Chapter Twenty-One

Marcus and I were whizzing toward the beaches of Rio de Janeiro in the back of a canary yellow taxi, much like we had in so many foreign cities before as we searched for my sister. Only this time, Keira wasn’t being held hostage in Italy. She was on the other side of the world, holding hands with Antonio.

“She’s fine. They’re fine,” Marcus repeated.

He didn’t even sound annoyed that he still had to convince me to trust his brother, which was more patience than I would ever have, especially given that I was forcing this plan on everyone and the only compromise I made was splitting up our rival crime families. We were becoming the Montagues and the Capulets, the Hatfields and the McCoys, the Red Sox and the Yankees. Though for now, the Reys and the Phoenixes were united in our common enemy—the Urbans.

Last night, Charlotte received another baby picture via email. It was anonymous, untraceable. In it, I was seated in a pumpkin patch in what looked to be Urban’s backyard. It must have been part of a Dresden Halloween party, though I wasn’t sure. I looked about two years old at the time, and I had never seen the photograph before. No one else was pictured, so I assumed Urban snapped it himself—a picture of me, taken years ago, and he still kept it. Did he always know? Or maybe suspect?

Stop it. That man is not your father. He’s a sperm donor. That’s it.

Of course, he was also a sperm donor with an album of baby pictures that he was sending from his hideout at the risk of his own freedom.

He also kidnapped my sister. And tried to kill my parents.

I squeezed my eyes shut, wrapping my arms around my chest. Sometimes it felt like the ache on the inside was worse than anything a spy could inflict on the outside.

“You okay?” Marcus rubbed my leg.

I nodded. He knew about the photo. Everyone did. No more secrets this time, and definitely not when we were all about to hunt down two more Dresden Kids with the ability to bring down the Urbans. We debated whether the photo was a hint that he knew about our plans in Rio and Barcelona—the timing was very coincidental. But there was no threat associated with it, no message. And Cross insisted Urban wouldn’t try to hurt me (or my sister) again. If anything, the photo confirmed our strategy to split up the groups—keep Keira and I separate, to lessen the chance that dangerous spies might attack. Of course, we also debated walking away; actually, they yelled and I didn’t listen. Antonio was the only one who agreed with me, saying baby pictures were not the way Department D sent threats. Killing Tyson in an alley, that was how they threatened, that was their style. And that was the organization my parents created.

This better work.

“Do you want me to call my friends in Barcelona? See if Keira and Antonio checked in?” Marcus offered, squeezing my leg tighter, misreading my nerves and trying to reassure me. But that wasn’t it, or it wasn’t only it, and his touch merely made me tense further, my body fighting the urge to smack away his hand and hold it closer. I felt guilty feeling anything other than focused right now. This was my plan.

“It’s okay. I’m sure they’re fine.” I shifted away, needing to force the tingles to subside.

I rolled down my window, the thick, muggy air brushing against my face with the smell of car exhaust. Outside, tin-roofed homes lined the highway, accented by colorful laundry lines haphazardly crisscrossing with a web of electrical wires. Bright graffiti decorated the crumbling facades as brown-skinned locals sat on overturned buckets and strolled down trash-littered streets with sweat seeping through their tank tops. The tourists weren’t supposed to notice this part of Brazil, but it wasn’t exactly hidden. The dark underbelly was always there.

“I knew it would be hot, but this…” Marcus pulled at his black T-shirt, fanning himself, exposing a strip of toned belly.

I swiftly averted my eyes. “Reminds me of Miami.”

Finally, our taxi turned onto a boulevard with six lanes of heavy traffic and a stretch of white beach. No, this reminds me of Miami. Boxy high-rise hotels lined one side of the thoroughfare, their ivory facades matching the sand that stretched along the opposite way. Volleyball nets were staked periodically, along with white umbrellas protecting the tourists, and precisely spaced palm trees. There was nothing but tropical perfection between our car and the turquoise waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

“Well, this doesn’t suck,” Marcus said, the salty air coating our tongues.

“It’s definitely not England,” I agreed, and my shoulders actually relaxed. No more cold damp British sky. Just the sight of the ocean brought calm. How did it do that? I swore every time I saw a beach I promised I’d never live anywhere else, then I inevitably moved to another concrete city.

“I’m glad we came. You were right.” Marcus leaned his head my way. “This will be good. For everyone.” His dark eyes bore into me, so intense I wasn’t sure if he was talking about obtaining information on Urban or sharing a romantic moment. But given the way he was staring at my lips, I was guessing it was the latter—as if the postcard locale wasn’t distraction enough.

…

The meal was worthy of the cover of a glossy culinary magazine. Marcus and I sat in an open-air restaurant bordering a horse-racing track, which was abandoned for the evening, practically licking our plates of tender South American steak. There were candles on the tables, tropical tangerine flowers climbing up the walls, and Jesus looking down from the mountaintop. Literally.

The restaurant, which was recommended by the four-star hotel Julian had booked for our stay, sat below the elaborately lit Christ Redeemer statue, which was to Rio what the Statue of Liberty was to New York City. The cultural icon was visited by every tourist, like you hadn’t really been there unless you snapped the obligatory shot. However, in Rio, the statue sat high on a hill, meaning you could see it from almost every spot in the city. Look up, and there was Jesus, his arms stretched wide as he looked down on everything you did. Even in the dark of night. With so many strobes pointed at it, his bright white presence appeared to be floating in heaven.

“I can’t stop staring at Jesus,” I said as I gawked at the statue in the distance.

“It is hard to miss. Hermoso, no?” Marcus reached for my hand.

“Sí, but also a bit intimidating.” I pulled my hand away.

I was trying hard not to feel romantic, but Marcus spent the entire meal staring at me with eyes that practically screamed, “Say the word, and I’ll tear your clothes off right now.” His gaze was growing nearly impossible to ignore, particularly since he hadn’t ever torn off my clothes. After the night I pushed him away and told him I wasn’t ready, Marcus backed off. We were more focused on reconnecting and getting past my doubts about his family. Now we were alone in Rio, visibly sweating from both the heat in the air and the look in one another’s eyes. I couldn’t get the hairs on my arms to lie down.

“You look really pretty,” he said, his eyes moving over my dress.

Our Dresden target worked as a bartender at high-end weddings. To blend with the guests tonight, I was wearing an asymmetrical, one-shoulder black cocktail dress with an incredibly short and fluttery hemline. Julian ordered it, without telling me, and had it delivered to our hotel.

“Gracias,” I said, my cheeks burning from the compliment. “You look handsome, too.”

Marcus was wearing a trim black suit with wingtip shoes, not his standard motorcycle boots, all courtesy of Julian. He reached for my hand once more, and I sat back, practically sitting on my palms to keep from touching him. A blinking, neon, kiss-me sign would have been less of a distraction.

“I can’t stop thinking about Urban,” I said, forcing a change in conversation. “What if that photo was a threat? What if Keira is in danger?”

“Then it’s a good thing she’s with my brother.”

My jaw tightened. He knew I didn’t agree, but I didn’t want to argue. Not with him, not now.

“We made our decision. Worrying about it isn’t going to change things,” he reasoned.

“How can you be so calm? How can you not hate me?” I blurted. “I’ve been a jerk to your brother, I accused your parents of being criminals, I dragged you around Europe after spies practically the day after we met, and you’re still so chill. How do you do that?” I tossed up my hands, shoulders pressed high, my whole body on alert.

Marcus gave a lazy smile in return. “I’d be bored anywhere else, and you keep it interesting.”

“You’re crazy,” I teased.

“Maybe.” He glanced at my lips. “But I think you like it.” The way he was staring at me was as if he wanted to flip the table over and wrap my legs around him. I could hardly breathe.

Slowly, he reached forward, and I let him touch me, a finger brushing mine. Heat instantly raced through my body. “I can’t wait to see you on the dance floor,” he said.

I jolted back. “What?”

Dancing? We were not dancing. We needed to find our Dresden Kid in that wedding and get out. But as Marcus paid the check, his eyes twinkling, it was clear he had other plans.

He put down the pen and stood, his dimples aimed at me like he knew the effect they had. “Sí, we’re dancing.”

I rose to meet him, shaking my head. “We might be a little busy.”

“And I might have to disagree.” He grabbed my waist and pulled me toward him, kissing me before my brain could object.

I didn’t pull away.

I didn’t want to.

And that was the problem.