Rule: Paris Mob Book Three

by St. James, Michelle

  “Who the fuck knows?” Kane said. “And what does it matter?”

  Christophe turned his eyes back to the binoculars.

  Nico shook his head. “You’re getting cynical, my friend.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Kane muttered.

  “Want to talk about it?” Nico asked.

  “Nothing to talk about,” Kane said. “I’m in the business of crime, and my business is recession-proof.”

  “Sounds like you need a woman,” Nico said.

  “If I remember correctly, a woman was the beginning of all your trouble,” Kane said.

  “No.” Nico’s voice was firm. “She was the beginning of everything that matters.”

  Christophe thought of Charlotte. Her long hair splayed across the pillow in the morning. Her hand, soft but surprisingly strong in his. Her eyes holding the answer to every mystery.

  It took effort to push her away, but he did it. He had work to do before he could get back to her. He watched as the limo pulled away from the curb. The front of the mayor’s house was quiet, and a moment later, the lights went out in one of the front rooms.

  “I think we’re clear,” Farrell said.

  Nico and Kane got onto their knees and picked up their binoculars. It was after two am, and the street was surprisingly quiet.

  “Give us an update from the back,” Nico said into their headsets.

  “Last catering truck just closed its doors,” Elia said. “They’re driving away now. Light just shut off at the back of the house.”

  Christophe watched through the binoculars, scanning the street and the area surrounding the house. His legs were starting to cramp when something caught his eye at the end of the block.

  “There,” he said. “End of the block, to the right of the house.”

  Two men were walking toward the mayor’s mansion. Their features were indistinguishable from a distance, but as they approached Christophe caught something familiar in the stride of one of the men. It was a kind of swagger that said he had a chip on his shoulder. That he had something to prove. That he’d had something to prove for a long time.

  Bruno.

  “My brother,” Christophe said. “On the left.”

  “And that’s Raneiro with him,” Nico said. “Walking down the street like he already fucking owns the place.”

  Christophe focused on the tall man walking next to Bruno. Nico was right; it was Raneiro Donati. The man had aged in the years since Christophe had last seen him. He had always been slender, but now he was noticeably thin, his face gaunt, eyes hollow. Prison had not been kind to him, and Christophe wondered at the kind of narcissism that would propel him out into a potential battle when he so obviously wasn’t equipped for it.

  Nico lowered his binoculars, looked at Christophe. “You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked. “That’s your brother down there. We’d all understand if you want to wait it out. There’s no shame in it.”

  Christophe clenched his teeth. “No way.”

  Nico nodded, lifted the binoculars back up to his eyes.

  “We’ve got movement at the back,” Marco said in the headset. “One man, one woman, both approaching the back fence.”

  “A woman?” Farrell asked.

  “Yeah,” Marco said. “A fucking woman.”

  Christophe thought about the woman at the auction in Havana. The same woman he thought he’d seen on the streets of Bermuda.

  “I’m not killing a woman,” Nico said.

  Elia’s voice came through the headset. “Doesn’t matter to me. Man or woman — if they work for Raneiro they’re going down.”

  “Bruno and Raneiro are moving to the side of the house,” Christophe said, watching as Bruno and the other man stepped from the sidewalk to the small space that ran along one side of the house. “We’re going to lose them in the shadows. We need to get down there.”

  Everyone stood up and pulled on their gloves.

  “Weapons are silenced?” Kane asked. Christophe checked the silencer on the end of his weapon, then nodded along with everyone else. “Good. If we can keep it quiet, I figure we have twenty minutes before the boys in blue show up. If it gets noisy, we get half that at the most.”

  “So we move fast,” Nico said.

  Christophe nodded. “We move fast.”

  They moved out of the office space and into the hall, then down three flights of stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Raneiro and Bruno had disappeared, and Kane waited for a passing car to wave them all forward across the street. When they got to the front of the house, he gestured for Christophe and Nico to take the side while he and Farrell took the front.

  Nico watched the street while Christophe stepped into the shadows. He kept his back to the wall, edging along the house’s facade with his gun drawn. When he got to the first window, he saw that it was open a crack at the bottom. Nico glanced back and Christophe waved him forward.

  Nico covered him while he propped himself up on the windowsill long enough to push the window farther open. When there was enough room for him to make it through, he swung his legs inside and slid onto the floor. It was dark inside the room, but he could make out a large desk, several chairs, a small sofa, and walls of books. It was obviously some kind of study or office, and he opened the window a bit wider for Nico.

  A few seconds later they were moving through the room toward the hall, guns drawn.

  They paused at the threshold, listening for sounds in the rest of the house, then Christophe peered into the hall. It was dimly lit from two sconces on the wall, a wide wooden staircase leading up to the second floor.

  Christophe waved Nico forward and they started up the stairs. They were halfway to the second floor landing when he heard the muffled whoosh of a silenced gun fired on the first floor at the back of the house.

  They took the rest of the stairs two at a time. All of their weapons were silenced, but there was no guarantee on the weapons carried by Raneiro’s men. The clock was already ticking.

  They emerged onto the second floor landing and did a quick scan of the layout; a small seating area at the top of the stairs, four doors to the right, six more to the left. The sound of running water leaked from one of the half-open doors on the right.

  They curved around the landing and had just reached the door when three more shots sounded from the first floor. They were followed by the crash of furniture and shattering glass, then the recognizable thump of bodies hitting the floor.

  There was no more time to be stealthy. Christophe kicked open the door and stepped into a large master bedroom. It was empty, and he headed for the sound of running water, steam leaking from the open door of the master bathroom.

  Nico was on his heels as they charged into the bathroom, weapons drawn. The hot water had been running for some time, steam clouding the air, making it hard to see. Christophe scanned the room, trying to identify the silhouettes lurking in the mist.

  But he was too late. A figure charged at him through the steam. He only had time to get off one shot before he was smashed to the tile floor, and he knew immediately it was Bruno. They’d wrestled too many times as kids, had practiced martial arts together as adolescents. His brother’s weight, the singular uniqueness of the way he moved his body, was as familiar to Christophe as his own.

  He fought to get purchase against the slippery tile, trying to gain the position of power by rolling Bruno underneath him. He was halfway there when he felt the slip of Bruno’s knife between his rib cage. He was too shocked to register the pain, and he kneed Bruno in the stomach, then rolled on top of him.

  He was only able to keep his position for a second before Bruno twisted the knife in his gut.

  Christophe screamed and Bruno punched him hard, then rolled on top of him. Christophe couldn’t feel the knife, didn’t know if it was still in his rib cage, but now Bruno was holding his forearm against Christophe’s neck, cutting off his air supply. His gun was out of reach, near his hip, but not near enough.

  Chri
stophe kicked and fought, but his body wasn’t working properly. The knife wound had weakened him, and Charlotte passed in front of his mind as the edges of his vision went black.

  No. He wouldn’t let Bruno take him from her.

  He grasped for his gun, his fingers scraping uselessly on the tile as he tried to inch for the weapon. His vision was blackening again when he felt the cold steel in his fingers. He lifted the weapon, pointed it at his brother’s side.

  “Get… off… me,” he rasped.

  “You don’t have the guts,” Bruno said, pressing harder on his neck.

  Christophe was mesmerized by his eyes.

  He was six years old, Bruno looking up at him as the waves lapped at their feet on Corsica.

  He was twelve, Bruno glaring at him from across the dinner table, angry because their father was praising Christophe’s skill at fencing.

  He was twenty-six, Bruno’s eyes filled with hatred as Christophe bailed him out of jail yet again.

  He was still looking in Bruno’s eyes when the gunshot threw him backwards. The pressure on Christophe’s throat was gone all at once, and he rolled over, gasping and coughing as he rose onto his knees.

  He looked up to see Nico, his weapon still raised.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Christophe shook his head. “Raneiro…”

  “I don’t know,” Nico said. “Let’s go.”

  He extended his hand and helped Christophe up from the floor. Christophe looked past his brother to the shower, where the mayor’s body was already slumped against the tile, blood seeping from a hole in his forehead.

  “Looks like we were too late for the mayor,” Christophe rasped.

  Nico started for the door. “All the more reason to get Raneiro.”

  They hurried out into the hall, then took the stairs fast. They hit the first floor to find the front door ajar. At the back of the house, shattering glass was followed by the unmistakable slap of pummeled meat. Farrell was obviously at work on the man who’d come in the back. Christophe could only assume Elia had dispatched the woman as promised.

  “Let’s go,” Nico said, nodding at the open front door.

  They exited the house and hurried down the front steps. Christophe wondered how much time had passed, how long they had before the police showed up and accused them of being the ones to kill the mayor. He didn’t have time to dwell on the question.

  A thin figure was hurrying toward the corner, head bent, arms in the pockets of his jacket.

  “Neiro,” Nico shouted, using a nickname Christophe had never heard.

  The man froze, his back to them. It seemed like a long time before he began to turn toward them. He was almost facing them when Christophe saw the flash of his gun.

  He waited for the bullet to hit in slow motion. Instead, Raneiro grabbed at his gut, a look of shock on his face as his eyes met Nico’s. Christophe looked over to find Nico, weapon still raised, watching as Raneiro’s body slumped to the ground.

  Nico was moving almost immediately, stalking toward Raneiro’s body, sprawled under the street light on the corner. He stopped over him, aimed his weapon at Raneiro’s head.

  “This isn’t anger,” he said. “This is justice.”

  He fired into Raneiro’s head.

  40

  Sun was streaming into the bedroom when Charlotte woke the next morning. Her conversation with Angel in the middle of the night had somehow soothed her disquiet. She’d returned to her room and quickly fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep. Now a look at her phone told her it was past ten am, and she threw on a robe over the sweats and T-shirt she’d slept in the night before and stepped out into the hall.

  She could hear everyone in the kitchen even before she hit the stairs, and she marveled that the sounds had become so familiar. She’d been in Tuscany less than a week, and already it felt like home, the women and children and guards and staff like family. It would be strange to return to her real life — whatever that would look like now.

  She descended the stairs and headed for the kitchen. This time Jenna spotted her right away, as if she’d been waiting.

  “You’re awake!” she said.

  Charlotte smiled, taking in the busy kitchen: Angel helping Stella with porridge while Isabel combed Sophia’s hair, Jenna cutting Lily’s toast into the triangles she liked, the smell of coffee and warm bread in the air.

  Angel smiled as Jenna came toward her. She took Charlotte’s hands in her own.

  “It’s over,” she said. “They’re coming home.”

  Charlotte’s heart seemed to stop. “All of them.”

  Jenna put her arms around Charlotte. “All of them.”

  41

  Christophe grabbed his duffel and stepped from the black Jeep, wincing at the pain in his bandaged abdomen. Braden Kane stopped in front of him, extended his hand.

  “Marchand. I hope we meet under better circumstances next time.”

  Christophe shook his hand. “Thank you for your help. I hope we didn’t compromise you.”

  His eyes were hidden by aviators, but Christophe could tell from the clenching of the other man’s jaw that he’d hit a nerve. “I was compromised a long time ago.”

  He waited while Kane said goodbye to Farrell and Nico. They’d left the mayor’s mansion quickly after Nico killed Raneiro, the distant sound of sirens already echoing through the city streets. They’d been on the move ever since, working to cover their tracks and get out of the city with as little notice as possible. According to media reports, the murder of the mayor — along with three as-yet-unidentified men and one woman — had all the hallmarks of a gangland turf war. The investigation was ongoing.

  Christophe put on his sunglasses as Kane got in the Jeep and drove away.

  “He seems like a good man,” Christophe said.

  “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing him again,” Nico said, his eyes on the retreating Jeep. They waited for it to disappear around a corner before starting toward Farrell’s plane on the tarmac.

  “Back to Tuscany?” Farrell said as they boarded.

  “Can you drop me in Paris?” Christophe said. “I have an errand to run.”

  42

  Charlotte watched nervously from the window as the plane taxied toward the charter terminal. She’d been prepared to wait in Tuscany for Christophe’s return, but early in the afternoon they’d received word that his plane was waiting in Florence to take her back to Paris.

  She’d packed her things, unable to quell the nervousness in her stomach, wondering if the events of the previous days had given Christophe second thoughts about their future together. She’d gotten the short versions from Jenna — the knife wound Christophe had suffered by his brother’s hand, Bruno’s death, the end of Raneiro. She knew Christophe had been prepared to see his brother die.

  She also wondered if anything could prepare one for such a thing.

  She’d said her goodbyes to Jenna, Angel, Isabel, and the children with a swell of nostalgia. She would miss their companionship. Would miss being able to speak so freely to people who understood the strange world into which she’d stepped. They’d promised to stay in touch, and Charlotte had been driven to the airport by two of the guards.

  The plane came to a stop, and the young male attendant handed Jenna her bag as she stood. “Can I get you anything before you deplane, Ms. Duval?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Have a nice day,” he said with a smile.

  “You, too.”

  She made her way to the stairs, pausing at the top, her eyes resting on the man leaning against the black Audi. His eyes were shielded by sunglasses, and she couldn’t help wondering if he had something to hide. If he was there to deliver bad news.

  She swallowed hard and started down the stairs, determined to maintain her dignity, whatever came next. She’d already lost him once. She could survive anything now.

  She stepped onto the tarmac and started toward him. He straightened, stepping toward her, his hands
in the pockets of his black pea coat.

  “Hi,” she said when she was in front of him.

  “Hello.”

  Her eyes scanned what she could see of his face, traveled to the fresh bruises around his neck. “Are you all right?”

  He drew in a breath. “I have something to say. I need you to let me say it.”

  She swallowed hard, nodded.

  He hesitated, then removed something from his pocket. She was still trying to get a look at it when he dropped onto one knee. Her hands came up to her mouth almost unwillingly, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest.

  “Charlotte,” he said. “My darling Charlotte. I have loved you since the first moment I saw you, and my love for you has only grown deeper with each passing day. Now I’m asking you for a lifetime to let my love grow deeper still. If you give it to me, I promise to love you wholly and completely for the rest of my days.” He hesitated, then opened his palm to reveal a giant emerald in an antique setting. “The fates brought you to me. The rest is up to you. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  She saw it all in his eyes. All that they’d been through from the first moment she’d stepped into his study with the desk. Their race across Europe, the magical interlude in Boston, even the devastation of their parting in Malibu. She saw him the night he’d first found her in Spain, the heat and passion of Havana, the crystal waters of the Caribbean.

  Most of all she saw their future. She saw early morning laughter and late night lovemaking, children racing through the lavender fields on Corsica and playing in the surf. She saw the years unfolding like a spool of gossamer silk, fine and lovely.

  Her eye caught an inscription inside the band as she took the ring from his hand, and she tilted it toward the sun to reveal the words engraved there.

  The fates lead the willing.

  “Will you marry me, Charlotte?”

  She looked into his eyes and smiled. “Yes. I could never say anything but yes.”

  And then she was in his arms, tears falling onto her cheeks as his lips touched hers.