That evening they went as planned.
It was already dark when the private jet touched down on a narrow airstrip carved into the edge of the island, palm trees swaying at the tree line and heat shimmering visibly off the tarmac.
Milo stepped out first, blinking against the brightness, taking in the sand stretching pale gold in every direction, patches of dense green forest crowding close behind it. It didn't look like anywhere he'd expected, not a tropical resort, not remote wilderness, something caught strangely between the two.
A line of cars waited near the small terminal building, and Roderick strode toward them without hesitation, exchanging quiet nods with each driver like he knew every one of them personally.
Salvatore and Milo climbed into the middle car, Roderick sliding in beside the driver, and the small convoy pulled away from the airstrip, winding through roads that grew progressively narrower and more overgrown the farther they traveled.
