Raneiro had done this. He’d destroyed Edgar Duval’s legacy to his daughter, the place Charlotte had sought refuge when she’d believed Christophe had abandoned her. That he had also been the agent of destruction for so many irreplaceable objects was just salt in the wound.
He was stroking her back when a high-pitched voice carried above the fray.
“Charlie! Charlie!”
Charlotte lifted her head, following the sound of the voice. A moment later, Joelle Masson burst through the crowd, plowing into Christophe and Charlotte with such force that Charlotte staggered backward.
“Oh, dieu merci! Je pensais que vous auriez pu revenir après notre combat…”
“I didn’t come back until I got the call,” Charlotte said. “I thought you were inside… I was worried sick!”
They clung to each other for a full minute before they stepped back to look at each other.
“I was so scared, Charlie,” Joelle said. She shook her head. “I’m sorry for earlier.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “You were trying to help. I don’t know what I would have done if…”
“Everyone is all right,” Christophe said, unsure how to respond to the show of emotion. He wasn’t used to having women around. Not in this capacity. He knew how to fuck them. To keep their bodies safe from harm. Loving one was new. “That’s all that matters.”
“But the store!” Joelle cried, turning to look at the now-dwindling blaze.
Charlotte leaned into Christophe and took Joelle’s hand. “It doesn’t matter. Things can be replaced. People can’t.”
He kissed the top of her head, the scent of smoke mingling with her shampoo.
Things can be replaced. People can’t.
It had never been more true.
14
Charlotte picked her way across the remains of the showroom, trying to banish the tightness in her chest. It was gone.
All of it.
The antiques sent in by pickers all over the world and the ones selected by Joelle at auction. Even a few that had been chosen by her father and restored by his loving hands before his death.
And then there was the apartment upstairs. Her father’s beloved and well-read books. The old sweater she’d wrapped herself in during the week when she’d thought Christophe didn’t want her. When her loneliness had become unbearable.
They weren’t supposed to be here. It wasn’t safe, and while the fire marshall was almost certain it had been arson, he still had work to do. But Christophe had discretely slipped some money to the police officer keeping an eye on the place while it was sealed. She had ten minutes to see if there was anything worth salvaging.
Ten minutes to say goodbye.
“Bastards,” Joelle said. “Who would do this?”
Charlotte drew in a breath. “I don’t know."
But she did. Of course, she did.
No one targeted a small antique shop in Paris for a firebombing. No one but Raneiro Donati sending a message to the man who had escaped his grasp.
“I'm sure the insurance will cover it,” Joelle said, looking at her with sad eyes. “But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”
“No,” Charlotte said. “It doesn’t.”
“What will you do?” Joelle asked.
“I’ll stay with Christophe while we get the insurance sorted,” she said. “After that… I don’t know.” She turned to Joelle. “I’ll see that you get a severance to tide you over while you look for something else. I’m so sorry.”
Joelle shook her head. “I don’t care about that.” She started to cry, tears leaving tracks through the fine coating of soot on her face. “I’ll just miss it so much.”
Charlotte embraced her, fighting her own tears. “Me, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Joelle said, pulling back to look at her. “I know I said it before, but I’m so sorry about… about earlier. I just want you to be happy. You deserve that, and I’m not sure you believe it.”
Charlotte smiled. “Thank you.”
Joelle stuffed her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket and sighed. “I suppose I’ll go home. Start looking for another job.”
Charlotte tried to smile. “You can count on me for a great reference.”
They hugged one more time, and Joelle started for the door, stepping carefully around the soggy bits of debris. She was at the front of the store, now a yawning gash with no discernible door or windows, when she turned around.
“Stay in touch, will you?”
Charlotte smiled. “Of course.”
A moment later she was gone, leaving Charlotte alone in the wreckage as Christophe pumped the officer outside for information.
She looked in the direction of the stairs, but they were completely gone. There would be no return to the apartment above the store. Most of the second floor had collapsed. She scanned the store, now one big room, the walls between the showroom, the overflow room, and the work room now all but gone.
Footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned, expecting to see Christophe. But it was Julien, moving toward her through the darkened mess. He came to stand beside her, then looked around with a sigh.
“I'm sorry."
“Thank you.” She was embarrassed to feel tears sting her eyes. She’d broken down when she’d realized Joelle was alive but had otherwise been in shock. That her defenses would fall in the company not of Christophe but of Julien was a surprise. “I can’t quite believe it’s gone.”
He was silent for a long moment. “I lost a house in a fire once,” he finally said.
She looked up at him. “You did?” He nodded. “How old were you?”
“Ten years old,” he said. “I’d only recently complained to my mother that the house was too small. Too cold. I always felt embarrassed about being poor. Then it was gone and I realized too late it was the only safety I had in the world.”
She studied his face and was surprised to see his normally blank expression touched with something old and haunted.
“What did you do?” she asked. “How did you go on?”
“One day at a time,” he said. “We got an apartment.” He laughed. “It was warmer. It was newer. But I don’t think about that apartment much. After all these years, it’s the old, drafty house I see in my dreams. My mother is there, still young, and my sister. Everything is as it was.”
She smiled. “Some things stay the same in our dreams.”
He looked down at her. “Yes.”
She found a strange kind of comfort in the knowledge. She would visit the store in her dreams. Joelle would be working in the back, humming along with her headphones in her ears. Her father would be bent over a new piece, moving his gnarled old hands over a piece of worn wood, bringing it back to life with the gentle touch of his fingers. He would be wearing his sweater, and he would smell of coffee and cigarettes. He would turn when he saw her in the doorway, and although he wouldn’t smile, she would see his love for her in his eyes.
“Thank you,” she said to Julien.
He draped an arm around her shoulders as they turned to go.
15
She was silent on the way home, and he didn’t press her for conversation. She’d been surprisingly composed during the aftermath of the fire, although he knew that would have been different if Joelle Masson hadn’t turned up safely. He’d tucked away his rage at Raneiro for the time being. The bastard would pay — there was no doubt about that — but it was only a matter of time before Charlotte let down her guard.
Christophe’s number one job was to be there when she did.
He parked the car at the back of the house and came around to open her door, holding out his hand to help her from the car. They made their way through the back gate and across the garden, up the stairs of the terrace and into the kitchen.
“Will he come here?” she asked when he locked the door.
He wasn’t surprised that she knew Raneiro had caused the explosion. She was an intelligent woman, and he’d made no s
ecret of the situation. Still, it hurt him to see her soot-covered face, the usually lustrous hair reduced to lank pieces that hung around her face. Most of all, it hurt him to see the light in her eyes dimmed by loss.
He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “No. If Raneiro wanted to make a more obvious statement, he would have come here first.”
“Why didn't he?” she asked.
“Coming after you — after the store — served the dual purpose of demonstrating that he knows what matters to me and proving that he won’t hesitate to use you in the war that’s coming.”
She lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them again to meet his gaze. And this time there was something new there. Not the light he’d grown accustomed to, but fire.
“I won’t leave,” she said. “I won’t let him make me run.”
He was struck with equal admiration and fear. They’d been on the scene of the fire for less than five minutes when he’d started plotting a way to get Charlotte safety. He could secret her away in any one of several properties he kept across the world, send Julien with her, although that would be a battle all its own. But the shine in her eyes told him that now was not the time for such a discussion. It could wait.
“Let’s run you a bath,” he said. “I’ll make you some tea.”
“I’d rather have coffee,” she said, leaning into him as they headed up the stairs.
He laughed. “You’re a true Parisian. But coffee will keep you awake, and you need to sleep.”
He turned the lights on low in the big master bedroom, then started the water for her bath while she took off her shoes. He wished he had some of the lavender oil bottled at the estate on Corsica. His mother had loved to use it in her bath. But Christophe had never had any reason to think about such things. There had never been a woman for whom he’d cared so deeply. A woman he sought to soothe and comfort. He would have to bring some back the next time he went.
He tested the water, making sure it was hot enough to ease the tension in her body without being uncomfortable. He had just turned off the faucet when she padded into the bathroom on bare feet.
He rose from the side of the tub and touched the hem of her shirt. “Lift.”
She lifted her arms, and he pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it aside. Her bra followed, and he unzipped her slim, gray trousers and slid them from her hips, crouching in front of her to remove her panties. He looked up at her, a naked goddess, his own personal Venus. Even covered in soot, reeling from loss, she was a warrior.
He stood and took her hand. She stepped into the water carefully at first, then sank into the claw-foot tub, stretching her long legs out in front of her as she leaned back against the porcelain.
“I’m going to make your tea,” he said, kissing her cheek.
She closed her eyes. “Thank you.”
He picked up her clothes on his way out of the bathroom and deposited them in the hamper that was collected by his housekeeper every couple of days. Then he picked up her shoes and carried them with him downstairs. He would have them cleaned, see if they could be salvaged. If they couldn’t be saved, he would take her shopping. Purchase new things for her to fill the second closet in his bedroom, a closet that had been empty since he’d renovated the house five years earlier.
He filled the kettle and put it on to boil, then spooned dried chamomile into a delicate cup. While he waited for the water to heat up, he headed into his study, hoping to find the report he’d requested from Julien.
It was there, a neat stack of paper, on his desk. He picked it up and turned on the lamp, then read over Julien’s words about the state of the Paris organization. It wasn’t good. They were bleeding men on a daily basis through injury and attrition.
A two man crew ambushed doing collections downtown and shot execution-style on the street.
Four men who didn’t show up to security detail at one of the clubs they used to clean their money.
Another raid of his new bookmaking operation. Unlike the one from two months ago, this one hadn’t ended with an explosion but with the theft of nearly a hundred thousand euros.
And most unacceptable of all, the hit on Galerie Duval.
What if Charlotte had been inside? What if Raneiro had had her killed?
Fury moved through him like a dark wind, and under it, a whisper of fear. He pushed it aside, turned his thoughts to the practical aspects of the problem at hand.
Without a source of funds, Raneiro was desperate. And that made him dangerous.
He had returned from prison to find his empire gone, his men scattered to the winds, his fortune seized by various governments. He had limited money, and that meant he had limited time. The hits were already coming faster and harder. They would only escalate until Christophe and the others were neutralized.
The kettle whistled from the kitchen, and Christophe stood, leaving the report on his desk and shutting out the light. He poured water into the cup, then put it on a tray and carried it up the stairs.
Charlotte was right where he left her, head tipped back, eyes closed. He thought she might be asleep, and he tried not to make noise as he set the tray carefully on the floor. She opened her eyes and smiled.
“Hello.”
He picked up the cup, handed it to her. “Hello, darling.”
She leaned forward, took a sip of the tea. “Hmmm… it’s good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He straightened to leave but she grabbed ahold of his hand.
“Stay.”
There was a note of urgency in her voice, and he sat on the floor next to the tub and stroked her damp hair. He was preparing to ask her if she’d like him to run more hot water when his phone buzzed from his pocket.
He hesitated, not wanting to take a moment away from her.
“Go ahead and take it,” she said, eyes still closed. “I’m right here.”
He removed his phone, unsurprised to find the call was from an unknown number. Very few people had his number, but it wasn’t unusual for Julien to call from another phone.
“Yes,” he said.
“It wasn’t an accident.” The man’s voice was calm and refined, the Italian accent unmistakable.
“I will kill you,” Christophe said, his voice low. Charlotte looked at him with alarm, sitting up in the tub as he moved away from her into the bedroom. He didn’t even want Raneiro’s voice near her.
Raneiro chuckled. “So little discipline,” he said. “I never imagined so many of my men could be made weak by women.”
“This is between us,” Christophe said. “I’m going to kill you anyway, but if you harm her, you’ll die slowly. That much I can promise you.”
“No reason for anyone to die,” Raneiro said crisply. “I simply want what is mine, and I think it’s safe to say any opportunity for us to work together has long since disappeared. Walk away and that will be the end of it.”
“The Paris territory isn’t yours anymore. You forfeited it when you turned on one of our own. When you went to prison.”
“That is where you’re wrong,” Raneiro said, his voice cold. “What was once mine is always mine. I built it. You were simply a hired hand.”
“That may have been true,” Christophe said. “But no more.”
There was a long pause before he spoke again. “Then I suggest you buckle in. Because I will burn it all to the ground before I leave it in your hands. And your little woman in the bath as well.”
The line went dead, and Christophe looked around the room, his gaze stopping at the open draperies. He stalked across the room and closed them, cursing under his breath. Was Raneiro watching them from outside? Had the house been bugged?
“Christophe?” He turned to find Charlotte wrapped in one of the thick robes that hung on the back of the bathroom door. “Is everything all right?”
His mind was spinning, the ground tilting dangerously under his feet. Raneiro’s voice had brought back his imprisonment.
The cold, dark cel
l.
The scuff of Rudy’s boots outside the door.
The shine of his tormentor’s eyes.
He shook it off, focusing on Charlotte. That was the important thing; to get Charlotte to safety. He could think about nothing until that was done. There were many places he could go. Many places he could take her.
But only one that offered the safety of home, Bruno be damned.
“Everything is fine,” he said. “Pack your things. We need to leave.”
16
Charlotte held onto the edge of her seat as the chopper banked over the sprawling estate below. It was after two am, and the land surrounding the house was dark, but she got the sense of wide open spaces, caught the scent of the sea as the pilot lowered the helicopter toward a field illuminated with lights.
She watched as the ground rose up to meet them, the pilot’s voice sounding through the radio in the headphones Christophe had placed on her ears before they'd lifted off the ground in Paris. She hadn’t talked to him about the conversation that had precipitated their flight to Corsica, but she knew the voice on the other end of the phone had belonged to Raneiro.
Everything came back to him.
He was the one who had ordered Bruno to get the cross. The one who had ordered the murders of Stefan Baeder, Michael Weisman, Anna Muller, Peter Montoya. The one who had kidnapped and tortured Christophe. Who had destroyed her father’s work.
And it was obvious from Christophe’s demeanor that Raneiro wasn’t finished.
They landed with a small jolt, and Charlotte watched as a man in black rushed toward the helicopter to open the door. He extended a hand, and Charlotte removed the headphones and stepped onto the grass. The rotors turned slowly overhead, whipping her hair around her face as she dashed away from the chopper.
Rule: Paris Mob Book Three Page 6