CHAPTER TWO

Wyatt was just heading home after a hot, grueling day in the kitchen when the sound of heavy breathing and shoes crunching under the gravel made him spin around, just in time to be crashed into by a swirl of floral skirts and dark-brown hair.

They had a streetlamp in the parking lot, but it typically didn't give off enough light to be able to see someone's eye color.

But what he could see in this woman's eyes when he gripped her by the shoulders, with her entire body trembling, was that she was terrified.

"Hey, hey," he cooed. "It's okay. It's okay. What happened?"

She struggled to get free of his grasp for a moment, her ponytail flying wildly, but when she looked up at him and blinked a few times, something seemed to register with her. He was not a threat.

"What happened?" he repeated.

"I … I just had to get away." She had a beautiful, thick Italian accent. That's when he noticed the cut across her cheek and the swollen and bloody lip.

Rage lanced through him like a hot poker. "Had to get away from who? Who did this to you?"

"M-my boss. He … he's on the beach. I-I thought you were him. "

"He attacked you?"

She nodded.

Gripping her carefully by the elbow, he steered her toward the front door of the pub, opened it and snagged Dominic's gaze.

They were brothers, so no words needed to be said to get Dom out from behind the bar and taking big, purposeful strides toward Wyatt. "What's wrong?" Dom asked, joining them just outside the front door to the pub in the parking lot. His gaze widened when he took in the woman's state. "Shit."

"Where is he?" Wyatt asked again. "You said the beach?"

The woman nodded.

"Dom, stay with her. I'm going to go find that piece of shit."

Dom nodded while Wyatt took off down toward the beach to go see what kind of waste of skin, dick cheese, fuckface waited for him.

He didn't make it all the way to the beach though, before he nearly stepped on the lump of wheezing douchebaggery, gasping for air in the sand just below the pub deck.

The man's eyes were wide with fear as he stared up at Wyatt, pleading for help.

"Fuck," Wyatt grumbled before calling out for Dom.

Dom came running, the woman wasn't with him though. "What?"

"He can't breathe," Wyatt said, turning on the flashlight app on his phone.

"Fuck," Dom gritted out. "Okay, you do what you can to help him, and I'll call Justine to come down. But I don't want to leave her alone up there. She's really freaking scared."

Wyatt glared down at the man who was starting to turn blue—or at least it looked like he was turning blue under the light of the moon. "What did you do to her, you pathetic piece of shit?"

The man's eyes were still full of terror and he clutched at his throat.

Wyatt dropped to his knees in the sand and tilted the man's chin up to help open his airway. He felt around his neck, not entirely sure what he was searching for. Sure, he had first aid, but he wasn't a fucking doctor, or even a paramedic. His triage skills were better suited to his kids and their endless bumps and bruises. A Spiderman Band-Aid, a popsicle, and it was like the road rash never even happened.

But this shit stain in the sand needed more than a fucking Spiderman Band-Aid.

Chest compressions wouldn't even work, not if his windpipe was crushed. The guy would need a fucking cricothyrotomy or a cric and no way was Wyatt the man for the job.

More gravel crunched nearby, followed by heavy breathing. Then Bennett and Justine appeared.

Justine was a cardiothoracic surgeon who was now one of the general practitioners on the island. She did a bit of everything, relying heavily on her residency rotations through the ER and family medicine since there weren't too many people seeking open-heart surgery on the sleepy little hippy island of San Camanez.

"What happened?" Bennett asked, taking in the scene.

"He attacked the woman that's with Dom. I think she crushed his windpipe."

Justine paused for just a second before her oath to save even the troglodytes of the earth kicked back in and she dropped to her knees in the sand beside the predator, opening up her physician's bag.

Wyatt didn't give two shits what happened to the guy now.

He was in Justine's hands.

If he lived, he'd rot in a prison cell. If he died … well, there was a special place in hell for men who hit women and children.

Wyatt took off back to where Dom stood in the parking lot with the woman. She held a wet, white washcloth against the cut on her cheek. "What's your name?" he asked her gently.

"Vica," she replied, her voice soft, almost hoarse.

"Can we call someone for you, Vica?" he asked .

She shook her head and huffed out a small humorless laugh, but the forced smile must have pulled funny on her fat, split lip and she winced. "The only people I really know all work for him . We came over to the island as a going away party for me. I'm moving to New York. My new job starts in two weeks."

"What about family?" Dom asked.

She shook her head again, her eyes sad. "Mom is dead. Dad is dead. Brother is dead. It's just me."

Dear god, how fucking sad.

Even though Wyatt was no stranger to immense loss, he was so fucking grateful for his brothers, all their kids, and the women joining their family. The support system and village they were cultivating not only kept him sane, but it also kept his heart from shriveling to dust whenever the grief bubbled up.

"Are you staying somewhere on the island?" Dom asked.

"No. We came over for the day. Everyone else left. He sent them home while I was in the washroom. Is there another ferry tonight?"

Wyatt and his brother shook their heads.

"Only the staff seabus," Wyatt said. "But we don't have time to get you to the dock in time for that." He checked his watch. The seabus that shuttled summer island staff back over to Seattle early in the morning and late at night, left in less than fifteen minutes. And it was always on schedule.

Her bottom lip wobbled and big, fat tears welled up in her eyes. "I feel so stupid." Her gaze dropped to the gravel. "I've dismissed his advances all year and even tonight. I have never flirted. Never led him on. I shouldn't have had anything to drink. I shouldn't have even come today."

"But you're not drunk," Dom said. "You asked me to switch out your vodka sodas with just straight soda water. And even if you were drunk, that doesn't give him license to force himself on you or assault you. Even if you consented at first, then changed your mind. That still doesn't give him the right."

Vica sniffed. "Most people won't see it that way."

"Most people are idiots," Wyatt said .

Just then, Bennett came trudging up the side of the pub, his face cast downward so they couldn't read his expression. His hands were in the pockets of his chinos. When he reached them and finally lifted his gaze, he didn't even have to say anything for Wyatt to know what happened.

Fuck.

"We need to pull up the CCTV footage we have around the pub," Dom said, also reading Bennett's expression. "Call Myla and Everett."

Wyatt nodded and pulled out his phone.

"I already did," Bennett said solemnly.

"W—wait, I don't understand. What's going on?" Vica asked. "What happened? Is he okay?"

Bennett swallowed, his gaze shifting between Wyatt and Dom before landing on Vica. "His windpipe was severely crushed. Justine tried to do a cric, but he started to bleed out and … we couldn't revive him. He died. I'm sorry."

Vica's eyes went wide as dinner plates as she gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "No," she murmured, shaking her head. "No. I just needed to get away. I just needed to hurt him. I wasn't supposed to kill him. Just hurt him. They taught me how to hurt so I could get away. So I could escape. They never trained me to kill." She was speaking a million miles a minute now, saying the same things over and over again. Italian mixed with her English, and her words developed more and more of a panicked stutter and a thicker accent.

"Who trained you?" Dom asked.

Wyatt carefully reached out and gripped Vica by the shoulders to ground her. She trembled like a leaf in a windstorm, but his grip seemed to help—or at least he hoped it had helped.

"M—my brother and his friends. They were in the 4th Alpini P-paratroopers Regiment … and … and they taught me how to defend myself."

Ah, that made sense.

Wyatt and three of his four brothers were all former marines. If they'd had any sisters, they absolutely would have done the same thing. And they already planned to start teaching Clint's daughter Talia, and Bennett's daughters Aya and Emme, how to defend themselves too.

The door to the pub opened and a few chipper people, laughing like they hadn't a care in the world, came sauntering out.

"What's going on?" the tall blond guy asked, his cheeks ruddy from too much booze.

"You got a ride home, pal?" Dom asked, always in bartender-mode and making sure his patrons were being responsible and taken care of.

"I'm the DD tonight," said a short woman in dark jeans and a gray hoodie, who was part of their little five-person group. "Pulled the short straw."

Dom nodded before turning his attention back to Vica, Wyatt, and Bennett.

"Let's go down to the beach," the drunk blond guy slurred.

"Nope. Beach is off-limits tonight," Bennett said.

"What? Why?" the guy asked, a tinge of frustration in his tone.

"Because I said so," Bennett countered.

"Beach is under renovation," Wyatt said, determined to cut the growing tension. "We're upgrading the sand and seaweed. Adding more rocks, removing some barnacles, and just making it more customer friendly."

"Oh!" The guy smiled. "That's mighty cool of your guys." His grin grew. "Have a great night. And good luck with the renovations. I just redid my bathroom, and it was a nightmare. But I know a good tiling guy if you're interested."

"Thanks, but I think we're good." Wyatt resisted the urge to snort. There was a reason he was back of the house in the kitchen. He made fun of drunk people way too much. Sarcasm was one of his core values, and he could never resist taking the piss out of an inebriated fool who needed a reality check and a bit of ego shrinking. Dom had way more patience for those kind people, which was why he was front of the house.

The drunk crew of five headed to one of the few remaining vehicles in the parking lot and Wyatt was pretty sure he heard the drunk blond guy ask one of his friends, "Why would you renovate a beach? "

"Why would you need a tile guy for a beach?" his friend asked.

Then they all erupted into laughter as they piled into a Subaru SUV, the woman behind the wheel.

Wyatt devoted all his attention to Vica again. "We want to help you. How can we help? What can we do?"

She was still shaking her head. "Pinch me so I wake up," she said, more to the trees than any of them standing there.

"You're going into shock," Bennett said. "Come into the pub and sit down."

Vica shook her head. "N—no. I … I can't be here. I need to go."

"The ferries have finished for the night, but we can take you to the first terminal for the first sailing in the morning," Dom said. "In the meantime, you're welcome to stay here. The cabins are all booked but—"

"You can stay with me," Wyatt offered quickly, causing his two brothers to hike their eyebrows to their hairlines and look at him like he'd just sprouted another head.

"Bennett," Justine called from the beach. "A little help, please."

Bennett gave Wyatt a strange look, nodded at Vica, then headed back to help his woman.

What kind of help Justine needed when the guy was dead, Wyatt didn't quite know, but he wasn't a doctor, so …

"Do we need to call the police?" Vica asked, her eyes darting around the parking lot.

They all stepped out of the way so the Subaru with the five friends could exit. The blond guy had his window down and was preparing to say something.

Wyatt braced himself for some serious profundity.

"You know, bro, I don't know why you'd need a tile guy for the beach. I honestly don't even think you need to renovate it. Let Mother Nature just be her sexy, natural self." He smirked. "I mean, trim the bushes now and then, but I'm a man who appreciates au naturel, if you know what I mean." He leered a little at Vica and that instantly made Wyatt's body heat up and he stepped up to block her from the man's view.

"Best get your drunk friend home," Dom said to the driver. "Before he says something really stupid."

"On it," the woman said before accelerating and leaving her friend's response but an indecipherable howl on the breeze.

"The police have already been called," Dom said. "Bennett called them. They should be here shortly. But we know them. Myla and Everett are really great. We'll explain the situation to them, and Justine will call Grayson Malone to bring his body-moving van or something."

A moment later, Bennett returned. "I gotta get some sheets," he said, taking off toward the small outbuilding that served as Bennett's office.

Headlights flashed up ahead toward the main road.

Probably the cops.

Bennett was already gone again when the cruiser pulled up, not bothering to actually take a parking spot, but just coming to a stop right in front of them.

Dom groaned and at first Wyatt didn't know why, until he saw who was in the front seat and passenger seat of the cruiser.

And it wasn't Myla or Everett.

Now it was Wyatt's turn to groan.

Climbing out of the cruiser, looking like the perfect number ten, were two of the laziest sons of bitches Wyatt had ever met. Both Officers Duane Fischer and Dan Jenkins were white males who should have retired at least five years ago. They were glorified security guards with guns, batons, tasers, and way more power than brains.

"Gentlemen," Officer Fischer—the zero in their number ten—said, nodding at Dom and Wyatt. He didn't look Vica's way. "What's the big idea calling us out this late?"

"We called because we need to report a crime," Dom said. "And you came because it's your job."

Officer Jenkins huffed. "What crime is that? "

Vica was practically hyperventilating next to Wyatt now, he reached for her hand. If she pulled away, he wouldn't be offended, but instead of declining his support, she held onto him like a lifeline.

Wyatt squeezed her hand and cleared his throat. "There's a gentleman down below the deck, he is with Dr. Brazeau. He attacked this woman tonight. Tried to force himself on her. He hit her, as you can see, and she responded in self-defense."

"So is he like unconscious, or tied up, or something?" Officer Fischer asked, not moving even a muscle, let alone preparing to walk down to see the perpetrator.

"He's dead," Wyatt said. "A harsh blow to the windpipe crushed it and despite Dr. Brazeau's attempts to resuscitate him, he succumbed to his injuries."

Now the cops were moving.

Though, not like Wyatt expected. Neither had uprooted their feet from the gravel, but their bushy, gray brows were climbing their foreheads. If Officer Jenkins had a hairline, his brows would have met it.

"So this is a murder now?" Officer Fischer said, his voice jumping up a few octaves as he reached for the cuffs that swung from his utility belt.

"Sure isn't," Wyatt countered. "It was self-defense. He assaulted Vica and she fought back."

The cops' gazes roamed Vica's body and Officer Fischer's eyes narrowed. "How much have you had to drink tonight, young lady?"

"Young lady?" Wyatt snapped.

Officer Fischer cleared his throat. "Miss …?

"Vitale," Vica said softly. "Ludovica Vitale. And I stopped drinking hours ago. I also didn't have much today at all. I don't like to not be in control of a situation or unable to leave because I am too inebriated. I went to the bartender," she glanced at Dom, "and asked him to no longer serve me vodka, just soda water."

"Why'd you do that?" Officer Jenkins asked .

"She just told you why." Wyatt was about to go postal and wind up in handcuffs if he didn't get a hold on his temper. "Because she doesn't like not being in control or unable to leave a situation. Are you even listening?"

Officer Jenkins grunted. "We're just getting the facts."

"I'm gonna go check out the body," Officer Fischer said, waddling his pasty-loving ass down to the beach below the deck.

Bennett came running around the corner with an armload of sheets, disappearing after the cop.

"What made you think you couldn't lose control tonight?" Officer Jenkins asked.

"Because I was with eight men and one other woman. My coworkers. And although we get along and I like them well enough, I don't know them in this kind of setting. So I don't trust them. My boss," she swallowed and bowed her head, "the one who attacked me, has made several advances toward me over the year and I have always said ‘no.'"

"And yet, the two of you are here alone," Jenkins replied with so much suspicion in his tone Wyatt had to clench his fists at his sides to keep from grabbing the beanpole's collar.

"He sent them all away while I was in the bathroom."

"I saw it," Dom added, corroborating her story. "They left and he paid the tab."

"And you don't think what you're wearing is …" The cop's index finger pointed up and down Vica's outfit, "maybe sending mixed messages?"

"She could be wearing a sign that said ‘Fuck me, big boy' and nothing else, and it would still be assault," Wyatt said, heat filling his cheeks. "But I happen to think her outfit isn't suggestive at all. What would you prefer she wear so you are more inclined to believe her? A nun's habit? Parka perhaps? What about just a straight up sheet right over her face all the way to the floor?"

"Mr. McEvoy, there is no need for snarkiness or sarcasm. I'm just doing my job. "

"You're victim blaming," Wyatt shot back. "Look at her face. She's bleeding and I'm sure if you scraped under her nails you'd find the guy's DNA."

"We're not set up for that here," Jenkins said blandly.

"How convenient," Dom muttered.

Jenkins focused back on Vica. "You mean to tell me you weren't sending him mixed messages at all today? No flirting? No prolonged stares? Nothing that could have been misconstrued as your interest?"

Both Dom and Wyatt made noises in their throat to convey their disgust at the cop's line of questions.

Vica shook her head. "I have always been very upfront with the fact that I wanted to keep our relationship professional. I'm also just not attracted to him. So even if he wasn't my boss, I wouldn't go out with him."

Jenkins still didn't seem convinced.

Wheezing like he'd just set the new world record sprint, Officer Fischer slowly made his way up the small incline toward them, reaching for his handcuffs with one hand while he swept the sweat from his brow with the other. "We need to bring you to the station and detain you until morning," he said. "Ask more questions." He glanced at Jenkins. "I called Dr. Malone. He's on his way to pick up the body."

"She's not going anywhere with you," Wyatt said. "It was self-defense, and she's traumatized. You're treating her like a criminal."

"A man is dead on the beach, Mr. McEvoy. She is a criminal," Jenkins replied.

"I'm calling Gabrielle," Dom said, reaching for his phone. "I think she maintains her law license even though she doesn't practice anymore." He punched in Gabrielle's number and stepped away.

Wyatt still hadn't let go of Vica's hand, and now she was squeezing it harder than ever. "Look," he said, using every single calming technique he could think of to not lose his shit on these idiot cops, "there's no ferry until morning. She's traumatized and injured. Let her stay here for the night. We'll get her cleaned up, and you can come by in the morning and we can go from there. She can't go anywhere anyway. Why make her sleep in your cold, dank holding cell if she doesn't have to?"

"Gabrielle's on her way," Dom said, returning to their little circle.

Jenkins and Fischer exchanged looks just as Justine returned. She made sure to stand on the other side of Vica for moral support.

"What's the plan?" Justine asked.

"We'd like to take Ms. Vitale into custody," Officer Jenkins said. "But Mr. McEvoy is making it difficult."

"Well, based on the fact that you haven't written anything down, or offered Ms. Vitale the opportunity to document her assault with a female police officer and doctor, I'd say Mr. McEvoy isn't making it difficult, he's simply advocating for an assault victim."

Yes! Well-put, Justine.

Fischer and Jenkins squirmed and made old man noises.

More headlights flashed down the laneway this time from a van.

"That's Grayson," Justine said, waving down Dr. Grayson Malone, her boss before pivoting back to the cops. "Why haven't either of you called Officer Bruce and asked her to attend the scene considering the nature of this crime."

"The body is that of a dead man ," Fischer said like the imbecile that he was. "What good will Myla do?"

"I wasn't referring to man who made a series of poor choices and ultimately paid the price," Justine said, deadpanned. "I was referring to the assault. Because assault is a crime. Is it not?"

More squirming and uncomfortable old man noises. Did Fischer just fart?

Grayson turned off the van behind the police cruiser and hopped out. Justine left her post beside Vica and joined him. He opened up the back of his van and pulled out a spine board, following Justine down to the beach.

"Aren't you going to take any pictures or … is this your first day on the job?" Wyatt asked the cops, his decorum on its way to fully snapping.

Jenkin's nostrils flared .

"I took a few with my phone," Fischer said. "Too dark though. We'll come back in the morning."

"Won't the tide be in by then?" Jenkins asked.

"It's beyond the tideline," Dom said bewildered. "Is this your first day on the freaking island?"

The cops glared at Wyatt's brother, who was normally so much calmer, almost shy most of the time. He must also be close to losing his shit if he was taking back to cops.

"Unless Officer Bruce is not on the island, please call her," Justine said. "I will take pictures and help Vica." She turned to Vica. "If you would like an exam and to submit evidence. Totally optional, of course." It was optional; however Justine's brown eyes did a decent job driving home how evidence could bolster Vica's case.

Vica nodded. "O—okay."

The two cops grumbled, and Jenkins had the audacity to look at his watch.

"Oh. Sorry, Officer. Are we keeping you out past your bedtime?" Wyatt asked.

Jenkins glared at Wyatt.

Wyatt didn't give a shit.

Finally, after a staring contest that lasted nearly a minute, Jenkins pulled out his phone and called Officer Bruce.

The island was so small that it didn't take Gabrielle Campbell that long to arrive. She was known for never cracking a smile, having a chip on her shoulder, and being all business. But in this case, that was needed. Vica needed solid legal representation and Garbrielle Campbell, Esquire—now co-owner and operator of Westhaven Winery—was just that.

"Don't say a word," Gabrielle said, climbing out of her dusty, dark-red Ford Escape. She fixed her hawk-like amber gaze on the cops. "No more questioning my client unless I am present. Got it?"

Her expression softened when she turned to Vica at the same time Justine, Bennett, and Grayson came slowly stomping up the incline from the beach. Grayson and Bennett were carrying the body, draped in a sheet on the spine board.

Vica's swallow beside Wyatt was loud enough he heard it.

Her hand in his tightened.

"The victim has agreed to a sexual assault evidence kit," Justine said to Gabrielle. "And Officer Bruce is on her way. The two of us will take care of it."

Gabrielle nodded. "Good." She turned to Vica and rested a hand on her shoulder. "And good news for you, these were exactly the kinds of cases I dealt with in Seattle before I left law and inherited a winery with my cousins. But, I still have my license. And this …" she spun back around to glare at the cops. "this type of defense is very close to my heart. I take it seriously. I am … relentless in my pursuit of justice."

"As are we," Jenkins said, meeting her gaze.

Wyatt stowed his laugh when Gabrielle scoffed.

More headlights, this time belonging to the off duty, and only female cop on the island, Myla Bruce. Not only was she a cop, but she and four of her friends, or sisters, or something, all ran the local cidery and orchard on the other side of the island.

Myla hopped out, dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt, much like Gabrielle was.

The glare she shot at her too-old-to-still-wear-the-badge coworkers wasn't missed on anybody… besides maybe her coworkers. Just as Gabrielle's did, Myla's expression softened when she glanced over at Vica. "I'm sorry for what you've experienced tonight. I'm here to help."

"Isn't anybody concerned at all about the fact that a man died tonight?" Fischer finally asked.

Everyone but Vica shrugged, even Grayson who returned along with Bennett. The tall black man was always welcome at the pub. He had a real affinity for beer and wasn't afraid to hold back on his opinions when Clint made a bad batch. Not only was he an avid beer drinker and friend, but he was a top-notch doctor too.

"Once we get him to the hospital we can do a more thorough examination," Grayson said.

"We still would prefer if Ms. Vitale came to the station," Jenkins argued. "She's a flight risk."

"No, she's really not," Gabrielle snapped. "And she's absolutely not going anywhere where there isn't a female chaperone at all times. Dig down deep, gentlemen, and find that empathy that still—I hope—lies within."

Jenkins and Fischer exchanged looks before they finally gave curt, reluctant nods. "We'll be back in the morning," Jenkins said.

"I need to notify next of kin," Fischer said. "I hate this part."

"It'd be fucked up if you liked it," Wyatt replied, earning his eighth glare of the night. One more and he got a free sandwich? Or was it a free ride to the slammer?

"I've got it from here, guys," Myla said. "I'm sure you have paperwork to attend to back at the station."

They barely acknowledged Myla as they climbed back into their cruiser.

Nobody said anything until the two idiots with guns were gone.

"All right, Vica," Myla said, offering a gentle and supportive smile, "I'm here to help you in any way I can. Just know that even if those two geezers don't believe you, I do."

Vica nodded and smiled, whispering a small, "Thank you."

"Wyatt, can we use your place?" Justine asked, her gaze drifting down to where his hand was still tightly intertwined with Vica's. She was gripping onto him now, more than he was her, and he hadn't even noticed. Now she held his arm with her other hand too. "She seems to trust you."

"Of course," he said quickly. "Whatever she needs. I can sleep in the study or on the couch."

Everyone nodded .

"I need to close up the bar," Dom said. "Bennett, can you help so it'll go faster?"

Bennett agreed.

"I'm going to get the body back to the hospital," Grayson said. "But I'll be in touch." He headed to the driver's side of his van.

Justine, Myla, and Wyatt surrounded Vica like adult elephants circle the young to protect them from lions, and escorted her up the hill, through the security gate, and into Wyatt and his brothers' private little sanctuary.

There were five brothers altogether, but each lived in their own house. All the houses were carbon copies of each other, just a different color. Wyatt's was a sage-green and smack-dab in the middle, with Bennett on one side and Dom on the other.

They each had a small, but nice, backyard and an enormous rolling hillside behind them loaded with wildflowers where all the kids liked to burn off excess energy.

He reached his front door first and opened it. Nobody really locked their doors on the island, and since they installed the security gate there was even less of a need to lock anything.

"Just give me half a sec to make sure there are no underwear on the floor or anything," he said, booking it up the stairs. But he stopped at the landing and met Vica's gaze. "You're safe here. I promise. My family … me, we won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

He wasn't sure what possessed him to make such a proclamation to a complete stranger, but he felt it so intrinsically in his soul that he was the one to help Vica that nobody could convince him otherwise.

Maybe it was because he couldn't save his wife Sheila from that car accident that killed her and his other three sisters-in-law. Or maybe it was just because he knew what it was like to not have anybody believe you when you were telling the truth.

Whatever it was, he was committed to helping Vica any way he could .

She wasn't a murderer. She wasn't a victim. She was a survivor. And he was going to do whatever he could to make sure everyone believed her, and that she survived.