Rule: Paris Mob Book Three

by St. James, Michelle

  Christophe turned to Luca. “What about New York?”

  “The information I have is spotty. I’ve had to piece it together from the people I know who are still in the business there, and that hasn’t been easy. It’s chaotic with no real power structure in place. Reports differ person to person.”

  “And?” Farrell prompted.

  “Sounds like what we’re seeing here. Major financiers in government taken out, informants gone underground,” Luca said.

  “Anybody seen Raneiro?” Christophe asked.

  Luca hesitated. “There are rumors.”

  Christophe leaned forward. “What kind of rumors?”

  “Supposed sightings here and there,” Luca said. “But we have to be careful. It’s not definitive, and for all we know Raneiro himself planted the rumors to throw us off track.”

  “Where else would he be?” Farrell asked. “I’ve torn London apart. If he were there, I’d know it, and I talked to Carolina Barone about Italy. She hasn’t heard a whisper since Raneiro was released.”

  Christophe thought about it. Carolina had taken over the Florence territory when her father, Agostino, passed away three years earlier. The Barone’s had been deeply entrenched in the Italian organization since Raneiro’s era, and Agostino had commanded his own kind of power in Florence. It was hard to imagine Raneiro being anywhere in the country without Carolina’s knowledge.

  “He’s not in Paris,” Christophe said. “I had my people trace the rental on the warehouse where I was held, but it was a wild goose chase. Raneiro’s fingerprints were well-hidden, and there’s no trace of him in any of the hotels or previous safe houses. My guess is he’s administering orders to his people in Paris from another location.”

  “It has to be New York,” Farrell said.

  “We’ll know more when we talk to Nico,” Luca said. “The Vitale name is still gospel there. People who won’t talk to me will talk to Nico.”

  Farrell stood, walked over to the bar to refill his glass. “I filled him in through our secure communications. Hopefully he’s done some legwork ahead of his arrival. I have the feeling there’s no time to lose.”

  Luca wiped his hands on his jeans. “How secure is this place really?”

  Farrell looked at him. “It’s secure.”

  “I just want to be sure Isabel and Sophia will be safe while I’m gone,” Luca said.

  “It’s secure,” Christophe said. “I checked the place out myself. I would never leave Charlotte here if I wasn’t certain of it.”

  “Your confidence in me is overwhelming,” Farrell said.

  “Would you leave Jenna and Lily someplace without being sure?” Luca asked.

  Farrell didn’t hesitate. “No.”

  “I’m just doing my due diligence,” Luca said.

  “They will be safe here,” Farrell said. “I have contacts at the airport, and Carolina has promised to let me know if her organization picks up any chatter. There are over twenty-five men surrounding the property, plus ten more inside the compound. There are security cameras at every potential entry point and a panic room upstairs.”

  Luca nodded, but it was clear from the worry in his eyes that he wasn’t convinced.

  Farrell set down his drink. “Come on, you wanker. I’ll show you around. Make you feel better.”

  25

  Charlotte stood at the window, watching the men walk the perimeter of the field as the sun sank on the horizon. There was something endearing about watching them from a distance, three imposing men walking with heads bent near the treeline, clearly staking out the security, trying to make sure it was safe.

  Safe for Charlotte and Jenna and Lily and Isabel and Sophia.

  It was strange knowing there were people in the world looking out for her. Strange and surprisingly nice, despite the circumstances.

  She turned back to the room and walked to her bag. She had no idea what kind of attire would be expected for dinner, but given the barefoot children and Jenna’s welcoming manner, she assumed it would be fairly casual. Unfortunately, most of her things had burned in the fire.

  She felt a pang of sadness as she imagined it. Not for the clothes and shoes that had disappeared but for the fresh realization that the store was really gone. In the past when she’d been away, it had always hovered in the back of her mind, the ever-present call of home. Now she realized for the first time that she had no home of her own. She’d given up the house in Malibu to come to Paris. The store was gone. Christophe would say her home was with him, and while she felt that in her heart, there was no place with which to associate it.

  No favorite chair or familiar bed. No battered kettle or chipped teacup.

  Still, she had him. They would make a home to share when this was all over, in Saint-Germain or on Corsica or someplace new. It didn’t matter where.

  She looked over her clothes and chose a long skirt and sweater. She was losing track of time in the way she did with Christophe, flying across countries and time zones at all hours of the night, sleeping in different houses and hotels. But she had felt a bite in the air in Florence, even when the sun had been shining, and she didn’t know if dinner would be had indoors or on the big terrace she’d glimpsed off the kitchen.

  She left her hair long and touched her lashes lightly with mascara, then added a touch of lipstick before digging for her ballet flats. She slipped them on her feet and walked to the door, hoping she wasn’t too late to help Jenna and Mrs. Pendleton with dinner.

  She took two wrong turns on her way to the front staircase. When she finally found it, childish squeals of laughter drifted up the stairs along with the faint sound of music and the clatter of kitchen noise. She descended the stairs and followed the sounds to the big kitchen, surprised to see two additional women working alongside Jenna and Mrs. Pendleton.

  “I hope I haven’t missed all the heavy lifting,” Charlotte said.

  Jenna turned away from the sink at the sound of her voice. “Not at all! In fact, one might say we have too many chefs in this kitchen.” She cast a meaningful smile at Mrs. Pendleton.

  “Well, then! I’ll go see to the children. I know when I’m not wanted.” She sounded huffy, but Charlotte saw the smile lurking under her feigned annoyance.

  “You know I adore you, Mrs. Pendleton!” Jenna called after her.

  The older woman waved a dismissive hand at her and stepped onto the patio, her voice fading as she issued a rebuke to the children to stop acting like heathens and clean up for dinner.

  “She’s a dear,” Jenna said in a low voice, “but it’s no secret the British aren’t exactly world class chefs.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Aren’t you British?”

  “Why, yes,” Jenna ginned, looking at the two dark-haired women working nearby. “Which is why I let Carmen and Lucia do most of the work in the kitchen.”

  Charlotte lifted a hand in greeting. “Hello, I’m Charlotte.”

  The older of the two women offered a toothy smile as she continued chopping tomatoes. “I’m Carmen. This is my daughter, Lucia,” she said, tipping her head at the young woman sautéing onions and garlic over the stove.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Charlotte said. “What can I do to help?”

  The two women cast their eyes about the kitchen, obviously searching for the least intrusive place to install Charlotte. Jenna wiped her hand on a dishtowel.

  “Tell you what,” she said, “let’s get out from under their feet, shall we? We can set the table.”

  Charlotte followed her onto the terrace, wondering if she’d noticed the relief on the other women’s faces as they left the room.

  The terrace ran the length of the house, a small set of stone steps leading down to a second level where Mrs. Pendleton and Isabel were struggling to get Sophia and Lessa into their shoes and sweaters. One side of the terrace was lined with lounge chairs for sunbathing. The other was already set for dinner, a long rustic table with flickering candles and a low centerpiece of rosemary, oranges, and bay
branches. Miniature lemon and fig trees were strung with white lights, casting the terrace in a soft glow.

  “It’s hard for me to get used to all of this,” Jenna explained as she walked around the terrace, lighting the big heat lamps that stood at every corner. “I’ve always taken care of myself. I’m afraid I still manage to convince myself I’m helping even when it’s quite obvious I’m in the way.”

  “I can understand that,” Charlotte said. “Do you live here full time?”

  “Not usually,” Jenna said. “We had Lily in school in London, but Farrell thought it best we decamp with Raneiro on the loose.”

  It was strange to hear someone else speak so casually about Raneiro Donati and the impending turf war. For so long it had seemed like a secret between her and Christophe. Now it was apparent that his world was bigger than she’d first realized.

  Charlotte waved a hand at the stack of dishes on the table. “May I?”

  “Of course,” Jenna said. “Thank you.”

  “It does seem like you have excellent security,” Charlotte continued, setting out the plates at each place setting.

  Jenna laughed. “Farrell is a madman for security. He’s obsessed with it.”

  “That must be nice,” Charlotte said. “You must feel very safe.”

  Jenna seemed to think about it as she started setting flatware next to each plate. “I once thought I’d never feel safe with Farrell. Then I realized I’d never feel safe without him.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I know what you mean. Christophe can be…”

  “Domineering?” Jenna offered.

  Charlotte laughed. “That’s one word for it. I’ve been embarrassed to admit — even to myself — that I quite like it.”

  “It is a bit of a paradox,” Jenna said.

  Isabel climbed the steps from the lower level and picked up a stack of napkins. “What is a paradox?”

  She had a lovely voice, soft and full with a slight Spanish accent.

  “The men who try to boss us around,” Jenna said. “And our mixed feelings about their bossing.”

  “We aren’t supposed to like being bossed,” Isabel said. “And the truth is, sometimes I don’t.”

  Jenna lifted an eyebrow. “But sometimes you do.”

  Isabel’s laugh was low and throaty. “Sometimes I do.”

  “It’s a product of our long evolution, I think,” Charlotte said.

  “Because part of us still wants to be protected?” Jenna asked.

  Charlotte nodded. “Exactly. We have twenty-first century brains and paleolithic psyches that are still afraid a wild boar is around the corner.”

  “It’s as good an explanation as any,” Jenna said.

  “Need any help out here?”

  They all looked up as Farrell stepped onto the patio. Something shifted in Jenna’s face when she looked at him, and Charlotte could almost see the air moving between them. She was struck all over again at Farrell’s sheer size, at the way everything shrunk around him. Even as he gazed adoringly at Jenna, there was an undeniable air of menace about him.

  “You might help Mrs. Pendleton with Sophia,” Jenna said. “She’s determined to waltz barefoot into winter.”

  “Will do.”

  “Have you seen Christophe?” Charlotte asked.

  “He went with Luca to the airport,” he said.

  “The airport?”

  The words had just left her mouth when everyone turned toward the kitchen. She followed their eyes as Christophe and Luca stepped onto the terrace.

  But that’s not why everyone was looking.

  It was the woman who stepped outside after them holding a flaxen-haired toddler, and right behind her, a tall, imposing man with jet-black hair and flashing dark eyes. He moved with the grace of a jungle cat, his stride long and slow, as if he knew right where he was going and had all the time in the world to get there.

  Farrell strode toward them, gave the woman and child an embrace. “Angel, it’s so good to see you.” He turned to the black-haired man and extended a hand. “Nico. Thank you for coming.”

  26

  Charlotte stood to the side while everyone got reacquainted, trying to keep track of the various relationships. Jenna had worked for Nico in New York, and Farrell had helped Luca in Miami after assisting Nico and Angel when they’d first had trouble with Raneiro. Christophe had paid that favor forward when Farrell and Jenna needed help in Paris.

  Now they were all here, together again. Isabel seemed as out of her element as Charlotte, and they both stood aside, letting everyone make their greetings until it was time to be introduced.

  Luca went first, ushering Isabel forward and introducing her to Nico and Angel like a nervous little brother. There was a handshake from Nico and a hug from Angel, still propping the baby on her hip. She was truly lovely, with long blonde hair that looked like she’d just climbed from the ocean and green eyes that shone like jewels even in the dim light of the patio.

  When Luca had finished introducing Isabel, Christophe reached for Charlotte’s hand. “Charlotte Duval, this is Nico and Angel Vitale and their daughter, Stella.”

  Charlotte was surprised when Angel leaned forward to wrap her in an embrace. She caught the scent of sandalwood and the sea, and the slight tang of baby sweat and graham crackers from the rosy-cheeked little girl in her arms.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Charlotte said. She shook Nico’s hand and almost had to look away. His gaze was piercing, the kind of gaze that saw all the secrets you didn’t know you were keeping.

  Jenna took Angel’s arm. “You must be exhausted. And probably starving!”

  “I am pretty hungry.” The little girl named Stella lay her head shyly against her mother’s shoulder, and Angel smoothed her hair. “This little angel is hungry too, I bet.”

  Nico hovered over both of them as they got settled around the table, then held out his hands for the baby. She lifted her arms and he scooped the baby up, kissing her pudgy cheek. There could be no doubt that they were the center of his universe. It was written in his eyes, in the way they softened when looking at his wife and daughter and the way his body gravitated to positions of protection, as if he were anticipating danger and putting himself between the women in his life and anything that might harm them.

  Lily and Sophia came barreling barefoot onto the terrace, Mrs. Pendleton trailing behind them with two pairs of small shoes in her hand. Everyone laughed as they blazed a path through the group.

  “Well,” Jenna said, “I think it’s past time for food. And wine.”

  A chorus arose from the group. “Wine!”

  It was all movement and noise after that. There were trays of antipasto to bring in from the kitchen and wine to pour, homemade bread to set on the table and plates of oil pressed from the olives grown on the property. Charlotte’s fears of not fitting in were quickly dispelled by the warmth of the people in attendance, their genuine fondness for each other, the laughter that spilled easily from their lips as they recounted both shared stories and new ones.

  And it wasn’t just the men of the Syndicate and their families. Their circle was broadened by some of the guards coming off-duty in rotation, and by Ernesto, the property’s caretaker and Carmen’s husband. Once all the food was prepared, Carmen and Lucia squeezed in at the table, the children coming and going, their parents trying to coerce them to eat before they were off and running, playing games and shouting out in Italian, Spanish, and English in equal measure as they wove in and out of the darkness beyond the terrace.

  They lingered for a good two hours over Carmen’s homemade tomato sauce and perfectly al dente pasta, plus fish so fresh Charlotte wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been caught that morning. When the dinner plates were cleared away, Carmen and Lucia poured coffee and brought out a platter of local cheeses and figs, grapes and clementines.

  The candles were burning low in their holders when Ernesto left the room and returned with a guitar. He sat on the low stone wall of the terrace and s
trummed a soft, sad tune, his voice carrying out over the fields as he sang in Italian. The children returned from the fields one by one, like weary travelers returned home after a long journey.

  Sophia crawled into Isabel’s arms while Lily sat on her father’s lap. Stella was already dozing against Nico’s chest, her impossibly long eyelashes casting shadows over her porcelain cheeks.

  Something brushed her leg under the table, and a moment later, Christophe’s hand closed over hers. She looked up at him, watching as his serious expression softened into something else, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile.

  She leaned over, kissed his cheek. “What are you thinking about with that smile on your face?” she asked.

  “You,” he said simply.

  “What about me?”

  He touched his lips softly to hers. “I’m thinking that I’m happy you’re here. That you’re my family. That I love you.”

  The words sent a flush of warmth through her body. A feeling of belonging she hadn’t known she was missing. She leaned on his shoulder, let her eyes scan the table, taking in the flickering candlelight on the faces of the people who had so warmly accepted her into the fold. It was hard to believe they had all been part of the Syndicate. That the men were dangerous, the women willing to overlook it in the name of their love.

  She’d once believed the world was black and white. There was right and there was wrong. There was truth and there were lies.

  Now she was beginning to wonder if it was more complicated than that. Was it better to let someone like Raneiro take charge? Someone so ruthless he thought of people like Charlotte and Joelle and Stefan Baeder and Anna Muller as collateral damage? An acceptable price to pay for achieving his goals?

  The men she’d come to know — Christophe and Farrell and Luca — weren’t perfect. They did bad things. They made money from some of those bad things.

  But the knowledge was tempered with the fact that they did good things, too. That they were willing to risk their lives to bring down someone like Raneiro who would certainly rain down indiscriminate terror on the cities he reclaimed. That they were willing to risk their lives for the people they loved. How many people could say that with such certainty in such a selfish world?