Gabriel
was in a video conference with the Berlin compliance team. Attention focused on the risk-mapping inconsistencies they’d found in the mobile platform. The issue wasn’t critical yet, but could create vulnerabilities if left unchecked. On his screen, Kristoff Weber, their head of European compliance, was walking through the technical specifications.
His phone vibrated again—Annabelle calling. For the third time in two minutes. Dread coiled in ’s chest; Annabelle never called. In the decade she’d run his household, every communication had been through texts. Even emergencies warranted nothing more than a succinct “Urgent: Please call when available.”
“Pardon me,” he said to the Berlin team. “I need to address something urgent. Brenda will reschedule for tomorrow morning, and I’ll review your preliminary corrections then.”
He ended the call and immediately dialed Annabelle back. Her voice, usually so composed, trembled. “I just got back from the weekly shopping and—” A shuddering breath. “There are bodies, . Five of the security team, dead in the foyer. Peter and Jacob were barely alive when the ambulance took them. The police are here now, but Ellis and Jean are gone. They’re just... gone. What should I do?”
The world tilted sideways. ’s mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last. “Wait there. I have some ideas where they might have been taken.” His voice sounded distant to his ears. “Have Dr. Nguyen meet Peter and Jacob at the hospital. Once stable, have them transferred to St. Lucius in Second Cat. I’ll cover any costs. When the police leave, call in a provisional cleaning crew. Annabelle, do not try to clean it yourself.”
Annabelle agreed and hung up.
As he left his office, he found Lucas by Brenda’s desk, where he’d been chatting. His friend’s easy smile vanished at the look on ’s face.
The elevator doors opened, and Alain emerged at a near-run, his usually impeccable composure fractured. One look at his head of security’s face told he was about to report the same nightmare.
“What the hell is happening?” Lucas demanded as they moved back toward the elevator.
“The security feeds just came back online,” Alain reported tersely. “Someone looped them—professional job. When they cleared, I saw the police and the bodies being removed.”
“Ellis and Jean are missing,” said as they entered the private elevator, jabbing the button for his private entrance. “Five of our security team are dead. Peter’s the only survivor, along with Jacob. Both were shot, and both were rushed to the hospital. I’m having Dr. Nguyen move them when possible. We have to let the police handle the scene for now. I’m sure they’ll have questions, though.”
“Already texting Nika to head over to the manor to handle it,” Alain said.
“Where are we going?” Lucas asked, an urgency in his voice.
“The estate.” ’s jaw tightened. “My father and brother have some explaining to do.”
They emerged into the private garage, Alain already moving toward the Mercedes. As they settled into the car, tried Henri’s number.
Voicemail.
He tried again. Straight to voicemail.
A third time—voicemail.
“Tabarnak!” dialed his father.
The phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
No answer. No voicemail box. wanted to throw his phone out the window.
“Try Henri’s PA,” Alain suggested, taking a corner at twice the recommended speed. Everyone braced.
The PA, Eric Thompson, answered on the first ring. “Mr. Rohan’s office.”
“Where is my brother?”
“Sir, uh, Mr. Rohan, Mr. Henri has been working remotely all week. I... I actually don’t know his current location.” Eric stuttered out.
“You’re his PA!” shouted into the phone before hanging up on flustered and sputtering man. “Henri’s hiding.”
“Or is in a meeting?” Alain suggested, merging onto the I-70 at mind numbing speeds. They flew past a cop, who started to follow them, but likely recognized their license plate number and stopped.
“Merde,” Lucas swore, slamming his hand against the dashboard. “We should have had more security at the house. After everything with Henri—”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Alain cut in, weaving through traffic. “Not against Sentinelle Tactical.”
“You think it was Sentinelle?” Lucas said, disbelieving.
“Had to be a private military. To get in and out of Layette Square that quickly and cleanly? I doubt it was some low-life gang or guns-for-hire. Had to be contractors. My bet is on our guys. Maximilien is still friends with their President.” Alain said, while swerving madly around the slower automated cars—which was everyone.
was already dialing.
Antoine Dufort, President of Sentinelle Tactical, answered on the third ring.
“! To what do I owe—”
“Did you authorize any off-books operations today? Specifically, at my Lafayette Square manor?”
A pause. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t play games, Antoine. Six of my security team are down, and five are dead. Oh, and also my butler. There are no other Private Military Contractors in the city, and the hit was too professional.”
“A terrible situation,” Antoine’s voice dripped false sympathy. “But I’m afraid there’s nothing in our logs about any operations today, inside Porte du Coeur, at least.”
“You might be chummy with my Father, Antoine, but remember who signs your paychecks.”
A low chuckle. “Prove it, . Otherwise, don’t waste my time with threats.” The line went dead.
“Bastard,” Lucas spat.
“He’s lying,” Alain said, taking another turn at breakneck speed.
“Obviously.” was already dialing Olivier Saint-Clair.
Unlike the others, he picked up on the second ring.
“Where is Jean, Olivier?” asked without preamble.
“Jean is at the International School of Gothenburg,” Olivier said, his tone clipped and cold. “As you well know.”
“Don’t lie to me, Olivier. A security team just murdered five of my people.”
“Such accusations. I don’t appreciate your tone, .” A sound like the slurping of a drink came through over the speakers. “In any case, where my wayward youngest is, is none of your concern.”
“If anything happens to Jean—”
“My son is exactly where he should be.” Olivier snapped. “Stay out of family matters, . You’re not as untouchable as you think. And if you or your associates set foot on my property—any Saint-Clair property—I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.” The call ended.
’s grip tightened on his phone until the case creaked. In the rearview mirror, he saw Lucas’ face darken with fury.
“Rohan Estate, 15 minutes.” Alain said.
The wrought-iron gates parted smoothly at the touch of Alain’s fob, their gilded family crest catching the late afternoon sun. The Mercedes glided forward onto the oak-lined drive, white crushed shells crunching with a distinctive whisper beneath the tires.
The house revealed itself gradually through the trees—a sprawling testament to his great-grandfather’s determination to outshine the old St. Louis families, long before the birth of Porte du Coeur. The architecture was a peculiar marriage of Romanesque strength and Greek Revival grace, as if the builder couldn’t decide which ancient civilization to honor. Gray stone formed the base and wings, while white marble columns and accents caught the light like fresh snow. The effect should have been jarring, but somehow, the careful balance of materials created something uniquely commanding.
Twin fountains flanked the circular drive before the main entrance, water arcing in precise patterns that hadn’t changed in over fifty years. The lawns stretched out in every direction, each blade of grass exactly the regulation height his mother had once insisted upon. A separate drive curved toward the equestrian center through the pristine rose gardens, where the family’s prized horses were stabled in better accommodations than most people’s homes.
The entire estate radiated the kind of old money that couldn’t be replicated—the patina of generations of careful maintenance, the absolute certainty that everything was exactly as it should be.
They found Maximilien by the pool, lounging on a canopied daybed with the casual arrogance that had defined him for decades. A crystal tumbler dangled from his fingers, ice clinking against glass as he watched their approach with faint amusement.
Behind him, the pool stretched like a liquid sapphire, its waters flowing seamlessly from the climate-controlled interior to the outdoor terrace through a massive wall of crystal-clear glass. The engineering marvel could seal the indoor section off completely during winter, but today, the barrier was raised, allowing the afternoon breeze to ripple across both surfaces.
A young woman in a crisp white uniform approached with practiced grace, carrying a fresh whiskey sour on a silver tray. She kept her eyes downcast as she exchanged Maximilien’s empty glass for the full one, then retreated with the silent efficiency expected of the household staff.
noted how his father’s gaze followed her movements with predatory interest before returning to rest on his visitors, that familiar mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Father—”
“If you’re here about the Saint-Clair boy, I’m staying out of it.” Maximilien sipped his scotch. “Olivier call. It’s a family matter, you understand.”
Lucas lunged forward. Alain caught him, muscles straining. “Don’t,” he warned.
“And Ellis?” asked, teeth grinding.
“Who?” Maximilien sipped his whiskey sour.
“Who… you know damn well who he is, you bastard!”
Maximilien laughed. “Il s’est envolé.”
“Not on his own, he didn’t.” all but snarled.
“Why don’t you change? Join me by the pool. It’s a lovely day for it, and the view is fantastic.” Maximilien’s gaze slid back to where the female staff member was fluffing pillows on nearby daybeds and loungers, completely unnecessarily.
pinched the bridge of his nose. Punching his father might feel cathartic, but it wouldn’t get him any answers. “Do you know where Henri is?” He asked through his teeth, the tension in his jaw aching its way into a migraine.
Maximilien made a show of checking his watch. “At this time of day, I assume the office.”
“He’s been working remotely, according to his PA.”
“Well, he isn’t here. Perhaps Marc’s penthouse?”
Getting any information out of his father was unlikely. The trio searched the house for Henri anyway, though none believed he was there. More than one of the servants had told them that Henri had all but been living at Marc’s penthouse for the past few months. considered it odd, as Henri was fond of some of the horses in the stables, his old polo ponies, and was usually one to ride multiple times a week.
“Do we know where Marc’s penthouse is?” asked as they exited the house after a fruitless search.
“I’ll have to look into it,” Alain said, sliding behind the wheel. The air in the Mercedes felt thick with unspent fury and mounting dread.
They drove back to Lafayette Square in tense silence, the earlier breakneck pace replaced by a measured control that seemed to cost Alain visible effort. Each traffic light felt like an eternity. watched the familiar landmarks of Second Cat blur past his window, unable to shake the image of his father’s mocking smile.
Nika was waiting on the front steps when they arrived, his usual predatory grace somehow sharper in the late afternoon light. His perfectly tailored suit seemed incongruous against the lingering chemical smell of bleach, the marble steps still showing faint traces of hasty cleaning.
“Police have been handled,” Nika said as they approached. “All questions answered, all concerns addressed. They won’t trouble you further.” He adjusted his cuff links with precise movements. “Initial cleanup is complete. A more thorough crew arrives within the hour.” His gaze flicked to the front door. “Annabelle has taken refuge in the kitchen. The house already smells like a French patisserie.”
His expression softened fractionally. “Dr. Nguyen called. Jacob is out of surgery; transfer to St. Lucius will be approved once he’s stable. Peter...” A measured pause. “Peter’s injuries were more severe. Several more hours of surgery are ahead. Transfer won’t be possible for at least twenty-four hours, but I’m applying appropriate pressure to expedite matters. Did you learn anything at the estate?” Nika asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“I have contacts,” Nika said, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “People who owe me favors.”
Alain’s lip curled with familiar distaste. “Bet you do.” He murmured.
“I’ll reach out, see what can be found.” Nika’s smile was razor-sharp but held a hint of genuine concern. He tipped his head in farewell and stepped down to his sleek Cadillac Blackwing, the engine purring to life.
pushed open the front door of his home, the familiar space suddenly alien. Industrial cleaners couldn’t mask what his mind insisted was still there—blood and gunpowder, violence poorly concealed beneath pine and bleach. His shoes struck each step with hollow sounds that echoed wrong through the silent halls.
The heavy oak door of his study promised refuge. Inside, nothing had changed—the same leather chairs, the same wood panels, the same crystal decanters catching afternoon light. The normality felt obscene.
Annabelle materialized with a silver tray of still-warm croissants and pain au chocolat. Her hands trembled slightly as she set it down, though her voice remained steady. “You should eat something.” She disappeared before he could respond.
Lucas’ measured steps marked time across the carpet while Alain dismantled his Glock with mechanical precision, the pieces arranged in perfect lines on the side table. ’s fingers found the crystal decanter without conscious thought. T
Every twenty minutes, Annabelle returned.
Brownies. Macarons. Tiny quiches.
Each offering received with tense silence. The garden beyond his window blurred green, the ice in his glass melting away untouched.
None of them had answers. None of them had plans.
The tepid whiskey burned going down.