Charlotte heard the confusion in his voice and pushed through the two inch gap between his body and the doorway. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t Joelle, standing near the sink with her hands over her head and fire in her eyes.
“Oh, my god!” Charlotte said, rushing forward. “What are you doing here?”
“I think a more urgent question is why is Monsieur Marchand pointing a gun at me?” Joelle shot back.
Christophe let loose a string of expletives in French, matched by a litany of equally shocking words from Joelle a moment later. Charlotte only caught some of it.
Fool! I could have killed you!
… must you be such a cretin?
Charlotte held up her hands, silencing both of them. “Just… calm down, will you?” She turned to Joelle. “I’m sorry. You’re not usually here on Mondays.”
“Yes, well, I had some extra work to do,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Shall I come to work armed from now on?”
“Of course not,” Charlotte said. “I’m so sorry.”
Joelle glared at Christophe. “What is he doing here?”
Charlotte was momentarily at a loss for words, then remembered that as far as Joelle knew, Christophe had stood Charlotte up in Paris, abandoning their plans to be together. She drew in a breath and turned to Christophe.
“Do you mind waiting upstairs for a few minutes? I’ll be right there.”
He hesitated, then walked slowly toward the stairs leading to the apartment above the store.
Charlotte was grateful Joelle waited until he was gone to turn on her.
“Merde, Charlie! What are you thinking?”
“You don’t understand,” Charlotte said. “It wasn’t his fault. He - ”
“Please!” Joelle said, throwing up her hands. “If you want to date a skunk, at least don’t lie to yourself that he’s a kitten.”
“That’s not what’s going on,” Charlotte said, her cheeks heating with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “He… He was away. It was something that couldn’t be helped.”
She hated not being able to tell Joelle the truth. Hated having to make an excuse for Christophe when she’d seen the bruises and cuts on his body, had kissed his swollen fingers, washed the filth from his body.
“He left you,” Joelle said, looking into Charlotte’s eyes like she was missing something important. “He told you to come to Paris, and he never showed.”
“He did,” Charlotte said. “He just… He was late.”
“Late?” Joelle’s laugh was bitter. “A month with no contact isn’t called being late. It’s called being stood up.”
“Enough!” Charlotte shouted.
Joelle flinched, and her face turned a shade paler. Charlotte couldn’t remember ever raising her voice to her father’s most trusted assistant. She put a trembling hand to her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “There are things you don’t know.”
Joelle crossed the room, touched her lightly on the arm. “So tell me. Help me understand why you would allow this man back into your life.”
Charlotte searched her mind for the right combination of words that would explain Christophe’s absence without giving away the nature of his business, without endangering Joelle by telling her what was happening with Raneiro Donati.
She came up empty. Anything detailed enough to assuage Joelle’s concern would be a betrayal to Christophe. Anything generic enough to protect Christophe wouldn’t be any comfort to Joelle anyway.
“I can’t say any more,” she finally said. “You’ll just have to trust that I know what’s best for me.”
Joelle’s expression softened. “I’m worried about you, Charlie. You’ve not been well this past month. I don’t want him to hurt you again.”
She searched Joelle’s eyes and saw only concern. “I know that. I do. And he won’t.”
Joelle retracted her hand with a sigh. “I’m going for lunch. Can I get you anything?”
Charlotte shook her head. “I’m only here to pick up a few things. Can you watch the shop for a few days?”
“Of course. Will you stay in touch? Let me know you’re all right?”
Her eyes were clouded with worry, and Charlotte tried to imagine what she was thinking. That Charlotte was the product of an abusive relationship? That Christophe was married or otherwise unable or unwilling to commit to her? All of those were things she’d seen happen to women like her.
Smart women who should have known better.
But she was not one of those women, and Christophe was not one of those men.
“I will,” Charlotte said. “Please don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
“If you say so, Charlie.”
She didn’t look convinced as she turned away, lifting her backpack and coat from a hook near the back door. She was gone a moment later. Charlotte stared after her, wondering if there was something else she could have said to allay Joelle’s concerns. Wondering if this was just the beginning of failed attempts to explain Christophe’s work to the people who knew and loved her.
“Is everything all right?”
She turned to find Christophe, arms folded across his muscled chest as he studied her from the bottom of the stairs.
“It’s fine,” Charlotte said. “She just… She doesn’t understand.”
He crossed the room, pulled her into his arms with an expression of regret. “I’m sorry.”
She leaned her head against his chest. “It doesn’t matter.”
He pulled back, looked down at her as he smoothed the hair off her forehead. “It does. And it will continue to matter. Mine isn’t an easy life to explain.”
“I don’t care.”
He opened his mouth as if to reply, but she halted his words by covering his lips with her own, the danger of it — of so willingly paying any price — hovering in the back of her mind.
12
She was surprised to find a line of cars in front of the house in Saint-Germain. She looked over at Christophe, watching his face for signs of worry, but his expression was calm as he pulled the car next to the curb.
“I take it you were expecting company?” she asked.
His nod was grim.
“Will it begin already?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said, reaching across the console for her hand. “Raneiro will move quickly now. He knows that we know. And what is it you Americans say about offense?”
“Offense is the best defense?”
He nodded. “Exactly. It’s time to go on the offense.”
They exited the car and made their way up the stairs to the big front door. Christophe’s watchful posture wasn’t lost on her, nor was the proximity of his hand to his weapon, still strapped at his side. She should have been afraid. What world was she living in where the man she loved carried a weapon? Where the possibility of someone shooting at them wasn’t far-fetched and she somehow wasn’t afraid?
She heard voices as soon as they entered the house. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t the sound of laughter traveling down the hall from the back of the house. Christophe’s face broke into something of a smile, and she found herself smiling in return. She’d been wondering if she would ever catch another glimpse of the light-hearted nature he kept so hidden from the world.
He took her hand. “Come on.”
The voices grew louder as they made their way down the hall. When they got to the kitchen they paused in the doorway. Charlotte took in the scene; six men in varying states of relaxation, drinking beer and laughing as Luca piled slices of baguette with meat and cheese.
“You’re a little too good at that,” Farrell said. “Isabel putting you to work in the kitchen?”
One of them, a giant with a shaved head named Elia that she’d met during the pre-rescue planning, laughed uproariously. “Would you believe this bastard tried to tell me she was just a client when we met up in Miami?” The other men booed as he continued. “I was like
, ‘Dude, you don’t seriously think we believe you’re going to take on Diego Fuentes for a client, do you?’”
Luca shook his head, pushing one of the plates toward the man teasing him. “First of all, fuck you.”
Everyone laughed even louder.
“Second of all,” Luca said, “I’m not ashamed to admit that I make Sophia’s lunch for school. Third of all, fuck you.”
Elia took a bite of the sandwich, laughing around the food in his mouth as the other men cheered.
Julien’s eyes came to rest on Christophe and Charlotte. He straightened, suddenly nervous. “Boss…” He looked around the kitchen, taking in the bread crumbs, the open packages of meat and cheese, the empty beer bottles. “Sorry about the mess. I assumed it would be better to feed everyone before you arrived.”
Christophe’s expression was stern, but Charlotte saw the light in his eyes. “Clean up the mess. Let’s talk in the parlor.”
He turned and started back down the hall.
“Shall I wait for you upstairs?” Charlotte asked.
His brow furrowed. “Why would you do that?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I thought maybe your meetings with the men were private…”
He kissed her forehead. “I will keep nothing from you, darling. If you’d prefer not to be involved, have a bath and a rest. If you’d like to listen, you’re welcome to join us.”
She hesitated. Knowing his business existed was one thing. Becoming part of it was another. But wasn’t she already part of it? Hadn’t she become part of it long ago when she’d first been targeted by Bruno? And did she want to compartmentalize their life together in the name of providing herself with a false sense of innocence? In the name of trying to convince herself she was somehow less culpable for her denial of it?
“I’d like to listen,” she said.
She didn’t want to pretend these parts of him didn’t exist. Didn’t want to pretend he was anything other than the man she knew. The man she loved.
“Good.”
They entered the parlor, and her eyes were again drawn to the Hiler mural. It was like a portal to another world, the extravagant trees rising into a cerulean sky and trailing vines winding around crumbling columns. She could stare at it for hours, her eyes searching the foliage for glimpses of the birds Hiler had hidden on his abandoned grounds.
She took a seat in one of the wing chairs as Christophe started a fire in the old fireplace. She watched him, his forearms flexing under the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, the hands moving nimbly to stack the wood in spite of their injuries. She wanted to offer to help, but she knew he wouldn’t welcome it. He’d given her a glimpse of his pain last night. There likely wouldn’t be another.
It was all right. She knew it was there. She would tend to it without making him speak of it.
The fire was just beginning to devour the wood when the other men began to trickle in. She watched them take seats, listening to their conversation and trying to get their names right.
There was Julien, ever the observer. He took a seat at the edge of the antique sofa, his massive frame making it look like he was perching on a piece of dollhouse furniture. He watched the others, his body coiled as if ready for anything.
Farrell Black was as frightening as ever with the long scar on his face and the eyes that looked like they could cut stone. Another man was never far from his side — Charlotte heard one of the others call him Leo, and it was obvious from his posture that he was Farrell’s right-hand man.
Luca ambled in next, and while she had no doubt he could be as dangerous as any of the men in the room, there was also something gentle about his energy. She had no trouble imagining him making sandwiches for the little girl named Sophia. She had only met the other two men — Marco and Elia — in passing. Unlike Farrell and Christophe who had trusted bodyguards in Leo and Julien, Marco and Elia seemed to be an equal pair. They were just as large as the other men, but where Marco had cool gray eyes and a placid demeanor, Elia’s arrogant swagger indicated someone less disciplined. Marco seemed quiet by comparison.
Christophe waited for everyone to get settled. Then he looked around the room.
“Thank you.” He hesitated, and she wondered if he would elaborate on his gratitude for their rescue. She wasn’t surprised when he decided against it. “Now let’s get this bastard.”
“There have been some… developments while you were gone,” Farrell said.
“Tell me.”
“Most notably: a series of execution-style murders,” Farrell said. “The victims cross territories — five in London, four here in Paris, more in Berlin, Rome, Madrid.”
“Tell me the rest,” Christophe said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“They’re all… investors of a sort.”
“Investors of what?” Christophe asked.
“Of us,” Farrell said. “Together the men who have been killed in London represent a full sixty percent of my revenue, either through joint operations or through fees paid for various services.” He glanced at Julien. “Julien tells me the murders in your territory were also connected to your business in one way or another.”
“And the others?” Christophe asked.
“We’re still checking it out with the other territories,” Julien said. “But it looks like a pattern.”
“He’s taking out our financial centers,” Christophe said.
“It makes sense,” said Luca, leaning against the wall near the window. “He went after the cross hoping to finance his new operation. Without it, he needs to level the financial playing field. That means he either needs to find another source of income — a lot of it — or he needs to cripple us to make it easier to take us out. And I use the word us loosely, because I want to remind you that I’m not looking to get back into the business. I’m just here to help.”
Christophe rubbed his chin. “So he’s going to take out our biggest sources of financing, get us on the defense, then pick us off one by one.”
“Or all at once,” Marco said. “If he can get enough men behind him, he could stage an attack on all the territories. With everyone’s resources compromised, it would be hard to fight back, and it wouldn’t take much for him to have the greater show of force.”
“We need to take him out before he gets that far,” Christophe said.
Farrell grunted. “We have to find him first.”
“And we have to move fast,” the man named Leo said. “The longer he chips away at our operations, the weaker we get.”
Silence descended over the room, and Charlotte tried to picture all the pieces on the chess board. Multiple criminal operations spanning the globe, all of them run by people like Farrell and Christophe, and all of them with men like Julien, Leo, Marco, and Elia. She wasn’t clear about Luca’s connection, but he’d mentioned the man named Nico, so maybe Luca had worked for him before the Syndicate fell.
Her phone vibrated from her jacket pocket, and she stood, stepping to the perimeter of the room as she looked at the number she didn’t recognize on the display.
“Hello?”
“Mademoiselle Duval? Charlotte Duval?” The voice was crisp and male. The voice of someone conducting business.
“Yes?”
“This is Sergeant Laurent from the Paris Fire Brigade. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
13
He had to force his eyes on the road as they drive through the streets of Paris. He wanted to look at Charlotte. To study her face for signs that she was all right.
It wouldn’t help. The best thing he could do for her now was to get her to Galerie Duval as quickly as possible.
He’d known something was wrong right away. Her face had drained of color, her arm falling limp at her side, phone still in her hand. They’d been in the car less than five minutes later.
According to Charlotte, the Sergeant had been short on details. There had been an explosion of some kind at the store. They didn’t know if there were injuries inside, but a pa
sserby had been cut by flying glass. Charlotte should come immediately.
“Joelle…” she said from the seat next to him.
He reached for her hand as he took a fast turn. “It will be all right, darling. I promise.”
He believed it even as he didn’t know what they would find. Maybe Joelle had been in the shop. Maybe she was hurt or even dead. Maybe the shop had been burned beyond all recognition.
None of it was relevant to his promise. He would make it all right for her, whatever it took.
Emergency vehicles lined the narrow street where Galerie Duval had once stood. He drove to the end of the block, made a right turn, and parked in front of a police car. Charlotte was out of the car and moving down the sidewalk before he managed to close the door.
He hurried after her, taking her hand and pushing through the crowd that had gathered to watch the firefighters fight the blaze that poured from the windows. Charlotte stopped cold, her face lit with the fire consuming her father’s store, horror playing across her face. She pulled away and rushed toward the building.
“Joelle!” she shouted. “Someone’s in there! You have to go in and get her!”
She was tugging on the coat of one of the firefighters, screaming to be heard over the rush of water, the sirens moving down the street, the crackle of the blaze that was a hungry beast, devouring the old wood, the canvases inside the building that had been slaved over by artists long forgotten,the ceramics painted by hand. He thought of the little apartment above the store. He’d only seen it once, but it had a kind of simple elegance that was a reflection of Charlotte. He knew she’d felt sheltered there. That she’d felt her father’s presence.
Now it was gone.
He took her hand, pulled her into his arms. “Shhh… It’s all right. Let them put out the fire, then we’ll see what’s what.”
She turned her face into his chest, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed, her cries muffled by the wool of his coat. Rage moved through him like a sleeping monster suddenly awakened. He’d had moments of anger when he’d been Raneiro’s prisoner, but after awhile it was easier to retreat into his thoughts of Charlotte, and occasionally, the dispassionate calculations of his revenge. Now adrenaline surged through his body, the urge to strike something, to hurt someone, hard to contain.
Rule: Paris Mob Book Three Page 5
