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Monica leaned back on the sofa, staring at that sliver of moonlight for a long time without saying a word.
Raphael stood up and walked into the bathroom. The moment the hot water started running, he heard soft rustling sounds from the bedroom.
When he stepped out wrapped in a towel, Monica had already changed. She must have found some spare sleepwear on the ship.
White silk. Neckline cut dangerously low.
She sat by the window, moonlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling glass and painting her in silver.
"You finished showering?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Then it's my turn."
She walked past him into the bathroom. The door didn't click shut all the way; the sound of running water drifted out softly.
Raphael stood by the window, watching moonlight dance across the black sea.
Twenty minutes later Monica came out. Fresh robe, hair wet and loose over her shoulders, a few drops of water still clinging to her skin.
She walked up behind him.
"What are you looking at?"
"The ocean."
She followed his gaze. Nothing but darkness.
"What's so interesting about the ocean?"
"Nothing."
Raphael smiled. "But it's more interesting than looking at you."
Monica paused, then slapped his back.
"You really have zero gentlemanly manners."
Raphael turned around and looked at her.
Wet hair, no makeup, robe hanging loosely on her body.
In the moonlight, her eyes were stunningly bright.
"You're not scared of me anymore?" he asked.
Monica met his gaze.
"I am."
She said, "But I still want to know who you really are."
"And then?"
"Then—" she paused. "Then I don't know."
Raphael stayed silent.
Monica took a step closer. Less than eight inches separated them.
"You know what?"
She spoke, voice softer now. "I've lived my whole life by the rules. Graduated the academy, became a cop, went undercover—always telling myself it was the right thing, the thing I was supposed to do."
"And then?"
"And then tonight…"
She looked at him. "I fucking ran away with a murderer and a wanted man!"
Raphael didn't move.
"You know what's the funniest part?"
Monica continued. "I don't regret it at all! But my gut is screaming that this reaction is completely insane!"
She reached out, fingertips pressing against his chest.
Beneath the towel, the outline of his six-pack was clear.
"How did you get a body like this?"
"Long story."
"Then don't tell it."
Her fingers traced his collarbone, slid to his shoulder, then stopped.
"What were you thinking when you killed him?"
Raphael looked down at her.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"Really."
He said, "It was like breathing. Didn't need to think."
Monica stared into his eyes for a long time.
"What about now? What are you thinking?"
Raphael didn't answer.
Monica rose onto her toes and leaned in.
The kiss was light, tasting of body wash and sea salt.
Her lips were cool at first, then quickly warmed.
Raphael's hands wrapped around her waist.
The robe's belt loosened and slipped to the floor.
Moonlight poured in, falling across two bodies.
That night was long.
The ship sailed on, the only sounds outside the waves and occasional horn.
The next morning, sunlight slipped through the curtains and landed on the bed.
Monica woke first.
She lay in Raphael's arms, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
One. Two. Three—steady and strong, like an engine idling.
She lifted her head and looked at him.
Asleep, his face lost some of its sharpness.
The intensity between his brows softened, lips slightly parted, like any ordinary twenty-year-old guy.
She thought about last night and felt her face heat up.
"Staring at what?"
Raphael didn't open his eyes, but he spoke.
Monica jumped.
"You weren't asleep?"
"I was. You moved and I woke up."
She huffed and lay back down on his chest.
They stayed like that, listening to each other's heartbeats.
After a long time, Monica spoke.
"Where are we going?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"The ship's heading south," Raphael said. "Probably the Caribbean, maybe South America. Depends on the captain's mood."
"You got on a boat without even knowing where it's going?"
"Why would I need to know?"
Monica lifted her head and glared at him.
"You bastard…"
"What?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it again and just lay back down.
"Whatever."
---
That afternoon they ordered room service.
When the steward rolled the cart in, his eyes kept drifting to Monica—the bare legs under the robe, the faint marks on her collarbone.
Raphael gave him one look.
The steward shivered, dropped the cart off, and practically ran out.
Monica laughed so hard she couldn't straighten up.
"You scared him."
"He scared himself."
Monica blinked, then laughed even harder.
---
In the afternoon they sunbathed on the deck.
Monica wore a bikini, lying on a lounge chair with a cocktail in her hand.
Raphael sat beside her in sunglasses, flipping through a random magazine he'd found.
Monica stretched lazily.
"Help me put on sunscreen."
Raphael tossed the magazine aside.
"With pleasure, ma'am."
Monica smiled.
---
That night she was even more forward.
The days blurred together after that.
Wake up, eat, sunbathe, play cards, sleep.
Repeat.
Monica discovered she was getting used to this life.
Used to waking up in his arms every morning. Used to his occasional sharp tongue. Used to that body that never seemed to tire no matter how much they pushed it.
---
On the fifth night they stood at the railing, watching the sunset melt into the sea.
Monica leaned against his shoulder.
"I thought I'd regret it."
"Regret what?"
"Running away with you."
Raphael didn't speak.
"But I don't. Not even a little."
She turned to look at him.
"Did you do something to me?"
Raphael met her eyes and thought, Smart woman. She's figured out part of it.
"Guess."
Monica stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled.
"Can't guess. And I don't want to."
She rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek.
"Doesn't matter anymore anyway."
The sun disappeared below the horizon, leaving only a faint red glow. The ship kept sailing south, heading toward somewhere unknown.
---
More than half a month later, the Sea Bird slowly entered Guanabara Bay in Rio de Janeiro.
Raphael stood at the railing, watching the silhouette of Sugarloaf Mountain emerge through the morning mist, the Christ the Redeemer statue spreading its arms over the City of God.
Monica walked up behind him and slipped her arm through his.
"Rio."
She said, "Have you been here before?"
"No."
"Me neither."
Monica paused. "I heard it's pretty chaotic here."
Raphael smiled.
"Chaotic is good. The more chaotic, the easier it is to disappear."
Monica gave him a sideways look.
"You really are optimistic."
---
When the ship docked, the captain personally came to see them off.
The fifty-something white guy was all smiles, treating them like old friends he'd known for years. He had no memory of that night—just the pleasant recollection of "hosting two very important guests who paid him a very large sum."
"Mr. O'Conner, Miss Fuentes—"
He handed them two business cards. "This is my old friend's number. He's been in 'business' in Rio for over thirty years. Documents, houses, cars—whatever you need, just call him. Mention my name and he'll give you the best price."
Raphael took the card and glanced at it.
"Thanks."
"No problem! Next time you're in the Caribbean, sail with me again!"
Monica held back a laugh as she took Raphael's arm and walked down the gangway.
"He's… really enthusiastic."
"Enthusiastic is good. Saves time."
---
An hour later Raphael was driving their modified GT-R, Monica in the passenger seat, pulling up to Copacabana Beach where a Brazilian guy in a loud floral shirt was already waiting.
The moment he saw Raphael's business card, he rushed over with a professional smile.
"Mr. Lee! Miss Fuentes! Old George already called me. I'll show you the best houses in Rio!"
---
Three days later Raphael and Monica moved into a mansion in the Santa Teresa district.
Three stories, white walls, blue shutters. Open the windows and you could see Christ the Redeemer on the mountain.
Palm trees in the yard, a decent-sized swimming pool.
Best part—perfect privacy. High walls all around, state-of-the-art security on the iron gate.
Monica stood on the second-floor terrace, sea breeze lifting her hair.
"How much was this place?"
Raphael leaned against the doorframe, coffee in hand.
"Doesn't matter."
"What do you mean?"
"Means you don't have to worry about it."
Monica turned around and stared at him for a few seconds.
"What about the twenty million? How are you planning to spend it?"
"Already spent."
Raphael's tone was casual, like twenty million was two hundred bucks. "This house, new documents, cars, hiring people—about two million total."
"And the rest?"
"Saved."
"Where?"
"Different accounts."
Raphael walked over and stood beside her. "Local Rio accounts, Cayman Islands, Switzerland. Spread out. Safer that way."
Monica blinked.
"You know how to do all that?"
"I don't. But the guy named José Ravi does. He introduced me to someone. I just paid."
Monica looked at him with a complicated expression.
"You planned all of this so carefully… should I assume you intended to do this from the very beginning?"
"You can assume that."
Monica couldn't help rolling her eyes.
---
The days settled into a rhythm.
Sleep until they woke up naturally. Monica did yoga in the yard while Raphael read the paper on the terrace.
Lunch was whatever they felt like. Afternoons were spent sunbathing at Ipanema Beach or strolling the Copacabana boardwalk.
Evenings they'd find a little local restaurant recommended by someone on the street, then come home, soak in the pool, watch the stars, and do all the things young couples do when they can't keep their hands off each other.
Monica discovered she was getting more and more used to this life.
Used to waking up in his arms every morning.
Used to his occasional sharp tongue.
Used to that body that never seemed to tire no matter how much they pushed it.