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Most customers drove to the remote location. This place wasn’t advertised nearly as well as it could have been, but part of me guessed that was by design. The fewer strangers poking around the better.

“What’s his name?” I peered around the door to look at the man. That scruff was a few days old, but the man underneath looked vaguely familiar.

“Tom Smithfield.”

I rubbed my chin on the back of my arm. Something was fishy, and it wasn’t the damn, stinking bait. I let Evangeliareturn to the register and her customers, while I tinkered in the back. When Leandros came to collect the fishermen, I followed them out. Keeping a distance, I watched and waited. The more I studied the Texan, the more I felt the sense that he wasn’t who he said he was.

What am I doing?I pushed a rock about with the toe of my sneaker. So what if the Texan was here under an alias? Lots of people did that for privacy reasons. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was right, and I wanted to know!

To prove to myself that I wasn’t crazy.

It took another half hour for them to load and leave. After the tourists departed, I lingered around the marina, pretending to organize tackle boxes until I spotted Tom’s boat—a sleek white vessel with tinted windows that screamed money. More money than your average fishing enthusiast might spend, considering most of the adventurers came here because these trips were a steal of a deal. The cars and trucks in the marina were older models, the tourists here on a fixed budget.

I glanced over my shoulder. No one was watching. Perfect.

Casually, I made my way down the dock, my footsteps light against the wooden planks. The boat was named Lady Luck in fancy script—how original. I climbed aboard, careful not to make any noise. The cabin door was locked, but the deck offered plenty to investigate.

This was madness.

There was no stopping it. I knew in my gut that I was right. And if the owner was here under a false name, what else was fake about him? Was he really here to fish? Suspicion raced through me.

I rifled through a tackle box, finding nothing unusual, then spotted a leather satchel tucked beneath a bench. Just as I reached for it, I heard footsteps on the dock.

“Serena!” Evangelia’s urgent whisper carried across the water. “What the hell are you doing?”

I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs like a prisoner desperate for escape. Abandoning the satchel, I straightened up and plastered an innocent smile across my face.

“Just admiring the boat,” I called back softly, trying to sound casual despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Evangelia’s eyes widened in panic as she gestured frantically for me to get off the vessel. “Are you insane? This isn’t some game. If they catch you—”

“They won’t,” I assured her, bending for the satchel. “I just wanted to see—”

“You don’t need to see anything,” she hissed.

There was a passport, United States and well-worn. I flipped it open.

David Parker.

And then, it clicked. One of the biggest land developers in the country. From the lazy hours in my brother’s Chicago home, with nothing better to do, I spent my days flipping through magazines. They weren’t all gossip rags, but David was in many of those as well as the business publications. He dated actresses and models; he raised money at galas; and he built modern cities with self-containing amenities.

I knew his history pretty damn well for never having met the man.

“See this!” I held up the passport in triumph.

“If he comes back—” Evangelia started.

A darker voice cut her off. “If he has cameras, you’re screwed.”

I whipped around to see the mobster strolling down the dock.

“He doesn’t,” I gulped. “I checked.”

“Odd thing for him to leave lying on his deck then,” Markos countered.

I shrugged. “Big players get cocky.”

It was as if Sandro was in my head. I could hear him now, yelling at Leo to stay under the radar after my brother made the tabloids.