He made his way through the lobby, relishing the quiet. Hotels had a particular atmosphere late at night. Hushed and vacuous, it was like being tucked away in a small, lit corner of a darkened world. The silence calmed him, and he continued to the hotel bar feeling more in control.
Julien was already at a table far from the bar. It was protocol to keep one’s distance from prying ears and eyes, and Christophe went to the bar, ordered a bourbon, then crossed the room with the drink in hand.
“Better be good,” he said, sitting down.
“It is,” Julien said. He seemed to think about it. “Or maybe bad. But either way, I think you’ll want to hear it.”
Christophe nodded. “I'm listening.”
“You were right,” Julien said. “There have been problems — more problems than usual. I made contact with every district, audited every shipment, every new hire, every set of books. Then I compared them against data from last year at this time, and the year before that.”
“And?”
“Sixty percent increase in lost shipments, fifty percent more attrition, three moles caught disseminating information to minor competitors…”
“I get the feeling there is something else,” Christophe said, taking in the information.
“There’s been a slow siphoning of funds in every district.”
Christophe gripped his glass tighter. “How long?”
“Six months.” Julien winced, like he was bracing for an attack, then hurried to continue. “I take full responsibility. I should have kept a closer eye on things. I make no excuses.”
Christophe heard something unsaid in his words. “But?”
“It looks… deliberate. And… careful.”
“What are you saying, Julien?”
“The missing money, the missing men, the moles… it’s not enough to be obvious. Not enough in and of themselves to raise any alarms. There are potential explanations for the decrease in profits, the intercepted shipments — market fluctuations, the occasional intervention by law enforcement. And every organization has an occasional mole, either from a rival faction or from the law. It’s hard to raise an alarm on a small increase in that area.”
Christophe turned his glass in his hand. “You think it’s deliberate.”
“I do,” Julien said.
“Who?”
Julien shrugged. “Hard to say. There are the usual pockets of competition, but it’s hard to imagine any of them making a real play for territory or income. They don’t have the muscle to back it up.”
Christophe leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table. He hadn’t loved being under the thumb of the Syndicate, but that had been the organizational structure when he’d taken over for Nicolas Perrot, and he had honored it. It would never have occurred to him to try and stage a coup against Raneiro Donati. The man ruled with an iron fist, and he’d been doing so long before Christophe came onto the scene.
But then the shit had hit the fan with Nico Vitale. Most of the Syndicate leaders had gone to prison, two of them had committed suicide, and at least a quarter of the territory bosses had traded amnesty for testimony. Organized crime around the world had been thrown into upheaval, and while the average citizen might think that was a good thing, Christophe had seen firsthand how false the idea really was; the only thing worse than organized crime was disorganized crime.
He’d used the opportunity to grow his organization, to re-vet every man on his management team. He’d worked with people like Farrell Black in an effort to maintain alliances with other territories. He’d quickly and efficiently squashed minor uprisings to make it clear that the absence of the Syndicate didn’t mean the Paris territory was up for grabs.
He’d thought it was working. Certainly there were problems. There had always been problems, even when the Syndicate was in charge. But they hadn’t seemed unusual in the wake of the Syndicate’s dissolution. Now he was beginning to wonder if he was missing something.
He thought about his brother, about seeing Felix in Vienna, an obvious sign that Bruno had been part of the threat against Charlotte.
Which probably meant he’d been involved in Baeder’s death.
He felt a swell of anger. He didn’t delude himself that he was a good man. But he did have standards. He didn’t kill lightly or indiscriminately. He and Nico had that in common. And he certainly didn’t kill men like Stefan Baeder — men who dedicated their lives to the preservation of art and history.
He didn’t want to believe his brother was capable of such a thing. But he had never been one to lie to himself, and he immediately thought of Bruno’s beloved knife.
When they’d been children, their father used to take them hunting. Christophe had enjoyed the weight of the rifle in his hand, had worked to refine his aim to minimize the animal’s suffering.
But Bruno had enjoyed those times when Christophe missed the mark, when they had reached the animal to find that it was not-quite-dead. He’d relished using his knife to finish the job, often making it seem like he was unintentionally sloppy, forcing their father to teach him again and again how to kill mercifully.
But Christophe had seen the shine in his brother’s eyes. The pleasure.
He’d stopped hunting with Bruno as soon as he’d been old enough to assert himself. Now he couldn’t help wondering what else his brother was capable of.
He looked at Julien, grateful that the other man had remained silent, allowing him time to process this new information.
“And Bruno?”
Julien shook his head. “No sign of him. We sent another crew to Lille to meet the shipment, got it off the grid before it became a problem.”
“Does he have the kind of infrastructure to stage this kind of coup?” Christophe asked.
“Not that we know of,” Julien said.
Christophe shook his head. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened to one of the territories.”
“You’re thinking of New York,” Julien said.
Christophe nodded. These problems — missing money, missing men, an increase in problems that would be minor in a vacuum but which looked more sinister in context — had all preceded the efforts by Raneiro to oust Nico Vitale from his territory in New York — territory that had been run by the Vitale’s for decades.
“But Raneiro is in prison,” Julien said.
“Yes.”
“So who?” Julien asked.
“I don’t know.” Christophe stood. He was tired. He wanted to lay next to Charlotte. To hear her soft breathing beside him, to feel the brush of her hair against his cheek, the silk of her skin. “I’m going to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“You were right to call,” Christophe said. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
He had turned to go when he thought of something else.
“Julien?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Keep things under control until we figure this out.”
Julien nodded, and he saw in the other man’s eyes the same unease he felt in his bones.
36
Charlotte scanned the street as she sipped her coffee, watching the throng of people make their way to work. It was just after eight a.m., which meant that Peter Montoya should be arriving any minute. She looked at Christophe across the table, eyes trained in the other direction, and felt a rush of affection. He’d left their bed in the middle of the night, presumably to deal with business. The bed had been cold without him, and she’d happily nestled back into his arms when he returned. She didn’t like the idea of sleeping without him, and she liked the knowledge of this even less.
They'd spent the last three days following Peter Montoya, looking for an ideal place to have a conversation with him about the cross. He seemed to be fairly isolated, traveling mostly alone from the museum to his apartment and a few eateries in between. Occasionally he had lunch with a co-worker, which is why they’d opted to use the cafe instead; Peter
Montoya went there every day for breakfast, arriving early enough to sit at one of the outdoor tables, enjoying his breakfast for approximately twenty minutes before he left for his job at the museum.
It wasn’t ideal. There was the possibility that he would make a scene, draw attention to them. But he lived in a secure building, and while Christophe hadn’t blinked at the idea of breaking in, Charlotte had drawn the line there.
The cafe would work. The outdoor tables were largely unoccupied during the week; most of the customers took their coffee and breakfast to go. She was confident they would make an appeal that would buy them at least a few minutes of his time.
Christophe caught her eye across the table, his nod barely perceptible. She followed his gaze and saw Peter Montoya swiftly approaching, head bowed as if against a strong wind despite the fact that the weather was sunny and warm.
She returned Christophe’s nod and took another drink of her coffee as Peter passed them on his way into the cafe. She watched him through the glass as he ordered, then exited the shop, taking his favorite table near the sidewalk. It was next to theirs by design, and Christophe kept his eyes on the newspaper in front of him as the other man settled himself with his coffee and breakfast sandwich, opening his phone as he had every morning they’d watched him, scrolling through his social media feeds as he ate.
Charlotte’s heart felt like it was beating too fast, adrenaline making her flushed and on-edge. She had no idea what to expect of Peter Montoya, but talking to him wasn’t illegal in and of itself, she reminded herself. The worst that could happen is that he would refuse to speak to them.
She glanced at Christophe and wondered what he would do then. Would he turn violent? It was still hard to imagine the refined man across from her as dangerous, but she forced herself to see it, to imagine him hitting Peter Montoya, bloodying his face until he gave them the information they needed. She hadn’t pressed Christophe about his business, but neither would she allow herself the luxury of avoidance. Still, the image in her mind did nothing to dull the complex swarm of warmth and desire she felt when she looked at him. What did that say about her?
After about five minutes, Christophe met her eyes. A few seconds later, she angled her body toward Peter Montoya.
“Good morning,” she said.
He looked up, surprised, then gave her a hesitant smile. “Good morning.”
“I ran into Anna Muller in Vienna,” Charlotte said softly. “She says to tell you hello.”
The man froze, then moved to gather his things as he stood.
“I don’t recommend that approach,” Christophe said. His voice was low and casual, with an edge that could cut steel. Peter hesitated, then sat down, his gaze scanning the crowd as if looking for assistance.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Anna told us about the cross,” Charlotte said. “She said you knew where to find it.”
His face turned red. “That’s not true. I… I don’t.”
“That’s not what we’ve heard, Peter.” Christophe’s voice was friendly, but his use of the other man’s name was no accident. Montoya looked stricken, and Charlotte could almost see the realization dawning on him. The realization that they knew who he was. That they probably knew where he lived and worked. That there would be no easy escape.
She bit her lip, stuffing down her guilt. This was about more than Montoya. It was even about more Stefan Baeder. More than the threat made against her in Paris and the people who had chased them through Vienna.
It was about the universal ownership of art. About a piece that belonged to everyone that had instead been appropriated for a select few. Maybe even a select individual. If Stefan Bader really had been onto the whereabouts of Tucker’s Cross, it would be a discovery for the whole world. A chance for everyone to have a small piece of history, if only for a few moments when looking at it in a museum or in a photograph.
“We aren’t here to hurt you,” Charlotte said.
“Then what do you want?” Montoya asked.
“We want the information you would have given to Anna’s friend, Stefan Baeder, had he come for it.”
“Why would you want that information?” Peter asked bitterly. “Look what happened to him.”
“It’s because of what happened to him that we want it,” Charlotte said. “Because he died trying to find it. Trying to give it back to the world.”
He looked nervously around. “That’s not my problem.”
“Maybe not. But you work at the museum. You’ve studied art. You must believe that a piece like this one belongs to everyone.”
He licked his lips, and she could see his resistance wavering. She took advantage of it by continuing.
“I understand. I work in a museum, too.” She saw Christophe’s jaw tighten as she revealed the personal information, something they’d agreed not to do. “I love beauty, too. I’m just… I’m trying to finish what Stefan started. Trying to bring something out of the shadows that doesn’t belong there.”
He fumbled in his bag, removed a pen, wrote something on a napkin. Then he stood. “I’m leaving. Don’t follow me or I’ll call the police.”
He hurried onto the sidewalk, merging with the crowd of people on their way to work. She reached across the table and picked up the napkin he’d left behind.
Randall Ayers. Los Angeles.
She recognized the name immediately from the research they’d done on Peter Montoya. Ayers was the actor that had been married to Montoya’s Spanish aunt. The one Randall Ayers had divorced fifteen years before.
She slid the napkin to Christophe. He read the words written on it, then looked at her.
“That’s how Montoya knows? Because his aunt was married to the man who owns the cross?” he asked.
“It’s possible,” Charlotte said. “I mean, I was expecting something more… revelatory. A connection to the black market fence who last sold the piece, someone working for the museum…”
Christophe shook his head, and she was surprised when he started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Fucking family,” he said. “They’ll screw you every time.”
37
Charlotte set her shoes on top of the other items in the suitcase, then walked to the closet to make sure she hadn't left anything behind. She hadn’t spent much time in this bedroom after the first day when she’d showered and dressed here. She’d slept with Christophe every night. Had showered with him, even taken a bath with him in the big sunken tub in the private bathroom on the other side of the suite. She would miss it.
She would miss him.
She shook her head, double-checking the bathroom for toiletries. He wasn’t gone yet, although she sensed that he wasn’t crazy about the fact that Montoya’s information led them to L..A. In fact, she was fairly certain Boston would have been the end of the road for them if it had been anywhere else. He was probably just looking to get rid of her now. She wasn’t a novelty anymore. Wasn’t a mysterious thing he longed to own.
He’d already had her. Probably thought he already knew her. L.A. was a convenient way to get her home without seeming too obvious about the fact that he was ready to move on from their fling.
She checked the drawers of the bureau, found a stray pair of panties, and dropped them into her bag. Then she zipped it closed and sat heavily on the bed. Is that what this had been? A fling? Every ounce of her body — her heart — told her it was more. But the heart was an unreliable observer, intent on sheltering the psyche from unpleasant truths. It had kept her mother in denial for the past twenty years. Had allowed her to believe men loved her when they’d done nothing but take her to bed.
She felt an unwelcome surge of sympathy for her mother. Was this how it started? How you sunk into the warm sea of denial? It was so much more pleasant than the truth, and life already held so much unpleasantness. Maybe denial was her mother’s brand of beauty — the thing that made her weak, the thing she wanted above all else, the thing
she would fight to protect. The one thing for which she would sacrifice everything else.
She stood and pulled her suitcase off the bed. She wasn’t her mother. She didn’t deal in denial. She knew better. If the front row seat to her mother’s mistakes had given her anything, it had given her that. Ayers was a long shot, but she would go to L.A. with Christophe anyway. They would try to talk to Ayers, rule him out as someone who might own the cross.
Then she would say goodbye.
There would be no tears. No regrets. Christophe wasn’t the kind of man who belonged to anyone. She would willingly set him free. It would hurt. She was beyond denying that now. But she would do it anyway.
And she would be okay. She always was.
“All set?” Christophe asked, entering the bedroom.
She nodded, and he hurried toward her, removing the suitcase from her hand. He bent to kiss her forehead. “You’re far too beautiful to carry luggage.”
She laughed. “You’re spoiling me.”
“As it should be.” He looked around the room. “I’ll miss being here with you.”
She hid her surprise, not wanting to spook him with too much emotion. “I’ll miss being here with you, too.”
He hesitated a long moment, then looked into her eyes. “It’s time to go home though, yes?”
She answered around the lump in her throat. “Yes.”
Was it her imagination that he looked sorry? That she saw regret in his eyes?
“Good,” he finally said. “I’m happy I’ll get to see your home.”
She forced a smile. “Me, too.”
But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure it was true. Her little house in L.A. was one place she hadn’t been with him. One place unmarked by his gaze, his slow smile, his body on hers.
Now that would belong to him, too.
He held out a hand. “L.A. it is then.”
She took his hand and let him lead her out of the suite. She didn’t look back.
Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) Page 15