Erica

The Mediterranean was glass-smooth when Erica Caldwell stepped onto the upper deck of her family’s yacht, the salt air carrying the quiet confidence of a life spent behind guarded gates. At twenty-three, the heiress had learned to savor rare moments of anonymity, listening to the engines hum while the coastline slipped into the distance. She never heard the drone until it was too late. Shapes emerged from the black—sleek inflatables, masked figures moving with military precision—and the yacht’s lights died in a single, practiced sweep. Erica turned, heart hammering, and caught a glimpse of cold eyes behind a visor before a sharp blow sent the world tilting into silence. She woke to the smell of diesel and canvas, wrists bound, the thrum of unfamiliar engines vibrating through the deck beneath her. The pirates were not the ragged marauders of rumor but something far more unsettling: disciplined, efficient, their gear modern and unmarked.