“Don’t go…” Her eyes pleaded with me to stay. She wanted every night to be the same—with the two of us in that bed. Sex. Sleep. More sex in the morning. And then the rest of our day.
I wished I could give it to her. “This is the only kind of life I can offer you.”
She gave a nod, but her eyes were depressed.
“This isn’t the life I want for us either. I don’t want my daughter to grow up with an absent father.”
“You aren’t absent, Benton.”
“But I’m not present either.”
“Do you think…this is forever?”
Probably. “He told me the price for Claire—and I paid it.”
“But you guys are friends, right?”
“More than friends, but not anymore.”
“Then he should have helped you with no compensation.” She came forward, her arms crossed over her chest. “A man is missing his daughter, and you take that as an opportunity to exploit him?”
“It’s a lot more complicated than that.”
“How?”
“I founded the Chasseurs with him a long time ago. It was ours. No wives. No children. That was our vow—and I broke it.”
“Sounds like he just needs to shut up and get over it.”
“And he would have…but I left to take care of Claire.”
“I know, but I don’t see why that’s such a betrayal.”
“I turned my back on him. That’s why.”
She gave a shake of her head. “He’s a big boy. He can handle business without you.”
“Like I said, it’s more complicated than that. He was more of my brother than Bleu’s ever been. It’s probably hard to believe, but…we used to be totally different. The men who work for you are only there to earn some money. You can’t buy loyalty. And you can’t earn it by being their boss either. I was the one person he could trust implicitly—and I walked away. I’m sure it’s been a lonely existence ever since.”
She kept her arms crossed over her chest, not an ounce of pity in her eyes. “Maybe you can change his mind at some point.”
“Only if I could offer him something no one else could.”
“Then find something to give him.”
We were back at the Louvre, the January fog blurring the lights in the haze.
Bartholomew sat beside me in the back seat at the curb, the steps between the lampposts slick with earlier rain. He looked out his window for a while before he regarded me. “You shoot him, I shoot you. Got it?”
I held his gaze. “You’re full of shit.”
“Then let’s find out.” He got out of the car, pulled his pistol from the back of his jeans, and cocked it with a menacing stare.
Our previous friendship may have been in tethers, but I didn’t buy that for a second.
I joined him, and we headed up the stairs.
He was exactly where I saw him last, surrounded by his freakish cronies with the skulls, dressed in all black. The second I came into view, his eyes shifted around me, as if I would cave that quickly. When he realized she wasn’t there, the anger set in, made his face heavy, made his eyes coarse.
The fog was so thick, the Louvre was difficult to see. The fog was a sea, so heavy it made the surrounding buildings look like erased pencil on a page. With every breath, we inhaled the cloud, the moisture lining our lungs.
He seemed bigger than last time, the cords in his neck popping because his flesh was so tight around his musculature. He stepped forward, all his focus on me. There was a slight tremor to his body, the kind that made his head shake left and right slightly, like he couldn’t contain this level of rage.
“The agreement has changed. Come on to my property again—and war is declared.”
Bartholomew turned to me, wearing an identical look of rage to Forneus.
I knew if he objected verbally, he would look like he’d lost control of his own men, so it was better to keep his mouth shut and deal with me later.
Forneus started to shake harder, the energy filling his body to full capacity then pouring out when it had nowhere else to go. “She was mine first!” The shout echoed everywhere in the plaza, like a gunshot that split the night and woke up an entire neighborhood. His hands were in tight fists, and his head was dropped forward slightly, like a ram about to charge. He inched closer, like this had just turned into a fighting ring. “Give her ba-ck to-me.” When his tone dropped, it was more sinister than the shout because of how eerie it sounded. “I can’t ascend without my an-gel—”
“Get another one and move on.”
“Get another?” His head cocked slightly, and he came a little closer. Now we were just a few feet apart. “If that’s s-so ea-sy, why don’t you?”
“You risk your entire enterprise for a woman who can easily be replaced. Find another angel. Forget about her—”
“I will never forget her!” He came closer still.
I didn’t need the knife in my pocket or the gun stuffed in the back of my jeans. I could kill him with my bare hands. “Come on to my property again, and I will take away what you have left. You’ve been warned.”
He started to shake again, his face stretched back as the grimace set into all his features.
I turned my back on him—the discussion over.
“Ben-ton.”
I stilled at the way he said my name, like I was truly trapped in a horror story.
“Who will pro-tect Cla-ire when you’re dead?”
I slowly turned back around to face him.
“Now you’ve been warned.”
Bartholomew was stone silent.
Didn’t say a word on the drive.
Didn’t say a word when we entered his apartment.
Didn’t say a word as he poured himself a drink.
He was a time bomb set to go off—but he was the only one who knew exactly when. He brought the short glass to his lips and took a drink as he stared at me over the rim.
“He’s afraid of us, Bartholomew. Use that to your advantage.”
“My advantage?” He set the glass down. “I need no advantage because I have no qualms with these freaks. They’re business associates—good ones. And you’re pissing all over that when you can pay for pussy twice as good as hers.”
“Don’t talk about her like that.”
“Claire’s off-limits, and now so is she—”
“Yes.”
He gave a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Pathetic. Where’s the Benton I used to know? Where’s the man who could carve the eyes out of a guy who cut us off in line? Where’s the man—”
“He’s dead—and he’s not coming back.”
He grabbed the bottle and poured more into his glass.
“Your life hasn’t changed, but mine has. And I’m glad it has.”
He took another drink, his eyes annoyed. “I should kill you for what you did—”
“But you won’t, so shut up about it.” I dropped onto one of the couches, my arms on my knees.
Bartholomew stilled at my words, the rim of the glass in his fingertips. Silence passed, as well as a cloud of anger and lightning storm of rage. He grabbed the bottle by the neck and carried it over before placing it on the coffee table between us. “You should have just given her up. Now your neck is on the line.”