Submitting To The Devil - The Devil's Snare - Book 2

Chapter Eight Five

Niko

Our search yielded no results, leaving me with a sense of aimlessness and discontent. What the fuck am I missing here? As I stepped aboard the boat, I felt drained, the weight of disappointment heavy on my shoulders. "We're going to question my father," Mitchel announced with a determined glint in his eyes. "We'll sail there next."

"But what about all the other islands?" I interjected, frustration creeping into my voice as I gestured toward the horizon.

"Come on, Niko. Who the fuck have you turned into? Chasing our tails isn't going to get us anywhere," Mitchel replied, his tone firm but not unkind, perhaps maybe even pitying.

"We've spent hours wandering the remnants of a dead man's land to let you live out whatever fuckery you have going on in your mind. Trust me, talking to someone who is still alive will give us a better chance of finding answers."

"No," I began to protest, but Drake chimed in before I could gather my thoughts. His hand clamped on my shoulder as Luca looked up from his phone. I hated that look in his eyes; it upset me more than these two ganging up on me.

"Mitchel's right," Drake agreed, his brow furrowed slightly in thought. "Let's seek out the living; ask him about the mainland and the islands. He might have heard something of value. A real lead we can action."

"They're right," Luca sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if to shake off the weariness that clung to him with that admittance. Have they been...talking about my abilities?

"It's far better to pursue leads than to wander aimlessly across yet another untouched island that offers nothing but staggering silence and dwindling time," Drake sighed.

The collective agreement hung in the air, heavy with the promise of new possibilities as we prepared to set our course for the truth. So they set out for Aurelio's island, sailing us back towards the mainland before veering northwestern in the channel that we avoided just this morning. A vest is shoved at me, a demand to wear it below a top and jacket.

What the hell are we doing?

I slip my hand into the pocket of my jeans, fingers brushing against the smooth contours of my phone as I carefully retrieve it. A knot of unease tightens in my stomach at the thought of calling that informant—an individual I loathe yet find myself tethered to by necessity. With each purposeful step, I navigate toward the bow of the yacht, where the salty sea breeze playfully tousles my hair, invigorating my senses with the unmistakable scent of the ocean. The sun hangs gloriously overhead, casting a cascade of glittering diamonds upon the undulating surface of the water, each ripple glimmering in the midday light like a thousand scattered stars strewn across a celestial canvas.

As I tap the screen to dial, the phone emits a persistent tone, pulling me from the tranquillity of the moment back to the harsh reality of my situation—I'm reaching out to my father.

"Niko?" His voice crackles through the connection, laced with surprise.

"I need your help," I confess, hating the words even as they escape my lips. I resent owing him anything, but his connections run deep; after all, he worked for Dimitri's father, and that's one of the reasons Dimitri spared him when I begged for it.

"With?" he probes, curiosity creeping into his tone. It's not often I call him for anything.

"Tell me about Puro. Did Edoardo have any dealings with it?" I whisper, my voice barely above a hush, tinged with an embarrassment that feels almost palpable. I brace myself for his expected response.

"It'll cost you," he replies, that all-too-familiar smirk creeping into his tone. My anger surges anew, simmering just beneath the surface.

"Fifty grand for any lead that gets me to the heart of it," I assert, my voice sharp.