❝ And that's Marlowe - better known as Mar...❞
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𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐞. You rarely catch her without sand-covered skin and dark locks winded up from saltwater. Born and raised on the island, with a house that radiates...
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𝐀 map and a tape recorder. The envelope consisted of just that.
A rough sketch of the island and its surrounding elements, with a gathering of ink marking the golden spot. An old, dusty grey tape recorder - but not just any. This one held the voice of John B's beloved father, and it spoke a heartwrenching message to his only child.
Big John had found the Royal Merchant.
"How much was it again?"
Marlowe's fingers dance across the fretboard of John B's acoustic guitar, freeing one clean chord after the other. She peeks up, smiling at the sound of Kiara's soft humming.
That's something very few people know about the Greenes; they cherish music. Her father had even applied her to piano lessons the year she turned four, and although growing tired of repeating the tune of Für Elise, she kept going.
At nine, she switched out the delicate keys for rugged stings.
"Four hundred mil," Pope answers JJ's initial question.
The group has drawn out to the dock, resting against the wood as they savor the calm of night.
"Alright," JJ says. "Let's talk the split. And before we say evenly, may I remind you that I am the only one that can properly defend us from those groupers who were after us." He waves around with the gun. "Protection? Not cheap, okay?"
Marlowe's eyes seem to roll themselves at that, an amused smile tugging her lips. She shakes her head, continuing to finger-pluck the strings.
Pope exclaims, "you've done zero training."
"YouTube, bro!" The blond defends. "That's at least a five percent bump right there."
"You haven't-"
"Any objections?" he shrugs confidently. "Didn't think so."
Kiara raises her arm, and Pope mutters a slightly annoyed yeah.
"I don't hear any, so..."
The curly-haired waves him off, her dark eyes landing upon the boy on the ground. "What are you gonna do with your eighty mil, Pope?"
