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I turn to Sid, my voice low and urgent. “Listen, you need to be careful. Isabella’s Juan Vasquez’s sister. He’s looking for her, and he’s dangerous.”

To my surprise, Sid doesn’t look fazed. Instead, he reaches behind a filing cabinet and pulls out a weathered shotgun. “I appreciate the warning,” he says, a glint of steel in his eyes, “but I’ve dealt with worse than cartel thugs in my day. Mobsters, loan sharks—you name it. I can handle myself.”

“Good to know,” I nod, reassessing the old man. There’s clearly more to Sid than meets the eye. “But still, watch your back. Juan isn’t someone to underestimate.”

“Will do.” Sid pumps the shotgun.

My mind races. We need to move fast. Juan’s men could be closing in, and now that we’ve discovered the tracker, they’ll know we’re onto them. I glance at Isabella, seeing the fear in her eyes. Whatever comes next, I know one thing for certain—I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.

I slip Isabella’s watch onto her wrist, securely fastening it. My hand finds hers, our fingers intertwining as we leave through the rear door of the antique shop. The humid New Orleans air hits us like a wall, thick with the scent of jasmine and distant rain.

My eyes scan the street, searching for any sign of Juan’s men. Nothing seems out of place, but that doesn’t mean we’re safe.

“Stay close,” I murmur to Isabella, guiding her towards my bike.

As we ride back to the motel, I take a circuitous route, doubling back and cutting through side streets. Can’t be too careful. Isabella’s arms are wrapped tight around my waist, herchin resting on my shoulder. I can feel her tension, matching my own.

Back in the relative safety of my motel room, I fire off a quick text to Fang: “Tracker found in watch. Juan’s closing in. Keep eyes open.” Then I turn to Isabella, who’s pacing the worn carpet. “Anything else Juan might’ve bugged?”

She bites her lip, thinking. “Other than my car, I can’t think of anything. Are you sure Fang didn’t find a tracker? Juan had access to it plenty of times.”

“Nothing. Also, don’t get mad, but we ditched it last night.”

“What?”

“It’s in the swamp now.”

“Why would you do that?” she demands.

“We had to be sure.”

“Guess it doesn’t matter now.” She slumps onto the bed and puts her hands over her face.

“Bella, everything’s going to be okay. I’ll get you a new one when all of this is over.”

“It’s okay,” she says, sounding broken. “I don’t need it anyway.”

“No, you don’t. You’re staying with me.”

“Of course I’m not leaving,” she says, sniffing.

Something warm unfurls in my chest. “Good, because I’m not letting you out of my sight either. Hey,” I say softly, cupping her face. “What’s wrong?”

Isabella takes a shaky breath while brushing her fingers across the watch face. “It’s just… Sometimes it all feels like it’s too much and I’d give anything to have my grandmother hug me again. To have her kiss my cheek one last time.”

I understand the ache of loss all too well. “I get it.”

She looks up at me, curiosity mingling with her sadness. “What about your family? Are your grandmothers still alive?”

A humorless laugh escapes me. “None of my family’s still kicking, actually.”

“But… you can’t be that old. How is that possible?”

“I’m thirty-five. Let’s just say my family lived hard and fast. Didn’t leave much room for growing old.” As I say the words, I feel the familiar weight of solitude settle over me. But then Isabella’s hand finds mine, her touch warm and comforting.

“Tell me about them,” she says.

I take a deep breath as memories come flooding back. “My parents died in a boating accident. Out on Lake Pontchartrain. Storm came up out of nowhere, capsized their little sailboat.” I can still see the headlines, feel the gut punch of that phone call. I’d just turned eighteen and I was forced into adulthood without a life raft.