly.”
I drag my drink closer and stare into the depths. Then I glance back at him. “What’s the ask?”
Brennan looks at me sharply. “You’re assuming there is one.”
“There always is.”
His jaw tightens. “He didn’t say it, but it’s clear. We keep the judge on our side. Keep the feds busy with headlines, not subpoenas.”
“So we pretend it’s all business as usual.”
“And keep Vale Imports squeaky clean from this moment forward.”
I finish my whiskey and slam the glass down. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. We paid every debt. We closed every loop.” And none of us figured Marco would be the one to break—not after everything that happened in the past.
The yacht creaks gently around us. The sea is calm, but the air feels wrong. Like a storm is sitting just beyond the horizon, waiting for the signal.
Above deck, Isla is probably enjoying her cocktail, reading her book like the world isn’t tilting.
I close my eyes for a second and picture her—curled up in a chaise, hair loose, drink in hand, thinking she’s escaped.
But the past is clawing its way forward.
And I just brought her right into the heart of it.
As if my thoughts have conjured her, the door slides open with a whisper. Isla stands just inside, no hat, her hair wind-tossed and slightly damp, clinging to her cheeks. She’s gripping her phone like it might shatter in her hand. Her face has drained of color.
“Isla.” After exchanging a glance with Brennan, I cross toher and gently fold my hands around her shoulders. “Is something wrong?”
Behind me, Brennan straightens from where he was leaning against the bar, alert now. He moves closer, not intruding but present. Watching. Assessing. Always a heartbeat away from taking action.
“Isla?” I prompt again.
“There was a message.” Her voice is too soft. Too controlled.
“What kind of message?”
She hesitates for half a second, her gaze flicking between me and Brennan. Finally she says, “About you.”
I release her to take her phone. Then I swipe the screen to see the words.
Tell your husband to watch his back.
Debts don’t disappear.
