Stepbrother Thief

by Blaze, Violet

  “Papa, I'll be right behind you; I just need to grab something,” I say, urging him up and glancing at the door for emphasis. “Go. Solène needs you.”

  Cliff makes a noise of frustration but follows my instructions, reaching down to take the blanket and the books. All the while, he's shaking his head at me.

  “Don't do anything reckless, Regina,” he adds, peering down at me with narrowed eyes. If he could, I bet Papa would wrestle me up this ladder. But he can't. We both know that.

  When I bend down and grab the bottom rung of the ladder, we all hear it: the doorbell ringing.

  Good sign or bad?

  “Regina?” I glance at the bedroom door again. This whole situation … it could be nothing. But it could be everything. For the same reasons I told Gill not to leave tonight, not to go to Karl, I make the decision not to go up the ladder. I can't lose him. And I can't leave him, not when I have no idea what's going on.

  I lift the ladder up, forcing Cliff to move or get hit with it.

  “There should be a padlock up there. Use it. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but Gill.”

  “Regina,” Cliff growls, but it's too late. I've made up my mind. I give him one last look and a small smile before I shove the ladder the rest of the way up, letting the hinges do their magic as it slides into place.

  “I love you guys,” I whisper up with a small wave, pushing the hatch back up before I can see either of their faces and change my mind.

  I pause there in the dark room, listening for sounds above me, but I don't hear anything. Must be well insulated.

  I take a deep breath.

  Good.

  I can do this. We can do this.

  You are fucking crazy, Regina Corbair.

  I bend down and take off my shoes, clutching them in my left hand as I tiptoe to the door and press my ear against it. Again, nothing. Stupid solid wood craftsmanship. With yet another breath, I flick the lock and ease the door open. Voices filter up to me, too many for just Gill and Aveline. I don't know who's down there, but I'll be damned if they get the jump on me.

  Leilani is going to freak when I tell her about this … and Gill is going to kill me.

  I swallow past the thumping of my own pulse and wipe my sweating palms on the cheerful daisy dress. I'm not a master thief or a black belt or an expert marksman, just a woman in love, but that's enough to push me forward, through my own fear and anxiety. I doubt anyone expects anything from the chick in the Dolce & Gabbana dress, but that's why this idea of mine might, might, actually pay off.

  For Gill, it's worth the try.

  I open the door just wide enough to slip out and think about closing it behind me. But no. No. The rest of the doors on this floor are cracked open. If I close this one and lock it, it'll just make it more obvious that we've got something to hide in here.

  I creep over to the stairwell and pause, listening carefully.

  Voices, low and dangerous, drift up to me, but I can't make out a single word. My heart's beating too loud, and the sounds are masked by a low moaning that can only be coming from Aveline. Mon Dieu, this shit is serious, isn't it?

  Hardly taking a breath, I move into Gill's room next and fish some keys out of the top drawer on his dresser. In another drawer—a locked one this time—on his desk, there's a small arsenal: a revolver, a pair of hunting knives, and a few semiautomatics. This is only one of a dozen or more caches like this around the house, protected well enough that Solène shouldn’t accidentally stumble across them but easy enough to get to if you know where to look.

  The sight of all that firepower stops me cold for a moment, makes my heart stutter a little. What if I don't load it right? What if I forget to disengage the safety? What if I actually manage to shoot someone?

  Focus, Regi. Focus.

  I blink away my fears and take a deep breath, dropping my heels on the bed behind me. Okay, revolver first. Revolvers are easy. I dig around for ammo and set the box carefully on the desk, hefting the revolver in my palm and flicking my eyes to the bedroom door. In the back of my mind, I'm keeping an ear out for the telltale creak of the bottom stair. Heh. Maybe I'm a little more perceptive than I thought? I load the gun with shaking hands and lay it on the desk next to the ammo. I'm only just wrapping my fingers around one of the other guns when I hear it: the sound of someone coming up the steps. No, no, not someone, but two somebodies.

  As quietly as I can, I shove the rest of the weapons back in the drawer before grabbing the revolver and a knife, closing it enough that the lock clicks back into place. I snatch the keys in my other hand and drop down to my knees at the edge of Gill's bed.

  Clever, crafty Gilleon has his mattress set on a wood frame surrounded by drawers—a typical design for a platform bed. What's not typical is the false drawer on the right side, the one that's really a small door. I yank it open and shove my weapons in first, sliding on my belly after them. It's a tight fit—an extremely tight fit—but my slender frame definitely has some advantages over Gill's muscular build.

  I just barely manage to crawl in there and yank the door closed behind me before one set of footsteps moves into Gill's room. Huddled there on my stomach, surrounded by shallow drawers and drowning in darkness, fear sparks bright and hot inside of me, but I don't make a sound. I clamp a hand over my own mouth, my elbow jutting into the back of a drawer as I force myself to take slow, shallow breaths through my nose.

  I could be overreacting. Maybe the person walking around my stepbrother's room is a friend of Gill's, an associate. Or hell, maybe it's even Gilleon himself? Still, I don't make any noise, don't call out, don't even twitch a muscle.

  This person, whoever they are, checks the bathroom, the closet, walks the perimeter of the bed and even pulls out one of the drawers on the end. I watch, frozen in terror, my body cramping up from the tight quarters as the wood glides out smoothly, exposing some sweatpants and old T-shirts. Light spills in behind the drawer, highlighting the wood floor next to my right elbow. Shit. I tuck my arm against my body as tightly as I can, avoiding the splash of color next to me. Seconds pass, long as hours, as I hold my breath and wait for the drawer to push back in.

  After a while, the footsteps fade away, but the drawer stays out. At first I'm worried that I've been spotted, that the false drawer at the end is going to be wrenched open and I'll be dragged out screaming, but the steps head into the hallway and towards Solène's bedroom. Instead of feeling relieved, a new wave of adrenaline spikes through me, crashing against my anxiety and masking my fear for the time being.

  I reach my left hand out, searching for the weapons I tossed in here and close my fingers around the revolver, dragging it towards me before I search for the knife. Crap! I slice my fingers on the sharp blade and hold back a hiss of pain, sliding the knife forward with several silent curses. Using the small splash of light from the open drawer, I check my fingertips and find a nice little slice along my middle and ring fingers. Oh well. Better to have the blade than not.

  Taking my weapons with me, I scoot back and ease open the false drawer, listening as I go to the receding footsteps of one of the two people that came up the stairs. When the other follows from the direction of my room a few moments later, I climb out from under the bed, sweeping my hair over one shoulder as I pause and look around the room, trying to find something to put the knife into. I know Gill has loads of holsters and sheaths and straps and whatever-the-fucks around here somewhere.

  I don't have the luxury of searching around for long, so I end up grabbing a hoodie off the end of Gill's bed and slipping it over my dress. The knife goes in the front pocket—not the safest place in the world, I know, but where else am I going to put it? It's in that moment that I start wishing I'd paid more attention to Gill's random lessons, that I'd taken more of an interest and asked important questions. Christ, I spent more time alternating between loving and hating him, mulling over our past.

  I hope we're still going to have a future after this.

  I take ano
ther breath and sweep my free hand over my hair, the revolver clutched in the opposite. Double-action means I don't have to pull the hammer back, right? Another deep breath. At least I ended up with the revolver and not the semiautomatic; there's a lot more that can go wrong with those. Revolver's about as simple as it gets, that much I do remember.

  Right hand around the grip, finger on the outside of the trigger guard. I force myself to breathe slowly as I adjust my hold on the gun, curling my left hand around my right, pressing my thumbs together. It's been a hell of a long time since Cliff took Gill and me to the shooting range, but I'll be damned if I let my lack of preparation screw this family over. Damn it, Gill, why didn't you teach me? But I know why. Gill doesn't want me involved in any of this and maybe, just maybe, Gilleon Marchal is capable of mistakes, capable of being human—just like the rest of us.

  I shoulder the door to the bedroom open, unwilling to relax my grip on the gun. If I need to fire off a round, my only advantage is surprise. I have to take the first shot because it'll be all I'll get.

  Breathe, breathe, breathe.

  I move towards the main staircase and listen carefully. If I had to hazard a guess, the voices are coming from the direction of the kitchen, so the back stairs are out of the question. At the same time, do I take a chance at the front? What if there's someone guarding the door? God. My mind is spinning with movie references, with images of mob bosses with canes and thick glasses surrounded by goons in dark suits. For all I know, the people here are in Max's employ, just like Gill. If I run around shooting people, and I find out they were innocent—well, at least that they were on our side—then I'll never live it down. Hell, that might even be the thing that ultimately fucks everything up.

  Shit.

  I pause at the top of the steps, conflicted and confused. This isn't my thing. I like espresso and warm baguette, shopping in Le Marais, designer shoes. I don't do heists or guns or knives.

  A small drop of blood drips down the front of my hand and falls to the floor in front of my bare feet.

  My knees go weak.

  My hands start to shake.

  And then I hear the first shot.

  It's like a crack of thunder, ricocheting up the staircase and straight into my brain—nothing at all like the nearly silent click of Gill's gun at the hotel. My head screams in protest and my ears start to ring, loosening my grip on the revolver.

  What the fuck am I doing? I know why Gill didn't teach me to shoot. Because I can't do it. This isn't me. It isn't. I can't.

  I take a step back, away from the stairs when another shot goes off, scrambling my brain and making me grit my teeth. Gilleon. Gilleon is down there somewhere, and I'm standing here shaking like I'm helpless.

  But I'm far from it, aren't I? I survived for ten years without Gill, birthed his kid, robbed a jewelry store. Me.

  I can do this.

  Never thought I'd be using self-talk to convince myself to join a shoot-out, but … well, there it is.

  Another breath.

  My fingers curl tighter around the grip and I ready myself to head down the stairs.

  Just as I'm about to take the first step, I hear boots slamming against the wood and, out of some long forgotten instinct, scoot to the side, back towards Solène's room. I wedge my body half behind the partially open door and peek out. From my current view, I can see straight across the second floor, past the decorative arch and the small sitting area to the back staircase.

  Gill appears, blood draining over his temple and his right eye, a gun locked in his hands and a grim set to his lips. His eyes flicker to the main staircase and back down—chased from both sides.

  I watch in fascinated horror as he lifts his weapon and fires off a pair of shots down the steps at the same moment two heads appear, jogging up the main staircase, right in front of me. Neither of the people that appear are wearing suits or sunglasses nor they do look like goons.

  I lift my arms out in front of me, elbows relaxed, pulse pounding in my skull, competing against the violent ringing in my ears.

  I almost hesitate because … these people look so normal. And maybe they're like Gill? Trapped in a web not of their own making? Just a man and a woman, one with short dark hair, the other with a slicked back sandy ponytail. Just two people.

  But then they point their weapons at my stepbrother. At my first love. At my new love. My only love.

  Shit.

  I want to squeeze my eyes closed and fire blindly, hide myself away from all of this. But I can't. And I won't. I said before that I wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger if someone was threatening my family.

  I meant it.

  I aim at the man first, at the wide expanse of his back, sliding my finger inside the trigger guard.

  One, two, three.

  Deep breath.

  I fire, knocking him forward against the railing of the stairs as the recoil hits me in the web of my hand and I take a small step back. Unconsciously, my eyes flick up and find Gilleon's, watch them go wide as he notices me standing there in the shadows. We stare at each other for a split second, but that's long enough for the woman to turn towards me, her long ponytail swinging as she brings her own gun up and looks for the second shooter in the room.

  I'm sure she's had hundreds of hours of practice with her gun, struggled through dozens of situations just like this, but she doesn't expect me to be there, really doesn't expect me to bring the muzzle of the revolver up and aim it at her shoulder. I'm not entirely certain how I manage to get the shot off. Maybe it's the daisy dress or the blonde hair or the little girl's room silhouetted in shadow and moonlight behind me.

  I'm sorry.

  The thought pops into my brain at the same instant I pull back on that trigger a second time and hit the woman in her right shoulder. She gets a shot off, too, but the momentum of the bullet entering her body throws it off just enough that the drywall explodes to the left of me, just outside Solène's bedroom.

  I feel like I've gone deaf, like I'm standing in the bell tower of a church listening to the ringing of God. My mouth goes dry; my grip loosens; I lower my arms.

  Gill's moving towards me now, backing away from the second staircase as he reloads his gun, dropping a magazine to the floor and sliding one out of his pocket. He drags his gaze away for the briefest of seconds, lowering the pistol on my two assailants. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but it's too late. He takes aim and makes the fatal shots I could never bring myself to fire.

  The revolver drops from my hands and hits the floor like a scene in a silent movie. I can't even remotely hear the sound of it hitting the wood, not through the massive headache burning in my brain, the constant ringing in my ears.

  Gilleon turns toward me, sucking in a massive breath that expands his chest in slow motion. His blue eyes are dark, so dark I can hardly make out his pupils, and the whites of his eyes … they're stark with fear. Feral.

  “Regina.” I can see Gill's mouth moving to form the word, but the actual sound remains distant, like an echo underwater. The blood on his face drips down, reminding me of the cuts on my fingers. I lift my hand up and examine the red droplets at the same time I marvel at my luck. I managed not to blow my thumb off, not to get shot. Nothing short of a miracle.

  A miracle that two people are lying dead in front of me?

  No, no, a miracle that we're not lying dead in front of them.

  I blink stupidly and try to shake away the shock, putting my hands over my ears.

  Gilleon's there in an instant, wrapping his fingers around my wrists and gently pulling my arms down.

  “Regi,” he says, voice cracking. I can barely hear him, but the worry in his voice is clear. “Mon cœur.” My heart. I glance up at Gill, unable to suppress a shiver at the feel of his fingertips pressing into my skin. That sort of thing shouldn't matter at a time like this, so why does it suddenly seem to matter so damn much?

  “Je vais bien,” I say—I'm fine—even though I'm not a hundred percent sure that's true.
A quick glance down at my bare feet, at the drops of red on my toes and the drywall dust sticking to my skin like powdered sugar, is enough to make my head spin. “Cops,” I say, because that's suddenly all I can think about. I have no idea how long it's been since I left Cliff and Solène, but if they haven't already called the police, then one of the neighbors most certainly will. “Cops,” I repeat, but I can hardly hear the sound leaving my lips. All that goddamn ringing.

  A second later, Ewan, the expressionless guy that spent a few days as our acting bodyguard, appears at the top of the steps, moving over the bodies like they're piles of old laundry instead of cooling corpses. I pull my arm from Gill's grip, clamp a hand over my mouth, and close my eyes. I didn't kill them, but I did shoot them. And hell, it doesn't make it any easier to know that my lover shot them dead.

  I open my eyes as Gill murmurs something to Ewan and then returns his attention to me, laying the fingers of his tattooed hand against my cheek. His skin is warm and comforting against my face, even if his black T-shirt is wet with blood. I lean into the touch and meet that sharp, penetrating gaze of his.

  “Solène?” he asks me as I flick my eyes to his mouth and read his lips. “Dad?”

  “In the attic,” I whisper and Gilleon nods, his expression softening as he takes a step closer to me, sliding his fingers under my chin and tilting my face up to his. “Regina …” he begins again, but I shake my head, the pounding in my brain very quickly becoming a migraine. Right now, I think I'm in shock. Seems to be my go-to method for dealing with scary shit.

  “I'm okay,” I promise, looking into Gill's face. There's so much there—guilt, love, fear, anger. “I am, really. I just … need a minute.” I take a deep breath and start to ask about the police again when Gilleon leans down and closes his mouth around mine, diving deep, tasting me. He could've died just now. If I'd hesitated, he'd have been shot.