Rule: Paris Mob Book Three

by St. James, Michelle

  “Oh, god… Christophe…”

  She opened her eyes, and the image of his dark head between her legs coupled with the sensations rocking her body set loose the orgasm lurking at the center of her body. There was no build-up. No time to prepare. There were only waves of pleasure rolling through her like quick-moving storm, Christophe’s fingers moving in and out of the contracting channel of her pussy while his tongue lapped frantically at her clit as she cried out.

  When it was over, he stood between her thighs, looking down at her with lust in his eyes as he unbuttoned his shirt, slid off his pants. His bulging cock sprang free and she spread her legs wider, touched her clit for him while he watched.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” he asked with a groan.

  She smiled. “No. I’m trying to bring you back to life.”

  He captured her wrists in one of his big hands, stretched her arms over her head. Then he wedged himself between her legs, positioning his cock at her entrance with his free hand.

  “I’m going to make sure you remember that you’re mine, Charlotte.”

  He’d barely spoken the words when he drove into her hard and fast.

  She moaned as he buried himself inside her, holding still as she stretched to accommodate him.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and fell into his gaze. Everything else receded around them. There was only this: his body joined with hers, his eyes seeing to the depths of her soul, his hands claiming her as his. She was embarrassed at tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

  He leaned over her, brushed the tears away from her temples. “No tears, darling. I love you. I’ve always loved you, and you’ll always be mine.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Say it,” he said.

  “I’ll always be yours.”

  He kissed her slowly and deeply, and then he was dragging his cock out of her inch by inch, pausing at the precipice before pushing into her again. His strokes were long and leisurely, like he wanted to draw out the joining of their bodies this one last time.

  He hooked his arm under one of her knees and angled her body so she could take his thrusts deeper, and the friction against her clit set her center on fire all over again. He rose over her like a gladiator, squeezing her nipples while he rocked into her, his cock swelling and growing, stretching the limits of her channel as he drove into her again and again. His eyes were molten in the dim light of the room, and she felt something timeless and ageless pass between them, the sense that they had been here before. That they had crossed time and space to find each other again.

  He moved more quickly, his body working in a primal rhythm with her own, thrusting and withdrawing as her hips came up off the bed to meet him. Her body was beating to its own drum now, lost in the need for release that only he could give her as he drove frenetically into her.

  He looked into her eyes. “Come for me, Charlotte.”

  The words unleashed any control she might have had over her body. She unraveled all at once, her body tipping over into the abyss as light sparked beyond her eyelids, her body shuddering around him as he groaned, slamming into her. The pleasure was almost unbearable, and she felt herself lifting out of her skin as he poured into her, trying to escape the sheer euphoria gripping every cell in her body as a fresh wave of contractions started at her core, ripping through her organs, her bones, her skin. It went on and on, everything spinning around her until everything else had fallen away.

  She opened her eyes a little at a time, unsure how much time had passed. Christophe lay on his back and pulled her into his arms. He stroked her hair, kissed the top of her head.

  “I’m coming back for you,” he said. “I promise.”

  36

  She was still asleep when he crept from the bedroom the next morning. He felt bad about not saying goodbye, but he’d said everything he’d needed to say the night before.

  He loved her with his whole heart.

  He would be back for her.

  It was a promise.

  There was nothing else to say.

  He joined the other men in the courtyard while it was still dark. They loaded the gear they’d appropriated from Farrell’s stash into one of the Rovers and left for the airport as the sun was turning the fields gold.

  Julien’s coffin was waiting at the airport. Christophe swallowed against the tightness in his throat as they loaded onto the plane. When it was secure, Nico removed a rosary from his pocket, and Christophe watched his lips move in prayer. He wished for a moment that he had something bigger than himself to believe in. Some god to whom he could pray.

  But Charlotte was his only higher power. HIs reason for everything. His purpose.

  They disembarked in Paris and accompanied Julien’s body to the funeral home outside Paris designated by his mother. Julien’s will stated that he wanted to be cremated, and his mother had offered to wait a few days on a memorial service in the hope that Christophe could attend.

  He wanted to tell her not to go to the trouble, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He wanted to be there. Wanted to pay his respects to the friend who had stood so steadfastly by his side through everything. Who had been a brother in all the ways Bruno had not.

  They were silent as they returned to the airport that afternoon. Nico slapped him gently on the back as they made their way toward the waiting plane. They were in the air less than ten minutes later as if nothing had happened.

  As if he hadn't just left his best friend’s body at a morgue in Paris.

  They were somewhere over the Atlantic when Nico took the empty seat next to him. He held out a drink.

  “Thought you could use this.”

  “Thank you,” Christophe said.

  “How are you holding up?” Nico asked.

  “I’m fine,” Christophe said.

  Nico chuckled, wiped a tired hand over his face.

  “What?” Christophe asked.

  Nico looked at him. “We’re always fine, aren’t we?”

  Christophe hesitated, then nodded. He knew what Nico meant. There was rarely time for them to be anything else.

  Nico looked into his own drink. “I don’t know how much you heard, but Angel’s father is the one who killed my parents all those years ago.”

  “I heard something about it.”

  The execution-style killings of Nico’s parents had happened when Christophe was fairly new to the organization in Paris. It wasn’t until later that rumors started to circulate that Carlo Rossi, head of the Boston organization, had done it in a shocking breach of Syndicate protocol. Nico had petitioned Raneiro, his mentor and surrogate father-figure, for the right to censor Carlo, but Raneiro had taken Carlo’s side. It had been the beginning of the end of Nico’s loyalty to Raneiro.

  “For a long time, there was no room for anything but rage,” Nico said. “It nearly consumed me.”

  “They were your parents,” Christophe said.

  “And I was right to avenge them,” Nico said. “But eventually I had to make room for something good. For Angel. For Stella. Do you understand?”

  Christophe nodded.

  “What Raneiro did to you — keeping you prisoner all that time — is unforgivable,” Nico said.

  The hard chair under his body.

  The cold, dark room.

  The slam of the baseball bat into his body.

  Christophe tried to focus on Nico as he continued.

  “It’s right that you want justice. For yourself. For Charlotte and what Raneiro did to her father’s store. For what happened to Julien. That’s why we’re going to New York. To take back what’s ours. To get justice.” Nico hesitated. “But whatever happens, when it’s over, it’s over. You’ll have to be prepared to leave it behind, to make room for something good. Otherwise it will destroy you.” He looked into Christophe’s eyes to make his point, then patted his back and stood. “You should get some rest. We’ll be landing soon.”

  Chri
stophe watched him walk to his seat, settle back in.

  But whatever happens, when it’s over, it’s over.

  That was all that mattered now. Getting it done. Making Raneiro pay and calling it over. Then he would make room for something good.

  37

  Charlotte crept through the house, trying not to wake anyone else as she made her way down the stairs to the kitchen. The men had been gone less than twenty-four hours and it already seemed like a lifetime since she’d seen Christophe. Since she’d felt his arms around her, his body sure and solid next to hers.

  She’d spent the day with Angel, Jenna, Isabel and the children, lounging on the terrace, trying to keep each other occupied. She’d even gone riding with the children late in the afternoon when the hours dragged by. By the time she’d gone upstairs to bed after dinner, she’d been tired, confident she’d be able to sleep. But when she lay down, all she could think of was Christophe. His scent was still strong on the pillow, the memory of his arms around her so vivid she was almost surprised to realize he wasn’t really there. She’d tossed and turned for a long time, kicking off the covers when she got hot, pulling them back up when she got cold. She’d wandered to the window, gazed out over the moonlit fields, trying to comfort herself with the knowledge that the same moon shone down on Christophe.

  Finally she’d given up and decided to make tea. She turned the corner into the kitchen and almost jumped out of her skin when something moved in the shadows. She let out a squeal, her heart racing like a runaway train as the shadow moved toward her.

  “Oh my god!” Angel said. “You scared me half to death!”

  Charlotte’s hand flew to her chest. “I scared you?” She laughed. “You just took five years off my life.”

  Angel’s laughter was soft. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me, either,” Charlotte said.

  “Want some tea?” Angel asked. “I already put the kettle on.”

  “I’d love some.”

  Angel moved back to the stove in the dark and Charlotte took a seat at the table in the breakfast nook.

  “Where do you think they are now?” Charlotte asked.

  Angel scooped tea into two mugs on the counter. “If I had to guess, I’d say nearly to New York.”

  Charlotte tried to imagine them, hurtling across the sky in Christophe’s plane — or was it Farrell’s? — the moon shining on the Atlantic far below. Was he all right? She knew they were escorting Julien’s body to Paris. Had it been very difficult for him? Had he allowed himself to feel any of it? Was he still reeling from what had been done to him in captivity? She worried that he would never let himself fully feel the effects of his time in the warehouse. That the experience would haunt him long after they’d dealt with Raneiro.

  The kettle started to whistle and Angel poured hot water into the cups, then brought them over to the table. She took the seat across from Charlotte and blew on the steaming liquid in her cup.

  “This is the hard part,” Angel said.

  “Which part?” Charlotte asked.

  “The waiting. I was never very good at it. I got myself into a lot of trouble — and Nico, too — because of it.”

  “How so?”

  “It was hard with Nico and me. Our lives were so intertwined from the beginning, even before I realized it. At first it was all about my father, something I had a stake in. I couldn’t just sit back and let it unfold. I had to know for myself who my father was.” Charlotte had only gotten the broad strokes about Angel and Nico from Christophe, but she let Angel continue, trying to put the pieces together as she spoke. “After that…” She inhaled deeply, and Charlotte sensed it was still a painful topic. “After that my brother was kidnapped, so I had a stake in that, too. By the time we got to Raneiro, I had my own ax to grind. It was impossible to sit back and let everyone else take him down.”

  “What happened?” Charlotte asked.

  “I almost lost Stella,” Angel said quietly.

  Charlotte placed her hand over Angel’s. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s why we left like we did,” Angel said. “My father had been in the business for years, although I didn’t know it for a long time. Nico’s family had been running New York for decades. But there was no way back for us after all that happened. We had to put distance between us and what was left of the Syndicate. For ourselves and for Stella.”

  “And your brother?” Charlotte asked.

  “He survived,” Angel said. “Not without some setbacks, but he lives in Thailand now with his boyfriend. He’s happy, I think.”

  “Good for him,” Charlotte said.

  Angel smiled through the darkness. “Yes. Good for him.”

  Charlotte sensed there was something else Angel wanted to say. She took a sip of her tea and waited in the silence.

  “It’s not an easy life,” Angel finally said, turning her cup on the table.

  “I know,” Charlotte said softly.

  “There will be death and loss. Fear, too.” She hesitated. “And there are the moral implications. Are you prepared to shoulder the burden of it?”

  Charlotte looked at the cup in her hand as she thought about the question. It wasn’t a foolish one, and while she’d turned it all over in her mind more times than she could count, it deserved one last round of consideration.

  She’d lost Christophe more than once since they’d met. She’d lost her father’s store. She’d watched Julien die for the crime of being a good friend to her.

  To Christophe.

  She’d been helpless as others were killed, too.

  Was she really prepared to live this way forever? To accept all the pain and loss and fear as the toll to be paid for loving Christophe?

  The questions seemed pointless. Like asking if she wanted to see. If she wanted to breathe.

  She met Angel’s eyes in the dark. “I don’t have a choice.”

  Angel nodded, squeezed Charlotte’s hand. “Then there’s only one thing left to do.”

  “What is that?” Charlotte asked.

  “Stand by his side,” Angel said. She took a drink of her tea. “And be prepared to fight.”

  38

  Christophe was strapping on his Kevlar when a tall muscular man walked into the office building where they were staging. Christophe immediately pegged him for ex-military, his purposeful movements hinting at a level of discipline and preparedness that only came with years of training.

  “Holy shit,” Farrell said. “Kane. I didn't think you were coming.”

  “Don’t make me reconsider,” Braden said.

  Nico crossed the room, already clad head-to-toe in tactical gear. He extended his hand. Braden clasped it as some kind of meaning moved between them.

  “Thank you for coming,” Nico said.

  “Where’s the rest of the cavalry?” Farrell asked from the floor where he was cataloging their ammo.

  “Not coming,” Braden said simply. “I’m rogue on this one.”

  “Are you serious, mate?” Farrell asked.

  Braden shrugged. “Devil you know.”

  There was something tired and resigned in the way he said it, but Christophe knew what he meant; Kane didn’t like the fact that organized crime was part of the world they occupied, but if it was, better them than Raneiro Donati.

  Nico turned to Christophe. “Christophe Marchand, Braden Kane. Marchand manages Paris,” Nico explained.

  “I’ve seen your file.” Braden shook his hand, and Christophe had the sense of being assessed and cataloged.

  “What’s our status?” Kane asked.

  Nico handed him a set of binoculars and pointed him to one of the windows. “Guests are starting to arrive. We don’t expect any action until they leave, but we’re gearing up anyway just in case.”

  Braden raised the binoculars to his eyes, looked out across the street at the mayor’s mansion where limos and Town Cars were lined up to drop off their passengers. Somewhere on the other side of the mansion, Marco and Elia wer
e staging from the back.

  “What a fucking circus,” Kane said. “Only Donati would choose to make a move on a night like this right after he gets out of prison.”

  “He’s always been a Narcissist,” Nico said.

  Kane lowered the binoculars and Christophe handed him a vest just as Marco’s voice sounded in his headset.

  “Anything up front?” he asked.

  Christophe picked up the binoculars, watched as a long-legged blond emerged from one of the limos in a shimmering dress. “Nothing worth noting. How about back there?”

  “Bunch of penguins coming and going with trays and flowers,” Elia said in his ear.

  Christophe laughed at the description of the wait staff. “Let us know if you get anything interesting.”

  Braden Kane finished strapping on his Kevlar, then picked through the weapons on the floor next to Farrell, choosing a handgun after testing its weight in his hand. Then he strapped on a headset and lowered himself to a sitting position under one of the windows.

  Everyone else followed suit, getting into position with their bulky tactical gear.

  Getting ready to wait.

  And to move.

  39

  “Sweet jesus,” Farrell muttered as he looked through the binoculars. “How many more of them are there?”

  Christophe watched through his binoculars as another couple emerged from the mayor’s mansion, the man in a tuxedo, the woman in a long red gown. They’d been watching people leave for the last hour-and-a-half, and it seemed like the stream of guests was never-ending.

  “Catering staff is breaking down at the rear entrance,” Marco said through the headset.

  “Anything else suspicious back there?” Nico asked.

  “Not so far.”

  “You going to lose your job over this?” Nico asked Kane.

  Christophe glanced away from the binoculars to look at the two men sitting against one of the walls while Christophe and Farrell manned the windows.