And even though the man appeared to have nothing to hide, he was always surrounded by people, just like Hubert. So, it took me a few days to siphon through his routine and find the cracks where I could slip in unseen.
Villecort was a small, rotund fellow with large-rimmed glasses and wiry hair. He was a man of few words and even less charisma. He was the kind of man that easily faded into the background, whose presence was easily missed in a room. Like a fly on the wall, not dissimilar to his appearance, he was the perfect kind of man to run everything from the background, but also to hear every secret without feeling as though he were even there.
Outside of his work, which took most of his time it seemed, he did nothing except return home. Alone.
But every man has his weakness. And Estelle was his.
Like clockwork, Villecort left Hubert’s office in the outskirts of the sixteenth arrondissement. He walked two blocks over to the Hotel de Paris, who would tell you that there was an early reservation for George Villecort. And once a week, he dined there with various people in Hubert’s business, potential clients, and even alone. Once again, nothing out of the ordinary.
What the hotel wouldn’t realize or put together was that George had a room reserved under George Deville, paid for in cash, in advance for months, and that he, after dining with whoever was the guest of the evening, would turn toward the elevator instead of the exit and make his way upstairs to where his mistress was waiting.
Where I was waiting tonight.
This little charade only happened once a week, so the time I had to put together a plan of attack had been minimal—only hours after I’d made the connection.
My head turned at the soft thump in the closet. Estelle was sinking further into sleep.
I’d waited here, hidden, and placed two glasses of spiked champagne out on the table for when she arrived.
The sedative did its trick.
Her movements became slow and uncoordinated as she tried to unpack her bag of whips and ties.
It seemed George and Estelle shared several dirty little secrets.
Minutes later, she sank smoothly to the floor like a sheet sailing to the ground, pooling in a rumpled heap of skin and bones, harshly dyed blonde hair, and a mask of makeup.
She’d be out for hours, but since they were there, I used some of the cuffs and bonds to restrain her hands and feet and deposit her into the closet. She’d wake with no memory of what happened and sore wrists—something it seemed she might be accustomed to at this point.
And so, I waited.
Inside the modest hotel room that was crisp and clean but not lavishly decorated, I sat in a chair on the other side of the wall right next to the entrance to the bedroom.
I didn’t need to see the door.
I needed George to come in without any suspicion. I needed him to come away from the door to where it was harder to escape, if such a thing were remotely possible, and into the room where the windows were smaller with the shades already drawn.
Merci, Madame Estelle.
My fingers tightened on the wood handles of the garotte, a blade in my pocket for good measure.
Guns drew attention.
Knives made a mess.
The Valois only wanted information, and the best way to get information was in the shivering silence of fear, knowing you could be killed for it without a sound being made. Without anyone ever knowing.
A garotte required skill. It required proximity.
It was a marriage of finesse and silence.
The click of the lock sprung my thoughts forward and my eyes narrowed in the darkening light of the room.
The handle turned
“Estelle, j’arrive.” Estelle, I’m here, George greeted the silence, his voice coming closer with every syllable. “Estelle? Are you hiding from me?”
The way the grown man giggled suggested this was common for them, too.
“Estel—”
In the space of a syllable, I launched from the shadows on the wall at the man who’d crossed over my threshold, sliding my arm over his head and pressing the almost invisible strand of the wire across his throat.
Villecort let out a strangled gasp, and I could feel the tremor of fear as it vibrated through every layer of his fat.
“W-Who are you? W-What do you want?” George choked out, squeaking as his shudder caused the wire to pinch his skin.
“I have a question that you can answer for me,” I rumbled.
“Where’s Estelle?” His bravery grew for all of a split second when he realized that his lover wasn’t in this room either. “What did you do to her? I-If you hurt her,” he sputtered.
“Estelle will be fine, and I will return her to you as soon as our conversation is finished.”
“What do you want from me?”
My fists tightened, and I could taste the presence of truth on the tip of my tongue. Like food being placed in front of you, the scent causing you to salivate. I could see the next piece in the puzzle before me and I was ravenous.
Ravenous for my revenge.
“What is Gustav Hubert’s connection to Marcel Méchant?”
One simple question.
I didn’t need him to confess about the destruction they had planned or what their endgame was. I had a feeling that Villecort was the kind of player who knew a lot of little details and secrets, not the big ones, and not enough of the little ones to put it together.
I could sense the change in him. Even through his layers, I could feel the hammering of his heart against his chest and the more disjointed rise and fall of his breaths.
“I-I don’t know what you mean.”
I pulled the wire, earning me a small gasp and gurgle as it cut into the flesh beneath it like a warm knife through butter.
“Don’t play games with me, Villecort. It’s not just your life you’re risking.”
“P-Please, don’t hurt Estelle.”
It was the wrong time to think of Esme. She had no place in this room, in this conversation.
And yet, in Villecort’s heartbroken plea, I heard how much his woman meant to him, and fully realized the position his love had put him in.
This was why love had no place in this life.
Because if it were Esme and the roles were reversed, she wouldn’t be sedated in the closet, she’d be tortured in front of me until I gave Méchant what he wanted, and then he’d kill her.
I grunted the thought away. It didn’t matter. I didn’t love Esme. I’d never have to make the choice between loyalty and love.
“Answer me, and I won’t have to,” I threatened harshly.
“I-I don’t know their relationship. I d-don’t know who this Méchant is,” he tried. “Please…”
My groan shifted into a brief laugh as I replied caustically, “Do you know what Marcel Méchant does to liars?” I squeezed my arm tighter against his chest. “He burns half their face off with acid.”
Villecort gasped.
“I’d be happy to treat you the same.”
“W-Wait,” he blubbered. “I-I don’t… I might… M-Monsieur Marcel paid for Gustav’s upbringing.”
Secrets were nothing more than truth held up against a dam. Once the first drop made it through, the rest spilled out with unstoppable force.
“School. Clothes. Anything that Gustav needed, his mother was to come to me and ask, and I was to purchase it from the account in my name that had no money of my own inside it.”
“Why?”
This wasn’t how Méchant typically worked. He groomed people through threats and fear, and only paid them for services rendered.
“I-I don’t know w-what happened before. I-It was never spoken of. I just k-know what I was asked to do… and what I’ve h-heard.”
He cried out as I sliced along the skin underneath his collar, where the evidence would be able to be concealed.
“My patience is wearing thin, Villecort.”
“M-Mon Dieu…” he pleaded, though no god would help him now.
“I don’t know. All I-I know is that I never heard Monsieur Hubert, the father, refer to Gustav as his son. A-And I was instructed to deposit a lump sum into the Hubert’s account the day he announced Gustav would take over his business.”
My mind reeled. Facts clicking into place like tines inside of a lock once the right key is inserted, giving me access to information I never suspected.
“I have no proof of it. S-So you can kill me if you must, but the most I can give y-you is my own speculation that Monsieur Méchant is Gustav’s true father.”
Quinton
Gustav Hubert was Méchant’s son.
I’d come across volumes of inexplicable information during my years with the Valois. Secrets so confounded and lies so tightly knit it made the kinds of things you watched on TV or the scenarios found in thriller novels appear like a flashlight when compared to the sun.
Even when I’d realized that my stepsister, Amélie’s, child wasn’t Léo’s but his brother’s, couldn’t compare to the serene shock I felt course through my veins. Like the iciest of waters, the realization too cold to permit even the slightest reaction to the shock.
I ran my fingers along the thread that had previously eaten into the skin of Villecort’s neck, standing in the center of the bridge leading back to Notre Dame. I remembered the feel of it against his pulse, a soldier waiting for the command to kill like it had done to so many of Méchant’s men in the past.
Instead, I’d latched my elbow around his neck, tightening until I cut off his blood circulation and he passed out onto the bed. Sheathing my weapon, I’d calmly slipped from the room without issue and disappeared into the streets.
Killing him would’ve been rash. It would’ve been momentary rage and not well-thought-out revenge. He hadn’t seen my face. And he’d never say anything to Hubert—never confess that he’d given away the darkest secret of the lord of the Parisian underworld.
So, I kept him alive. Alive and possibly useful in the future.
But that confession was days ago and still, the knowledge had me reeling.
Méchant’s son. His illegitimate son.
It all made sense now.
The photo Léo had shown me. Why Amélie, his other illegitimate child, had been there.
Before this moment, there had been a chance for Hubert—a chance that he was unwillingly or unknowingly involved in Méchant’s plot for power.
But this was no chance.
This was a plan that had been raised and nurtured for decades. A plan that allowed Méchant to maintain many degrees of distance without losing any control or any legitimacy. It allowed him to grow an agent completely outside his organization without carrying any tainted trace in the eyes of the law.
It allowed him to create disaster and disorder… and to be the same person to send in the rescuer.
Méchant used one hand to create unrest in the streets, fueling riots both inside the city center and the ones in the banlieue. Both serving to push the city toward a state of complete discord and riotous violence while presenting everyone with Hubert, the one man, the savior, to stop it.
In a way, it was genius. Sick, twisted genius.
It was the kind of idea that governments had been using for centuries to quell the discontent and potential uprising of the public. But it was also the kind of idea that, in Méchant’s mercenary hands, would cause ruin rather than peace.
I’d spent the last several days confirming the information. No concrete documents, but enough corroborating coincidence for the Valois to be satisfied. Once I had all the pieces to the puzzle though, it became child’s play to see how they fit together.
And Villecort had given me all the pieces.
Still, I took as much time as I felt was necessary to be sure. I couldn’t be wrong about this.
I couldn’t go to him and be wrong.
I also had to be certain my desire for the gypsy who still invaded my home each evening wasn’t clouding my judgment or my actions—the gypsy I’d just caught dancing with the GI Joe guitar player in her group. Thankfully, I’d been far enough away she hadn’t seen me—far enough away that there would’ve been a real scene if I were to break through the crowd and beat the giant Algerian for touching what belonged to me.
I dragged in another deep breath, trying to cage the beast of jealousy that gnawed inside me.
She wasn’t mine.
I’d kissed her. I’d touched her. I’d shared pieces of me with her that I hadn’t shared with anyone since joining the Valois. I’d saved her. And that was why I’d turned and walked away. Hoping it was enough.
It wasn’t.
It was too late.
The monster in me had marked her and now, it was trapped in chains that prevented me both from having her and from being able to let her go.
With a growl, I stalked back toward the cathedral, needing to grab a few things and drive Esme from my mind before having to meet with my father and let him know what I’d found.
I flicked open the seal of the paper. With everything I’d been learning about Méchant and Hubert, I hadn’t expected another message from my priest upon returning to Notre Dame.
I sank into the primitive wooden chair at the desk in front of the small rose window. Flipping open my copy of Hugo, one finger scanned the words while the other noted down the translation underneath the code.
Riot. Ninety-Three. Saturday.
Today was Saturday, which meant a week from now, more unrest would scar the most vilified banlieue in Paris’ suburbs.
There was a moment when I wondered if this might be the end of his plan—one more attack in Saint Denis. But, sadly, that was something too small and too common to be what my priest had warned me about. It wasn’t enough to topple the president and launch Hubert into power.
All it told me was whatever disaster Méchant was planning was getting close. Between the protests in the city and now this… he was gearing up for the grand finale.
I knew I’d still go. Of course, I would. I’d still go and hunt down those responsible for inciting violence in an area that couldn’t stand many more blows to its reputation.
I had a list. Mostly first names, but more important, faces who’d been involved in the last incident in the Neuf Trois. Faces who I’d be looking for to question this time around. Any opportunity that came along to eat away at his army I took without thought. I’d rather his organization bleed from a thousand cuts to its extremities before I took off the head.
And, if for no other reason, it gave me a task to complete outside Notre Dame and away from Esme.
Committing the information to memory, I lit the candle on my desk and caught the edge of the paper on fire, holding it until it completely turned to ash.
Running a hand through my hair, I stood and grabbed my jacket once more to head out into the night.
I ducked and slipped into the hidden stairwell that deposited me into one of the side chapels, the musk of the sanctuary extra thick lately because of all the rain soaking into the thick slats of wood on the roof.
“Are you avoiding me, Quinton?”
I stopped in my tracks, refusing to acknowledge the trail of electricity that migrated down my spine and straight to my cock hearing my name on her lips. In my haste, and lost in a thousand thoughts, I hadn’t realized she’d arrived at the church. Then again, it was a Saturday and she’d never come in on a weekend before.
But of course, today, she did.
Today, when I’d done so well at avoiding her all week.
Without hesitation, the beast inside me lunged to be set free to remind her that she’d been the one to fight for her presence in my cathedral—and in my arms. The beast that roared to tell her I’d kill the next man who looked at her like he wanted her and touched her like he could have her.
“Never, madame.” I turned to face her. “I have a lot of work to do, as I assumed you did.”
I shouldn’t have faced her. I shouldn’t have stopped at all.
She stood in a loose white
cut-off top that clung so greedily to her tits that it exposed the flat tanned plane of her stomach for what felt like miles of skin before the vibrant red of her skirt appeared, sitting low on her hips.
“I do.” She shrugged and stepped forward, revealing how her skirt contained two high slits that rose up each leg and left only a thin slice of material hanging between them.
I was a bull, ignited by the vibrant color, and a beast, wanting to ravage the warm, wet flesh carefully concealed by that singular strip of fabric.
“But usually you keep me company while I work.” She stopped a few steps from me and planted all her weight on one leg, almost giving me a glimpse of the apex of her thighs.
I knew I had more important things to do than have this discussion right now, but for the life of me, I struggled to recall what they were.
“Usually you don’t work on weekends.”
My eyes caught on the ring in her nose as she dipped her head slightly to agree. “I haven’t seen you all week though.”
I couldn’t do this.
My fists tightened at my side.
It was dangerous. My life. My desires. How wanting her fought for precedence over my purpose. How wanting her pulled at the fringes of everything I’d told myself was important.
And in my irritation, I replied, “I not here to keep you company, Madame St. Claire. Nor save your life. I’m neither host nor hero in this story. I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you meant this church—this country—no harm. I’m here to protect this place. Nothing more.”
The liquid gold framing her eyes solidified.
“Is that what you call it when your tongue is down my throat and your fingers attached to my nipple ring like it’s their new favorite toy?” she snapped, like a snake poked with a stick.
Instinctively, my eyes darkened down to her chest and the outline of her pierced nipples. The swell of my dick intensified with the unfinished desire I’d left to fester between us—letting it grow unchecked in the separation I’d tried to impose.
“Perhaps that’s what I call compensation for a babysitting job I’m not being paid for,” I bit out.
Every moment in her presence continued to tick like a time bomb down to the moment when the cage holding me back from fucking her exploded.
The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1) Page 17