The flight had drained him—twenty-five hours in coach felt like an eternity. Clayton unfolded himself from the cramped seat, grabbing his bag and muttering a silent prayer of thanks for standing upright again.

The airport buzzed with life. Travelers streamed around him in waves, a sea of voices and motion. Clayton's height drew the usual stares, but he brushed them off with the ease of someone long accustomed to attention. Adjusting his sunglasses, he strode forward, carving a path through the chaos.

When the glass doors slid open, the heat rushed in—a thick, wet blanket that clung to his skin and settled in his lungs. He paused, letting the weight of the air hit him. He'd quit smoking for good reason—this was the kind of heat that could knock him on his ass if he hadn't.

Scanning the crowd outside, his eyes landed on Samuel. The man stood tall and grinning, holding a sign scrawled with "senhor idiota" in bold lettering. Samuel's grin widened when their eyes met.

Clayton smirked despite himself. As he approached, Samuel greeted him with a firm hug and a slap on the back.

"You took your sweet time," Samuel said, his tone sharp but playful as he took the bag from Clayton's hand.

"Because twenty-five hours in the air is a leisurely stroll," Clayton replied, yawning. He needed a shower. A call to Alice was overdue, too—she'd want to know he'd arrived safely. He hoped she was being careful behind the wheel of that reckless excuse for a car.

"Ruth and Danny should be here by Thursday. They're still basking in the honeymoon glow—sickening, really," Samuel quipped as he slid into the driver's seat of the Jeep.

Clayton groaned inwardly. Jeeps were cramped, and his long legs always paid the price. He missed his red truck, now under Alice's watchful care.

Resting his head against the seat, he muttered, "And you're not in the honeymoon phase with... what's her name? Catherine? Chloe? You've been spending a lot of time with her. What's the deal?"

Samuel glanced at him, smirking, before focusing back on the road. "It's Celia. She's fun—spicy, but a little much sometimes. Anyway, not planning to give up the whores for her just yet. Keep that between us, though. Alice would absolutely murder me—best friends and all."

He wasn't wrong; Alice was formidable when angry, in an oddly endearing way, Clayton thought, his lips twitching at the memory.

Samuel interrupted his thoughts, grinning slyly. "But seriously, man, I can't believe you're engaged. You're ditching me for someone only a few years younger than me. Girls everywhere are weeping! We've gotta plan a bachelor party. As your unofficial best man. I'm thinking strippers, coke, and Tijuana since Alice is having hers in Cancun."

"Maybe Vegas," Clayton countered, a nervous edge creeping into his voice. "Or Nashville. Miami could work too. You know—without the hookers and drugs."

"Domesticated already." Samuel raised an eyebrow but let it go with a laugh.

Meanwhile, Clayton shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sensing the familiar tension between their opposing worlds. Samuel's casual, detached approach to relationships grated against Clayton's efforts to stay grounded, faithful. A bachelor party sounded like one last adventure, but it couldn't be wild—he owed that to Alice.

Clearing his thoughts, he turned his attention to his phone—a battered silver iPhone, its cracked screen a testament to his carelessness. The device buzzed, and his expression softened. It was Alice.

"Hey babe. Hope the flight went well. Just finished school and starting work. Call me when you're free—no rush. I found a venue. I love it. I love you. P.S. Thanks for the truck! x"

A smile tugged at his lips as he read her message. She was always thinking ahead, balancing school, work, and planning their life together. His fingers moved quickly as he replied:

"Hey love. Made it to Rio—Samuel grabbed me from the airport. Exhausted. Hungry... not for food. Hope you're behaving and thinking about the wedding. I'll call after some sleep."

Alice's response was almost instant:

"Glad you're safe! Picked up extra shifts to save for the wedding. Ten months to go! The venue: the State Room —I'll send the link. I love you and will be thinking of you tonight."

Clayton exhaled, a sense of calm washing over him. She was worth it—to all of it.

*****

They wove through the crowd, the sights of poverty glaring as they parked in the neighborhood.

The new place stood small and worn, guarded by rusted iron gates. The smell of trash from the sidewalks hit Clayton's nostrils like an unkind slap.

This will do, he thought as he hoisted his bags, trailing Samuel up the creaking steps.

Inside, the house was barren—a far cry from Boston. Wooden floors stretched uneven beneath his feet. No TV adorned the walls, and the thin partitions between rooms made every muffled sound of neighborly arguments a shared experience. He grimaced, certain that once Ruth and Daniel arrived, their escapades would reverberate unabashedly next door.

Clayton dropped his bags onto the single bed, its frame too short for him. He stretched out briefly, his feet dangling past the edge, and exhaled deeply.

The shower awaited him, stationed awkwardly beside the kitchen. Samuel's voice carried from the adjacent room—a phone call perhaps.

The bathroom was hardly inviting. Its cramped quarters reeked of bleach and stale cigarettes, remnants of what Clayton imagined to be the lives of addicts or dealers who had once called it home.

He undressed swiftly, stepping under the hot spray. It washed over him like absolution, if only for a fleeting moment.

One month. That's all I've got, he muttered internally.

Finding his future father-in-law was no small task, and Clayton had a gut feeling Fredrick was involved, his hands somehow tainted. Tomorrow, he'd start with Carlos—an old friend with connections to the black market, a man who always had answers, or knew where to find them.

He lingered in the shower until the water turned cold. Even then, his thoughts churned incessantly: The Three Kings. Richard Booth. Philip's looming presence as the enforcer. None of it aligned neatly.

Clayton emerged, towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He brushed his teeth, catching his reflection in the mirror. The scars—crude remnants of stitches hurriedly done by Ruth—spanned his chest, stark reminders of past pain. She hadn't hidden her satisfaction in tending to his injuries. She thrived on it.

The apartment was quiet now. Samuel was gone, likely for the night. Clayton couldn't fathom how Alice handled solitude so easily. The thought gnawed at him.

After dressing for bed, he made a turkey sandwich—the only salvageable item in the barren kitchen—and perched on the sagging brown couch. The distant hum of cars and loud neighbors were his only companions.

Firing up his Apple Mac, courtesy of the boss, Clayton began searching for any trace of Richard Booth.

Minutes turned to frustration. No digital footprint, no Facebook, no banking records—Richard operated entirely in cash and under pseudonyms. One-star hotels were his sanctuary.

Clayton growled low in his throat, the feeling of being three steps behind gnawing at him.

Exhaustion tugged at his edges. He left the laptop behind, returning to the stifling bedroom. Sheets remained crumpled at the foot of the bed, untouched in the heat of the night.

Lying down, he drifted into uneasy dreams, where the only solace was Alice.

****

A jolt dragged Clayton out of restless sleep, his hand fumbling across the nightstand for his phone. The screen glared at him—two missed calls from Alice. His heart skipped as he dialed her number, the oppressive heat of Brazil making his chest tight.

She answered almost immediately. "Hello," Alice whispered, her voice soft, like the beginning of a dream. It soothed him in a way he hadn't realized he needed.

"Miss Allie," he murmured, savoring the sound of her name as he checked the time. Midnight in Boston—her sleepy voice confirmed it.

"Hey, Mr. Clayton." A gentle yawn followed, and he imagined her sprawled out in her cool sheets. The thought brought a smile, even as he felt the stifling contrast of his surroundings.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Clayton said, his words soaked in longing. "Just... missed hearing your voice. It's so hot here."

Alice giggled, the sound of it a breath of fresh air. "Maybe a good spot for our honeymoon."

"Maybe," he said, his grin fading as her drowsiness tugged at him like a distant tide. "I'll let you sleep, babe. I love you."

"Love you, too," Alice murmured through another yawn, her voice fading as the call ended.

Clayton stared at the darkened screen, his chest heavy with the silence. Alone in the sweltering Brazilian night, he missed her more than the Boston air.