Benoit binds the arms of the men on the couch. Except for the cocky one. Him, I push into a chair.
“Secure his feet and hands,” I say.
My men work fast. They tie him to the chair and use more rope to bind his wrists to the armrests and his ankles to the legs of the chair.
“Who pulled the trigger?” I ask.
One of the fuckers glances at his friend tied up in the chair.
“I did.” The guy in the chair spits at my feet.
I nod at Benoit. “Take the others to the warehouse. They’re yours.”
He gives me a look of appreciation. It’s only fair that he gets to torture and kill them. Gautier was the closest thing he had to a brother.
Half of my men go with Benoit. The other half stay with me.
“You know how this works,” I say, standing in front of the man who looks at me like I’m the one doing him the injustice. “Are you going to talk, or must I do my magic first?”
“Fuck you,” he says with a grin.
I smile. Good. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Taking my gun from my waistband, I aim at his hand.
One of my men shoves a dishcloth in his mouth. He clams his jaw shut on the fabric and clutches the armrest. I shoot off his trigger finger.
The silencer dampens the sound, but he screams like a baby behind the bundle of fabric.
“Who sent you?” I ask.
He’s dragging in air through his nose, trying to breathe through the pain. The look he gives me when he can finally focus again says fuck you.
I shoot off his thumb. Flesh and splintered bone hang from the knuckle by shreds of skin.
He bleeds like a pig and cries like a pussy. I’d ice the stumps to stop him from bleeding out and shoot off every motherfucking finger and toe until he gives me the answers I want, but I don’t have that much time. Zoe is home. Alone. I need to get back to her.
Pushing the gun on his left nut, I ask, “Who sent you?”
He mumbles behind the cloth. My man removes it.
He gulps in air, spit and gob mixing with his words. “Brise de Mer.”
This idiot isn’t part of their family. He’s a paid man. If this is about territory, why didn’t they come after me themselves? I dig the barrel into his balls. “Why?”
“To take out the girl,” he slobbers.
I go still. Every molecule in my body freezes in rage. I know exactly which girl. There’s only one girl. There will only ever be one. Still, I grind out the question as atomic violence builds in my veins. “Which woman?”
He looks at me with pain-laced eyes. “Your woman. Zoe Hart.”
The woman I’ve paraded for the world to see. The woman I’ve made a target by showing everyone how much she means to me. My cousin, Jerome, warned me the night I paid a million euros for her in the charity auction, but I was too dead set on showing everyone she belonged to me to care.
I move the barrel down his scrotum and wiggle it under his butt until it rests snugly over his asshole. “Why?”
“Because she’s your weakness,” he says on a rush, trying to lift his filthy ass away from the gun.
“You thought killing her would weaken me,” I say with a cold laugh.
Sweat beads on his face. “Yes.”
Fucking wrong. It would’ve crushed me. “Why are they targeting me?” They should’ve targeted my father if they wanted the organization to crumble.
“You’re the backbone of the family.”
I’m the brain. My father is a loose cannon, getting more unstable in his business decisions by the day. The only one who keeps him in line is me. They were hoping on avoiding a war and taking over by weakening the pillar that’s keeping the house of cards from toppling.
Gripping his hair in my free hand, I pull back his head. “Who paid you?”
“Stefanu Mariani.”
The Corsican underboss. I grin. “That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?” I stare into the eyes of the man who was going to snuff out Zoe’s life. “Tell me something, how did it feel to pull that trigger?”
He blinks. “What?”
“When you aimed at my woman, how did it feel?”
I relive the moment in stark fucking monstrous detail, the moment I realized they were going to shoot, the moment I felt nothing, not for me or my family or the business, but only for the woman at my side. The moment my heart beat only for her. The moment Gautier threw his body in front of us and took the bullets, three. One in the chest, one in the stomach, and one in the head.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Dominic.”
“What did you feel, Dominic?”
He frowns, incomprehension marring his ugly features. “Nothing.”
Wrong fucking answer.
I pull the trigger.
Chapter 7
Maxime
On the way home, I call my father. What happened calls for retaliation. The Corsicans need to be shown who runs this city. No one puts a hit on my woman and lives to see daylight.
“You erred,” my father says when I’ve filled him in. “Alexis had reason. We should’ve wiped out those Corsican bastards the minute they landed on our shore.”
I hate to admit for once he’s right. I gave them the benefit of the doubt because the Belshaws don’t start wars. However, taking a hit at my woman is a fucking cowardice, honorless move, and it just started a genocide.
My fingers curl around the gearstick, my nails cutting into the leather. “I’m taking them all out.”
“I’m calling in the Italians.”
“I don’t need the fucking Italians.”
My father’s voice rises. “We need them now more than ever. This is exactly why we secured the deal.”
“I’ll do my own cleanup in my backyard, thank you fucking very much.”
“Son.” My father sighs. “You can’t pretend it’s not happening forever.”
I clench my jaw. “I’m not pretending.”
“Is that why you’re avoiding Leonardo?”
I shift gears so violently the gearbox screeches. “I’m not avoiding him. I’m just not in the mood for dragging a tail along.”
“I know why you’re doing it.”
“Do not say her name to me. Not now.” I’m too explosive.
Wisely, my father keeps his mouth shut.
“I’ll let you know when it’s done,” I say before ending the call.
My father will summon more men and make sure their house is protected. He’ll warn Alexis and do what he must. I dial our most effective muscle, one of the men I sent to torture the other motherfucker mercenaries. By now he should have the information I want.
“Where are the Corsicans?” I ask when he answers.
“Meeting as we speak.”
Probably weaponing up, knowing their murder attempt failed and we’re coming after them.
“They’re gathered in a warehouse in the industrial area.”
“Blow it up.”
“Yes, sir.”
By sunrise, no Brise de Mer will be left in our territory. Our message will have been delivered. Crystal fucking clear.
My first stop is at Gautier’s mother’s house. She’s a widow, living alone. Fuck. He was her only child, but he knew the risks. He took the bullets knowing she’d want for nothing. We take care of our own, especially of the relatives of those who sacrifice their lives.
I ring the bell.
Her face crumples when she opens the door and sees my face. She knows what this visit means.
“I’m sorry.” I grip her shoulder. “He died bravely.”
“How?” she asks, her wrinkled eyes dry but sorrow drifting in their depths.
“Drive-by shooting. The men who did this paid. They died slowly.”
Her body wilts under my hold, her shoulders folding inward and her spine curling.
I squeeze gently. “Do you have someone to call? Someone who can be with you?”
She nods.
I hand her my card. “You
call me. For anything. Any time. Night or day.”
She shuts the door.
I leave her to her grieving. There’s not much else I can do. Nothing to make it better. Not even time erases this pain.
I get back into the car and make sure I’m not tailed. Driving like a maniac, I head toward Cassis. I only realize how cold I am when I park at the house. I’m eager to go inside, to see Zoe, but I check in with the guards and schedule a shift to make sure everyone remains vigilant before checking the perimeter alarms. Only then do I allow myself to enter and face the fact that I could’ve lost her tonight. That I most certainly—gladly—would’ve taken the bullets meant for her if Gautier hadn’t.
I shut the door softly. If she’s sleeping, I don’t want to wake her. I shrug out of my jacket and dump it on the chair in the entrance. I’m halfway across the foyer when she comes down the stairs. Stopping in my tracks, I drink her in as she approaches. She’s showered and clean, dressed in a loose T-shirt and a pair of shorts, and I’m pathetically grateful. I don’t know how wild my emotions would’ve run if I’d seen her in her tattered dress and dirt-streaked face.
“You all right?” I ask when she stops in front of me. My vocal cords are tight. They feel unused.
She places her hands on my chest. “You?”
I cup her palms, let her warmth sink into my cold skin. “Yes.”
“What happened?” she whispers.
I want to kiss her. I want to fuck her. I want to just hold her. Instead, I let her go. If I touch her in any way, I’ll go overboard. I may say things, things I can’t mean. Instead, I walk to the library and sink down in the chair behind the desk.
She follows quietly, her bare feet not making a sound on the Turkish carpets. At the liquor tray, she pours a whiskey the way I like and carries the glass to me. Our fingers brush when I take it.
“Thank you,” I say, my words laced with surprise at the act of kindness when I deserve nothing of the kind.
She stands in front of the desk, her pretty face so pale I can count every freckle on her nose. “Is he…?” She swallows. “Gautier. Is he—?”
“Dead.”
She flinches. Tears blur the blue of her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Maxime.”
I take a swallow of the drink. The burn is good. It loosens up my voice, making it easier to speak. “So am I, but not as much as his poor mother.”
“Where were you?”
“You shouldn’t have waited up. It’s late.”
“You think I can sleep?”
I hand her the glass.
She turns it and places her lips on the exact spot where the glass touched mine before drinking, then puts it back in my hand. It’s become our game. “Were you at the police station, giving a statement?”
I look at her. She says it flatly, her back straight. She doesn’t believe it. I bet her question is just one of a long list she’s rehearsed to flush out the truth.
“No,” I say.
“I heard what you told Benoit about following that car. Did you go after him, the man who killed Gautier?”
“Yes.”
Her chest rises with a breath. Her posture is brave, but her hands are shaking. She can’t hide the turmoil in her eyes. “Did you kill him?”
I look straight into those pretty baby blues. “Them. I killed them.”
If at all possible, she goes even whiter. “What are you, Maxime?”
My smile is wry. “A man.”
I’ve never been more of a man since the day I met her. She made me a man who reacts to a woman in the most primal of ways. She made me a man with a weakness, a man with chest full of fear. Most of all, I’m just a man of flesh and blood, a man who wants to live to protect the person he cares about the most in the world.
Zoe plants her palms on the desk, facing me with all forty-six kilos of her feistiness. Her words are measured, each one articulated. “What are you, Maxime? Mafia?” She spits out the word like it’s poison.
“You know what I am.”
She slams a palm down in front of me. “Say it.”
Her anger only makes me smile broader. It’s the irony of being caught in a trap I designed for her. It’s the knowledge that this little flower has slain me. “Yes, I’m mafia, but you knew that all along.”
Fire dances along the tears in her brilliant eyes. “I did not.”
This changes anything? She thinks I’ll let her go? Pretending to be ignorant makes fucking me easier for her?
“Oh, come on, Zoe. Not even you can be that naïve.”
She jerks as if I’ve slapped her. Fine. It was a low blow. Her naivety is part of what I love about her. She’s the light to my hell, the hope to my infernal darkness. Men like me are born dark. We’re born into the darkness. We inherit it from our fathers and pass it on to our sons. She’s the only brightness I’ll ever have in my life, and I don’t want her as anything other than herself, but she’s changing regardless. It happens right in front of my eyes as her features contort with pain. She tries hard to bury her feelings under a mask of indifference, but that’s my specialty. She’s an open book, a flower for the plucking.
“Fuck you, Maxime.” Her chin trembles, but she straightens and pulls her shoulders square. “You’re right. I’m too naïve. Maybe I was hiding my head in the sand when you took me from my home to teach me your sick lessons, but it was the only way I could cope with what was happening to me, so fuck you again for your petty insults.”
“Says the woman who just insulted me twice.”
Her dainty nostrils flare. “You could’ve died tonight, and I don’t know why I even care.”
I lift a brow. “Is there a point to this conversation?”
She regards me for the longest moment. Her voice is soft but complex, wrapped in layers of weariness, fear, and desperation when she finally speaks. “I want to go home.”
“No, you don’t.”
Her voice rises in anger. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I know you better than you think.”
She balls her small hands into fists at her sides. “I want to go home.”
“This is your home, Zoe. You’ve admitted it yourself, more than once. There’s nothing left for you in Johannesburg. This is your dream. This is the life you’ve always wanted. You want to run because you know who I am now. You want to run because of what you’ve lived through tonight. It’s only natural, but I’m here to protect you. I’ll always protect you.” Even from my grave.
She’s shivering like a daisy in a storm, but she’s standing her ground. “If they took a shot at you, you must be important.”
If they took a shot at you. Her words still me. She notices. Fuck. It’s a heavy truth to lay on her shoulders, but I can’t protect her if I keep her head pushed down in the sand.
“How important, Maxime? If you won’t let me go, it’s only fair that I know.”
She’s right. I wanted to keep her away from the business, but ignorance gets you killed. Especially now that she’ll be attending school in town. Especially now that she’ll have triple the guards protecting her day and night. I made an error in showing the world how much she means to me, but I won’t let her pay the price.
“Quite important,” I say.
“You’re not the boss or something like that?” she asks with a nervous laugh.
“Not yet. I still share the power with my father.”
Placing a hand over her stomach, she looks at me as if she sees the monster in my soul. “Oh, my God.”
“We’ll put extra security measures in place. You’ll take double the number of guards with you to school.”
“Me?” She gives me a wide-eyed look. “It’s not me they were after. What if they kill you?”
That coldness spreads through me again. I bury it under the fury and violence still coursing through my veins, but Zoe is perceptive. I may have made it my job to get to know her, but she’s gotten to know me in the process, too.
“Unless,” she says with a soft gasp, �
�they weren’t after you.”
“Zoe.” I get to my feet, but she takes a step away.
“They came after me,” she says with those big, haunted eyes. I can almost see the gears turning in her head. I see the exact moment she connects the dots. “To get to you.”
I stand helplessly, my hands hanging loosely at my sides while the truth turns her face into a mask of horror. I can’t tell her it won’t happen again. I can’t tell her I’ll let her go. I can only round the desk and offer her my arms.
“No.” She holds up a hand and takes two more steps away from me. “Don’t touch me.”
Her words hit me like no bullet can. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
“You can’t promise that,” she says on a panicked whisper. “What happens if you’re killed?”
I opt for the truth. It’s better to give her these weapons than to make her vulnerable by not enlightening her. “It’s an option we shouldn’t exclude, but I’ll make sure you’re looked after.”
Her breath catches. “That’s not what I meant. What happens to me, stuck here in this city without a passport?”
I approach cautiously, like with an injured animal. “You don’t have to worry about that. It’s my job to take care of the details.”
“It’s my life. My fucking life.”
“Zoe.” My patience is running thin. It’s been a long night. “Don’t start.”
She folds her arms around her stomach. “A man died because of me.”
I slowly continue my advance. “He knew what the job entailed when he signed up.”
“Is Damian involved in the mafia? Is that why you’re keeping me?”
Stopping, I rub a hand over my face.
“Damn you, Maxime. Tell me! A man died tonight.”
The implied meaning hangs in the air. It could’ve been her. Tilting my head toward the ceiling, I sigh. “Damian is involved with his own mafia in prison. It’s got nothing to do with us.”
“Then why keep me?”
I wasn’t going to tell her, but the game is no longer the same. I’m never letting her go. What difference does it make if she knows? She’s right. After tonight, it only seems fair.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “Your brother is planning on taking back a diamond deposit he discovered. The mine currently belongs to Harold Dalton.”
Diamonds in the Rough: A Diamond Magnate Novel (Diamonds are Forever Book 2) Page 6
