The cabin door hissed open like a predator exhaling, and the hot, salt-thick air of Hell's Paradise Island flooded the jet — humid, expensive, faintly perfumed by sun-baked tarmac, distant ocean brine, and the low growl of waiting motorcades.
Phei stepped down the stairs first.
Then he stopped.
Then everyone else who came down behind him stopped too, because what awaited them on the private apron was, in a single devastating word, ridiculous.
Not the cars themselves — the cars were precisely what one would expect from a convoy assembled for Legacy heirs and their ever-expanding entourage. Black. Polished to a mirror sheen.
Paint jobs that alone cost more than most families' lifetimes. Phantoms. Cullinans. Two armored PercedesSprinters. A pair of long, low Pentleys arranged at the front like elegant punctuation marks. Standard fare for people who measured status in six-figure vehicles.
The number of them, however—
There were nineteen.
