The sunset was perfect. The kind of Miami sunset that made you understand why people paid eight million dollars for oceanfront property — the sky turned from gold to pink to crimson in the space of ten minutes, and the water caught every color and threw it back doubled. I was on the beach with Sofia, sitting in the sand, her head on my shoulder, watching the light die.
For five minutes, it was perfect.
Then Isabella arrived.
She didn't walk. She appeared — the way she always appeared, as if the universe had rearranged itself to accommodate her entrance. She was wearing a swimsuit that was technically legal and strategically criminal, and she sat down on my other side with the practiced casualness of a woman who wanted this to look accidental.
"What a coincidence," she said.
"You live in the villa fifty feet away," Sofia said.
