by Kenya Wright
“Nothing is ever easy, when the Russians are at play.”
“We haven’t considered a simpler possibility,” Rafael said.
“What’s that?”
“Kazimir could just be in Paris on a romantic vacation.”
“Kazimir?” I snorted. “The Lion knows nothing of romance. He’s plotting right now. After this war, he’s probably still bloodthirsty. I won’t let him be a problem for us. We need to stay on this. No mistakes.”
I left Rafael and returned to Eden.
The days were getting thicker and thicker with tension. My life felt just like the moon, approaching its eclipse. There was a darkness moving forward, heading our way, and all I could do was try and stop the inevitable.
But what was the inevitable?
I’d made a lot of enemies in the hunt for Eden’s love. Celina had gone missing, along with Shalimar. And Kazimir had arrived in Paris and lounged a few blocks away, apparently on holiday.
No. The Lion doesn’t vacation, and he doesn’t fall in love.
If there was one thing, I knew about my enemies in these past years, I could never rest for too long, without preparing for a strike from the shadows.
I’ve got Eden now. Celina. Kazimir. They can all stand the fuck down. I won’t let them get between us.
When Eden finished her breakfast, she gave me a weak smile. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Rafael had news, but none of it related to your aunt.”
There was no need to update her on Kazimir. The Russians and that business would only scare her. I’d noticed it last night. While she tried to listen, I couldn’t ignore her body’s shiver, as I discussed the deadly side of my news.
I’ll have to shield her from some of this.
Pushing my agitation away from Kazimir’s visit, I gazed at Eden. “We should go on a field trip today.”
She formed those beautiful lips into a smile. “Where do you want to go?”
“Nice.”
Far away from Paris.
Her eyes brightened. “I would love to see where you’re from.”
“Good. I would like you to meet my family. See my old home.” I laid my hand over hers and held it. “You want to know about me, and I’m ready to show you.”
And you need to be far away from Paris, when the Lion is stalking around.
We left an hour later. Rafael came along.
Giorgio, and Louis remained in Paris to monitor Kazimir’s moves. So far, all they’d had to report; was that he’d dined with the black woman at a high-end restaurant.
Since then, the Lion had somehow rented out the Catacombs. It was Paris’s earlier burial grounds—a city of dead beneath the City of Lights. Over 6 million Parisians had been laid to rest down there. There were mysterious carvings among stacks and stacks of skulls, and femurs places in patterns. Some of the chambers included an underground chapel, where religious services held vestibules, filled with bones. While it was a fun, yet gory tourist attraction, many wouldn’t take their date down there.
Meanwhile, a guide had ushered Kazimir, and the black woman through the extensive subterranean network of tunnels and death. What had he been thinking? What woman would want to go down there?
“They went into the Catacombs, toured it, and left?” I asked.
Louis’s voice rode the phone line. “Yeah. Kazimir pulled his phone out and took a picture of her in front of the entrance.”
“Like a fucking tourist?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung the phone up and turned my focus back to my voyage with Eden, to Nice. But it had been difficult as we flew to my hometown. I’d been uneasy about showing her my life, and Kazimir’s presence was making me more agitated.
Concentrate on Eden. All will be revealed, when needed. Everything will be okay.
But still, I wondered if I could protect Eden and the new feelings of love that was rising between us.
Too many enemies are near, and too many enemies are hidden.
Chapter 3
Nice the Beautiful
Eden
We flew into Nice days ago.
It was France’s second-largest city on the Mediterranean coast and located in the French Riviera.
Jean-Pierre led me off his private jet. “Welcome to Nice the Beautiful.”
“Is that the city’s nickname?”
“Yes. The Greeks founded the city in the 4th century BC. They named her Nice, to honor Nike—the goddess of victory.”
“I was checking out google maps on my phone.”
He smiled. “I saw that.”
“I just wanted to get a feel of where we were in France. We’re pretty close to Italy.”
“Yeah. When you explore the city, you’ll notice it more. A lot of people speak Italian here too. Lots of Italian restaurants.” He walked me up to a white limo parked several feet from his jet. “I’m going to have fun showing you everything.”
“I’m excited.”
I spent that week learning about Jean-Pierre’s hometown. His father had moved here long ago, selling cocaine to rich tourists. His mother had been an intern at an art gallery. She’d been cultured and loved classical music. His father had cleaned himself up and somehow won her.
They’d had Jean-Pierre a year later.
Our field trip to Nice started lovely. Jean-Pierre and I had a small dinner with around ten cousins—all various ages of men and women. They were from his mother’s side and had no part in his criminal world. That was more on his father’s side. His cousins spent an exorbitant amount of time asking questions and telling me funny things about Jean-Pierre. I’d barely gotten a chance to eat, before Jean-Pierre dragged me away, whispering that he didn’t want to share me anymore.
Jean-Pierre wasn’t playing. He was going to make sure I learned as much about him and his hometown as I could. Nice had an insanely affluent tourist scene. The menu prices made me lose my breath a few times. Some places had charged three figures for a salad. I couldn’t wrap my head around the presence of wealth. I spotted lots of expensive designer cars and diamond studded women shopping.
We passed a few celebrities, singers, and models during Jean-Pierre’s tour of Nice. Many nodded his way or came up to speak. I stood baffled most of the time, trying to appear nonchalant as an actress or actor I’d seen in the movies talked to Jean-Pierre in pure awe. He’d told me later that other celebrities had holiday homes here—Elton John, Tina Turner, Keith Richards, and Bono.
I was out of my element but finding my footing each day. Jean-Pierre always held my hand giving me the feeling of pure comfort. And so, I didn’t get nervous about not fitting into his high-end lifestyle.
Breathe.
I simply enjoyed everything and stayed in the moment. In Nice, the weather was lovely, the sandy beaches golden, and every inch of the city dripped in glamour and luxury. People drank loads of Rosé here. They guzzled it anytime and anywhere.
Nice was also a city of small dogs and their owners. I spotted them everywhere—cafés, galleries, restaurants, and beach.
My favorite part of Jean-Pierre’s hometown was that it had the highest number of museums in all of France. I’d checked out several, marveling in the French contemporary art scene.
In the art galleries that Jean-Pierre rented out for our dates, we played our painting game like we’d done in Belladonna. Hand-in-hand, we sipped wine and savored the art. In each room we entered, we both chose a piece of art that reminds us of each other. Again, he transformed from serious gangster to competitive boy, running through the polished marbles halls and beating me to rooms. So silly, he found ways to cheat, claiming all the paintings as one that reminded him of me.
On the most breathtaking days, we went to the beach. These beaches were rockier than I was used to. Because of this, Jean-Pierre’s staff provided us with special thick mats and beach footwear.
So far, this trip was a good distraction to the anxiety I had in my chest. It was har
d to not worry about my Aunt and Shalimar, but we stayed busy and the days passed.
Maybe everything will work out on its own.
One rainy day, he showed me the small home where he was raised. The windows were boarded up.
“Who owns this now?” I asked as we stopped in front of the door.
“I own it.” He pulled out a key and unlocked the door. It creaked open. Cobwebs covered the corners. Dust rose in the air as we entered. I doubted anyone has been in his house for decades. It was completely empty. No paintings or furniture. Only dust and spider webs.
He pointed to the center of the main room. “On Sunday mornings, I would stand right here and practice Strauss’s Sonata.”
I smiled imagining a small Jean-Pierre struggling with such a complex song.
“My mother would make me hot chocolate afterwards, so I always made sure to do my best.” He scanned the dusty floor. “My father thought the playing was a waste of time. He only knew one sort of life.”
Jean-Pierre had told me the story about how he’d become interested in the violin in the first place. He’d been helping his father traffic drugs in the violin case. People would see a cute little boy with a case all the time on the train going from Nice to Paris. After a while, they’d ask him to take out the violin and play. Of course, he couldn’t since it was only full of cocaine.
But it had gotten him interested in playing.
“I loved the attention violin playing got me.” Jean-Pierre held a wicked smile. “Women gave me dollars and hugged my face to their breasts. The cute, older girls left kisses on my cheeks.”
“You were a perverted little kid?”
“I was.” He walked over to the fireplace. It too, had been boarded up. “My mother’s hot chocolate was heaven. I’ve never had another like it, no matter how much I’ve tried to replicate it. I finally realized, no matter how much money I spent it was about her making it. Thick, dark, and extremely rich. I think she whispered magic words, when she stirred it.”
I tasted the hot chocolate on my tongue, envisioning Jean-Pierre’s world. This moment meant so much to me.
Who was this man that I was falling in love with?
Jean-Pierre leaned against the wall. “One winter morning, I played, and my father hurried in. He looked nervous, but he always did on Sundays.”
“Why?”
“My father had to give weekly exchanges to this man named Étienne. He was a short fat man, but he ran this part of France and provided the cocaine that my father was trafficking.”
I tensed.
“My father was nervous on those Sunday exchanges because he was taking a little cocaine for himself and shorting the money too. Father knew that it would only be a matter of time, before Etienne found out.” Jean-Pierre touched the fireplace mantle and studied the dust on his fingertips. “I don’t know why he didn’t just stop. It must’ve been the drugs, although I don’t remember how bad his habit had become. My mother never wanted to talk about things like that later.”
“Later?” I whispered.
“My father came home as I played Strauss’s Sonata for the first time, all the way through. I was so proud of myself.” A faint smile came to him. “I thought I’d conquered the world even though it must have surely sounded like cats screaming.”
I walked over to him.
“That day, my father didn’t stop to listen to me play. He went straight upstairs. My mother had a worried expression on her face. Seconds later, Etienne arrived at the house. I stopped playing, when my mother let him in. Etienne shook his head and told me to continue.”
My chest stiffened. I felt so scared for young Jean-Pierre.
“My father began to come downstairs, spotted Etienne, and stopped in the middle of the staircase. His face. . .turned so sad. And then he looked at me. . .and said that he was proud of me.” Jean-Pierre let out a long breath. “Etienne headed up the stairs and my father turned back to me with tears in his eyes. He said to me… ‘Play, Jean-Pierre. Don’t stop playing. Don’t stop. Play it loud for your mother.’”
I went to him and embraced him knowing that he was probably past the rawness of the pain, but I had to hold him. I couldn’t imagine going through something like that.
Jean-Pierre hugged me back. “I still didn’t get what was going on as I played, and my mother cried on the couch. It was when Etienne walked back downstairs with bloody hands and left that I figured it out. My mother didn’t get up. I finished, and she told me to play it again and again. Hours passed. My uncles arrived at the house. I was still playing that damn sonata with aching hands. Snot and tears covered my face.”
“And you’ve been playing it ever since?”
“I did my best to attach it to good memories. I never wanted to forget that song. Never. It was what I heard when I saw my father for the last time.”
I held him tighter, learning about Jean-Pierre and loving him more and more.
I’ll make sure we put good memories to the Sonata. Trust me.
We left the house and bumped into Rafael. He joined us as we headed to Jean-Pierre’s main property, in Cannes. Many people didn’t even know he lived there. Jean-Pierre had explained that only those closest to him had even been to the house.
On the drive, elegant homes shifted to massive, majestic mansions. And in the heart of it all, we arrived at Jean-Pierre’s private estate, sitting right next to the sea.
It looked more like a castle than a home.
His family stood outside amongst ten luxury cars. Close to thirty people in all, and all of them resembling Jean-Pierre’s gorgeousness. His family greeted us with open arms. There French was heavy and fast. None knew English that well. I stumbled a lot through phrases, hoping that I was making sense. His mother had had five sisters. They were all over sixty and lived on the property.
Two of the older women frowned and wagged their fingers at Rafael, although it was clear that they loved him. Jean-Pierre explained that these weren’t Rafael’s aunts, but, that Rafael and Jean-Pierre were cousins because their fathers were brothers. However, Jean-Pierre’s aunts had unofficially adopted Rafael, Louis, and Giorgio as their own.
For about an hour, Jean-Pierre showed me around.
There was three buildings on the huge estate—the mansion, servant quarters, and guest cottages.
The mansion was three levels. Hand-in-hand, Jean-Pierre led me through every room and floor, describing the history of this and that.
His mother had bought the property and designed it. She’d decorated the property with bright colors and adorned it in the highest standards of luxury. It was all white and possessed an elegant design.
Here, there was splendor. Nothing over the top. Marble floors and sparkling chandeliers. A fully stocked library and wine cellar. From the rooftop terrace, there was a breathtaking view over the sea. There was a summer kitchen, in addition to the regular one controlled by the main chef. On the outside, an outdoor lounge stood complete with a barbeque area, two pools, a small waterfall, and an oval hot tub with turquoise water.
Wow.
That evening, we had dinner with his aunts. They told me some of his childhood stories and threw a few in of Rafael. Both had me laughing.
It took me several hours of trying to remember everyone’s names, but I was sure I had them memorized. Aunt Aimée loved roses. She wore earrings and two large diamonds in the shape of them. Anytime Jean-Pierre came close to her, she tussled his hair like he was a wicked little boy. Aunt Delphine had married six times. They’d all died a few years after each wedding. She’d reminded me about it six times during the dinner, explaining everything that each man had left her. Aunt Océane smoked marijuana. I could smell it on her, and she’d asked me if I wanted a joint later that evening. I’d declined, still wanting to get a feel of everybody, before I just started getting high and partying around them. And then there were the twins, Aunt Camille and Aunt Charlotte. They had the most outrageous stories of romance. Somehow, they’d always lived together through it.
At one point, Jean-Pierre whispered to me, “Is my family scaring you yet?”
“No. I love them.”
His aunts left us alone for the rest of the evening. With full stomachs, we strolled his property. The moon hung above, readying itself for the eclipse. Almost full, but not there yet.
The calm sea was a dark slate along his property. Little boats scattered out further at the neighboring mansion’s dock.
Jean-Pierre squeezed my hand. “What do you think of my family so far?”
“I think that they are very nice and patient with my horrible French.”
“Be happy that you can’t perfectly communicate with my aunts yet.”
“Why?”
“They would be hassling you for children.”
“Already?”
“They know how serious I am about you.”
My heart warmed. I glanced in the other direction, so he wouldn’t see my blush. It was hard to not feeling like a crushing schoolgirl around him.
No regrets.
Chapter 4
Surprises. Surprises.
Eden
The next day came with a big surprise. For the first time since we’d been sleeping together, Jean-Pierre woke me up and showed me the sunrise. It tickled me to no end. I had actually decided to sleep in that morning.
It was always amazing starting the morning with him.
He kissed me. “Are you ready for breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“When I’m here, my aunts expect me to eat breakfast with them.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“They like you.”
“How can you tell?”
“They’ve left me alone. Usually when they don’t like the woman, they bother us to no end, knocking on the door.”
A little shy, I asked, “Have they met a lot of your women?”
“No. Just two.”
I didn’t like that he loved before me, but that was a normal part of life. “Who were the two?”
“The first time, I was just eighteen. I thought I was in love. I brought her down from Paris. I never should have. The poor girl rushed back home, crying the whole time on the train. She hadn’t been here for more than an hour.”
