pushed back into the throbbing crowds behind them.
“There’s nowhere to go!” people shouted. “Nowhere for us to go!”
Squeezed between the surge of police and the barricades behind them, the crowd had run out of room and was growing angrier by the second. A small group at the front fell to the ground, their actions seen as resistance by club-wielding officers.
“Michael, get in here!”
It was crazy, but I was mesmerized. I saw about a dozen canisters launch in volleys from somewhere behind police lines. Tear gas. They landed in the crowd, unleashing panic. One hit a demonstrator in the head and knocked him to the sidewalk. People were soon stepping over other people, coughing and wheezing as they ran. A few held damp rags to their mouths, which eased their breathing but did nothing for the skin and eye irritation. A woman in agony ran past screaming “Pepper spray, pepper spray!” A crack of gunfire erupted, and people on the front line writhed in pain from rubber bullets, beanbags, and chemical-filled pellets. It was impossible to count the number of rounds fired, but it had to be in the hundreds. Angry youths cursed as they picked up the smoking canisters of tear gas and hurled them back at the oncoming police.
“Michael, get back inside!”
Someone grabbed me and threw me against the car. It was a man—incredibly strong—dressed all in black, a helmet protecting his head. A bandanna covered his nose and mouth, but his eyes were still visible and they were downright threatening. His knee came up and hit me in the groin, and my face was suddenly on fire with pepper spray.
“It’s only gonna get worse,” he said in a voice that chilled me, and then he was gone.
Ivy pulled me back into the car and yanked the door shut. The driver switched on the locks. I couldn’t see, and the sting was almost unbearable. Ivy had bottled water in her purse, which she poured on my face to wash away the spray.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I blinked hard, but it would take a while to find relief.
Ivy glanced out the car window. “There’s a medic tent over there,” she said, pointing toward the courthouse on the corner.
“They actually set up medic tents?” I managed to say. Apparently Miami learned from former host cities to expect protests and injuries.
“I see people getting treated for pepper spray,” she said. “Come on, let’s go.”
She paid the cabdriver and told him to keep the change. He thanked her and handed her a business card.
“My cell number is on there,” he said. “Call me if you know anyone. Maybe it’s you, your housekeeper, your doorman. Whoever.”
“Anyone who what?” asked Ivy.
“What we were talking about,” he said. “Anyone who wants to buy a condo. I get you a killer deal on a very good pay-option, negative-amortization loan, mon.”
The expression on Ivy’s face was one of complete incredulity. “Let’s go,” she told me.
I pushed open the door. We grabbed our bags, and together we zigzagged through the crowd and confusion, stopping only when we reached the Wellness Center beneath the giant flag of Che Guevara flapping in a breeze tinged with tear gas.
2
IVY LAYTON WAS ABOUT TO BLOW HER BRAINS OUT. NOT LITERALLY—but sudden and certain death did seem preferable to the conversation that surrounded her. Ivy stepped away from a circle of women she didn’t care to get to know and grabbed a frozen rum runner topped with a floater of 150-proof Trinidadian spirits.
“Careful,” said the waiter holding the silver tray of cocktails. “Those be strong, love.”
Ivy smiled and thanked him. Since stepping foot on the Saxton Silvers yacht, she’d been “darlin’,” “honey,” and “love,” all of them as harmless in the islands as “mon.”
“Strong is good,” she said. And after a day like today, she really meant it. “Mon.”
Ivy and Michael had ended up returning to Miami International Airport, flying to Nassau, and catching up with the private cruise there. As far as Ivy was concerned, though, one less day with the top young producers at Saxton Silvers was a blessing. There was only one she cared to be with: Michael Cantella, a veritable rock star among the firm’s fiercely competitive under-thirty-five-year-olds. Michael had an uncanny knack for making the rich richer, which earned him seven-figure performance bonuses and plenty of free trips—South African safaris, New Zealand wine and adventure tours, and other five-star destinations around the globe, none of which he could fit into his relentless schedule. But this time was different. He