Page 113 of What Doesn't Kill You…

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Damien's estate was in chaos. His security force had fled the property like cockroaches running from sunlight. Then there were the dead bodies. Violet wasn't sure of the current toll, but it was bound to increase—Abasi was still outside, in the darkness, eliminating trouble with the cool precision of a born assassin.

Violet didn't care about the men she'd killed, and that probably said more about her character than she liked to admit. But Max was not cut from the same cloth. Max was in shock. She could practically feel his guilt, it was so overwhelming. And undeserved.

"It was an accident," she told him as she got him to his feet. "All you did was shove him out of the way and he fell. You didn't kill him. It's not your fault." He showed no sign that her words were penetrating.

She waved at Rodrigo. "I'm taking Max to Harvey. He needs medical help."

Rodrigo nodded, his expression filled with understanding. "Looks like he took a helluva beating." He held up his radio. "Katrina has your family isolated in a corner suite on the top floor of the hotel. Harris sweettalked the night manager into giving him the room and keeping it off the record, so nobody knows we're using it. It was the best we could do, under the circumstances, to keep your family safe."

"I appreciate it." Violet wedged her shoulder under Max's arm.

He seemed dazed and his eyes kept straying to Damien. The weirdest part of all was he'd stopped talking. It was unnatural.

"Do you need help getting him to the hotel?" Rodrigo asked.

She shook her head. "Best if you stay and sort things out here. Have you called the police?" Not that St. Patrice had much of a force, but it was a start, and it was needed.

"They're on their way." He smiled wryly. "So are the DEA. Abasi broke into the warehouse and found a comprehensive drug smuggling op, so he told Rochelle to inform her contacts they'd better get to the island before it disappeared. As in, tonight."

"Must have hurt Abasi to call in the cops." Violet felt a twinge of amusement for the former mobster. Law enforcement of any shape and form made him break out in hives.

"I don't think he'll ever recover," Rodrigo said with a smile.

Max stirred beside Violet. "Did we get photos of Damien's partner?" His voice sounded kind of hollow, as though he was only partly present.

Violet looked at Rodrigo, after all, she'd handed the camera to him.

He shook his head, genuinely remorseful. "Sorry, Max, the guy was gone at the first sign of trouble. But Abasi disabled his boat so he can't escape the island that easily. I called Harris and told him to go down to the dock to take photos. We'll find out who he is."

"It doesn't matter," Max said without emotion. "If I don't have hard evidence of him with Damien, all I've got is proof he visited the island. He could have been here for any reason. He'll just tell people it was a wedding. The story's dead."

"Okay," Violet said to Rodrigo. "The sooner he's checked out and back to his annoyingly optimistic self, the better."

Rodrigo jerked his head in the direction of the front of the house. "I saw a couple of golf carts parked outside. Grab one of those, it'll make things easier."

"Good thinking." Violet turned Max in the right direction before another thought struck her. "Wait, what do my family know?"

Rodrigo grimaced. "Everything. Sorry, but we didn't have a choice."

"Great," Violet grumbled. She'd just finished one fight and now she had to gear up for round two.

"Hey, boss man," Logan called from the doorway. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, buzzing with barely contained excitement. "I found a wall safe."

Violet paused. "Can you get into it?"

The triplet looked smug. "Already did." He waggled his fingers. "These hands are magic."

"And did you find anything?" Rodrigo said.

"I found the mother lode, dude." Logan beamed at them. "I've got Damien's laptop."

Violet would have been more impressed if Max had shown any sort of reaction to the news, but he didn't.

"We'll talk about it later," she said and headed for the door.

Violet found her family exactly where Rodrigo said they would be. And they'd armed themselves. Her mother, sister and brother-in-law all wielded golf clubs, while her father held a knife, and her two nieces hid behind the sofa with—Violet's stomach lurched at the sight—unlit Molotov cocktails in their hands. Her grandmother, who was unarmed but not defenseless, had taken up a classic martial arts attack pose.