Ever since I saw Juliette's name in the paper, it's as If I'd been injured all over again.

Juliette, an escort?

The very idea leaves me with a head full of black, angry thoughts. What led her to sell her body? Wasn't the money I gave her enough? Who helped her? Victoria, most likely.

I'm going to kill Victoria if she got Juliette into this.

Who hired her? Did she enjoy it when another man worshipped her body? Did she think of me?

And then, the worst thought of all: it's all my fault.

If I'd gotten out of the drug business when she asked, if I hadn't been so greedy for that five million from Paul, if I hadn't wanted to do one more deal for my ego, then Juliette would never be in this position. I chose to love an innocent girl, and I've ruined her life.

Yeah, it's my fault.

For the last two weeks, I've moped around the rehab wing, alternately fueled in my physical recovery by anger and an eagerness to get the fuck out of this place.

Priority one: Zoe. I'm choosing to believe she's not dead. That she's in Miami, waiting for me. Or she went somewhere else to evade authorities. That's a possibility I hadn't initially considered. But does she know where I am?

Priority two: Juliette. Will she want me when I return? Will she be angry? Has she become hard and brittle like Victoria? It's almost certain she won't be the sweet girl I knew all those months ago. It's inconceivable that it's been nearly four months since I've seen her. Four months since I last kissed her, four months since I held her in my arms, four months since I watched her face light up when I called her an angel.

She probably thinks I'm dead, and it's almost too much to bear. When she finds out otherwise, she might not forgive me. But I need to try, to apologize and grovel so I can get her out of whatever hell she's in and repair our lives. Together. We'll be okay when we're together again.

We'll start over.

And so, I work to get stronger. Lifting weights, doing balancing exercises, practicing gentle yoga. Each day I feel my strength return, drop by drop.

Today, I'm in the gym, walking on the treadmill. It's not a formal physical therapy session with Hans; I'm doing this on my own. Walking slow, just to move and not lie around in misery all day and watch Dutch TV.

An orderly walks in, an older man I've seen before. "Finn," he calls out in accented, cheerful English. "You have a visitor."

I nearly stumble on the treadmill and have to yank the red plug so the belt stops.

"What? Visitors?"

"Two visitors, actually. They said you'll know them."

With shaking legs, I step off the machine.

"Women?" Please let this be Zoe and Juliette. Please. I want to wrap both of them in my arms and never let go. I realize I'm smiling, and it feels unfamiliar to my facial muscles. I want to smile every fucking day. With Zoe and Juliette.

The orderly shakes his head. "Two men. They're waiting for you in the family room."

Two men?

"Thank you."

This can't be good. The only men I know who would track me here are drug agents. My heart pounds as I make my way down a corridor to the family room, which is normally where patients spend time with their children. It's decorated with murals of animals and there are bright plastic toys strewn about. I'd never been in, but have looked inside on my various laps around the building in recent days.

When I get to the door, I see someone has slid a sign to say, "Family room - in use by F. Davidson." I swallow and swing the door open.

I don't recognize either man. Fuck. They both glance up, and by their steely eyes, I can tell they're cops. Or something far worse. My stomach feels like I've swallowed a brick.

"Hey." I try to sound casual.

One guy is sitting on a tan sofa, the other, in a chair and thumbing through a magazine.

My old sense of danger kicks in, and as much as I can in my weakened state, I try to project a tough aura by keeping my expression neutral.

"Griffin Davis," the man on the sofa says, rising and extending his hand.

OI shake it firmly, looking into the man's cold blue eyes. He's got a Dutch accent, and has thinning light brown hair. Probably he's about my age, maybe a bit older. Unremarkable looking, actually, like he could blend in anywhere with his light blue T-shirt and jeans. His body is compact, yet muscular, and I'm dying to know what the fuck he wants.

We stop shaking and I glance at the other man. He's a little older, has dark hair that's in somewhat of a mullet style. He's also wearing jeans, a black shirt, and a leather jacket. I'm guessing he's in his forties, and looks vaguely familiar.

I nod in his direction. Clearly the man on the sofa is in charge here, because he sweeps his hand to a nearby chair as if he's allowing me to grace his presence. I'm guessing he's not a detective, because only criminals act with that level of arrogance.

Two can play at this game, since I'm in that business, too. Or was. Moving as if I don't have a care in the world, I sink into a chair and run my thumb over my lip. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Willem Voorn." He's keeping his voice low, and I'm tempted to lean in a little to hear him. But I don't. "You might know my friend here, he's Quintjin, Paul's old driver."

That's the name I'd been trying to recall. I shoot a smirk at the familiar face. "I was going to look for you when I got out of here. Thanks for coming to me."

No one laughs.

A sinking feeling settles in my chest. "You didn't bring flowers or candies, so I get the impression this isn't a friendly get-well visit."

The side of Willem's mouth quirks up. "You probably don't know who I am. I move a lot of hashish in and out of Amsterdam, all over Europe. Even more now that Paul is out of the way. Quintjin came to work for me after...the incident."

My eyes flicker warily from one man to the next. It's best not to say what I know — or don't — in this situation.

"I came to apologize, and to ask a favor."

T his catches me off guard. "Excuse me?"

"I want to apologize for what happened to your friend Matthew. And to you, of course. We didn't think there would be collateral damage that evening."

I raise my eyebrows. "You were responsible?"

The man nods twice. This bland-looking asshole killed my best friend? He probably sees my face reddening in anger, because he holds up a hand.

"I also have good news for you. About your sister."

I gulp in a breath as I clench my hands into fists. This motherfucker knows where Zoe is. If I punch him here in the hospital, what will happen? As I glare at him, I calculate whether I should punch or strangle him. Punch him first, then strangle? But having to explain why I'm in a fight in the rehab wing of a Dutch hospital — when I'm here under a fake name — probably isn't the best idea.

"Where is she?" I bite out.

"We have her. She's safe."

"You have her? What does that mean? And what are you doing with her?"

Christ this is bad. Worse than I thought.

He holds up a hand. "We haven't hurt her, we haven't raped her. Don't worry. We're treating her well. Like a queen."

I stare, incredulous.

"We grabbed her the night of the bombing. We thought she was one of Paul's girls and wanted to get information out of her. But once we got back to our place, we found out the truth, that she's your sister. We intended to send her back to Miami because we need something there. But she insisted on staying in Amsterdam until you got well. She said you'd be better for the job."

I wipe my mouth with my hand. "Forgive me, I'm not connecting the dots. I was pretty fucking injured in the bombing that you apparently orchestrated, and maybe I'm not hearing things correctly."

"Again. My apologies. I'm going to make it up to you."

He looks genuinely pained, which makes me all the more pissed off. "Why is my sister still with you, exactly? Maybe my brain is still screwed up. Explain."

"She didn't want to return to Miami without you."

I huff out a laugh. "Hold on. Don't bullshit me. You've kidnapped my sister. And you're holding her hostage."

He shrugs. "She had the chance to return to the States but didn't want to. We had no other option."

Jesus Christ. When did I step into a Guy Ritchie movie? I blink and screw up my face. "What the fuck? Seriously?"

"She's an odd one."

Obviously, you moron. "I'll be getting out of here soon. Probably in the next couple of weeks."

"We know all about your schedule. We have people on the inside monitoring your progress in physical therapy."

Hans. I knew something wasn't right with him. Christ, this isn't good. I just hope Zoe's holding her own with these assholes.

"Fine. When I'm discharged, I'll come get her." I rise to stand.

"Well, it's not quite like that. This is where the job comes in. I need you to do something for me in Florida, and then I'll hand your sister over."

I sit back in the chair. "What job?"

"I'll explain in more detail when you get out."

Oh, Christ. "Drugs?"

"Your sister's assured us that you can handle this task."

Jesus, Zoe. "And then what? I do a deal, you give me my sister?"

He nods. "We'll even give you a five percent cut — that's my way of apologizing to you for the bombing. For Matthew. Man, I know what it's like to lose a trusted soldier. I'm not a prick, Finn Davidson-Griffin Davis."

Yeah, right. He's a prick with a capital P.

"Where's Zoe now?"

"She's being well-taken care of at one of my homes. She has no wants. Well, she did scream a bit when we wouldn't give her internet or phone access. But I think she's been fairly happy, under the circumstances."

I glare at him. "So help me God, if you've hurt her in any way..."

"You have my word. We won't hurt her. Unless you don't do what we want. Then we will. It's quite simple."

I think for a few minutes, silent with rage.

"I'll do it on one condition."

Willem smirks and the other guy guffaws. "I don't know if you're in the position to make any demands, Griffin. But perhaps I can accommodate you. Like I said, I'm reasonable. Until I'm not."

"I have to see her before I go back to Miami."

Nodding, he mulls this over. "I don't know why not. And I need time to explain what I want from you. We'll do everything at my estate. Really, I'm on your side. You may even get back to Miami and decide you want to partner with us. Zoe might agree, too. I think we've become friends, of sorts." He grins and stands up, taking out his wallet and extracting a business card. "She is a very unusual woman, though."

Christ, I want to kill this guy. I will kill him if he's touched Zoe. Might kill him even if he hasn't. Pinpricks of sweat on the back of my neck start to itch.

"Call this number when you get out. I'll send a car and you can see for yourself that Zoe's okay. The two of you can spend some time together."

With that, he looks at the other guy and motions with his head to the door. I don't get up, I don't move, as they walk out of the room. For the next hour, I sit with my eyes closed, trying to calm my heart rate before my afternoon physical therapy appointment.

One thing is painfully clear.

I ruined things for everyone.

____