Chapter 10 - Blood and Blue Petals
Six months later.
The morning sun rose over the jagged, turquoise coastline of southern Portugal, painting the whitewashed cliffs of an isolated villa in shades of pale gold and terracotta. The Atlantic Ocean stretched out to the horizon, endless, calm, and entirely free of federal jurisdiction.
The terrace of the villa was made of weathered stone. A low breeze drifted up from the water, carrying the sharp, clean scent of salt, wild rosemary, and blooming bougainvillea.
Hazel Reed sat at a wrought-iron table beneath the shade of an olive tree, sipping black espresso from a ceramic cup.
She wore loose, cream-colored linen trousers and a simple white silk blouse, her dark hair falling freely down her back, untouched by pins or sprays. Her laptop was open in front of her, displaying an encrypted terminal that routed funds through three separate shell companies in Panama, Zurich, and Singapore.
Sullivan Enterprise in Chicago was dead, dissolved into bankruptcy filings and seized assets.
The new entity—registered under an anonymous holding foundation in Lisbon—was already three times more profitable, completely invisible, and wholly untouchable.
Footsteps echoed softly against the stone terrace.
Callum stepped out into the sunlight.
He wore no suit, no tie, no polished Italian shoes. He wore dark linen trousers, an open-collared navy shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, showing the faded black ink of old tattoos. The hard, violent lines of his face hadn't disappeared, but the manic, sleep-deprived tension that had haunted him in Chicago had settled into a quiet, lethal authority.
He held a small brass tray containing two fresh pastries and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.
He set the tray on the table beside her laptop, then leaned down, his mouth brushing against the warm skin of her neck, right where the pulse beat beneath her jaw.
“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice low and raspy from sleep.
Hazel tilted her head into the touch, a faint, genuine smile curving her lips—the kind of smile he had waited three years to see.
“The Zurich accounts cleared,” she said, pointing to the monitor. “We just acquired sixty percent of the maritime shipping lanes out of Tangier. The Mediterranean is ours by the end of the quarter.”
Callum didn't look at the screen. He pulled out the chair beside her, sat down, and reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.
“I don't care about Tangier,” he said softly, his dark eyes fixed entirely on her face. “Are you happy here?”
Hazel looked out at the ocean, watching the white sails of a distant fishing boat drift across the horizon. For the first time in her life, there were no subpoenas, no wiretaps, no corporate masks to maintain.
“I’m alive,” she said quietly, squeezing his hand. “And I’m free.”
Then, the iron gate at the foot of the villa’s long gravel driveway chimed.
Callum’s posture shifted in a fraction of a second. His hand dropped to the underside of the wrought-iron table, where a suppressed SIG Sauer pistol was mounted in a magnetic holster.
A private courier on a vintage Vespa had stopped at the gate. The man hopped off, walked up the stone pathway, and bowed politely to Callum and Hazel.
“Pardon, senhor,” the courier said in heavily accented English, holding out a rectangular cardboard delivery box wrapped in brown kraft paper. “A delivery from the port office in Faro. Arrived on the morning freight ferry from Gibraltar.”
Callum’s eyes narrowed into lethal slits. “Who sent it?”
“No name, sir,” the courier said, placing the box on the edge of the stone balustrade. “Just addressed to Senhora Reed.”
The courier tipped his cap and hurried back down the driveway, the engine of his scooter buzzing away into the coastal silence.
Callum rose slowly, his weapon cleared from the magnetic holster, held low against his right thigh. He approached the box, inspecting the seams, checking for wires, pressure plates, or chemical residue.
It was a standard florist’s container.
Hazel stood up, walking to his side, her breath holding in her throat.
Callum used the tip of a small pocketknife to slice through the packing tape. He pulled back the heavy cardboard flaps.
Inside the box, resting on a bed of damp green tissue paper, was a single, freshly cut arrangement of blue hydrangeas and white lilies.
Tucked between the blue petals was a small, cream-colored envelope.
Callum didn't touch it. His heart felt as though it had stopped beating entirely. The cloying, sweet scent of lilies drifted into the warm Portuguese air, cutting through the smell of the sea like a blade.
Hazel reached forward with steady, deliberate fingers.
She pulled the envelope from the flowers.
She opened the flap and pulled out a heavy linen card.
Written across the center in elegant, handwritten black ink was a single sentence:
Chicago was just the first round. See you in Tangier, Hazel.
No signature.
May you like
Hazel stared at the card.
Callum stared at the blue hydrangeas, his knuckles turning dead white around the grip of his pistol, the old, dark fire roaring back to life in his eyes as he looked out across the open, glittering sea.
