16. Michael
Chapter sixteen
Michael
T he car rolled to a stop in front of the Lafayette Square house, its tall windows spilling soft amber light into the summer dusk.
The old Victorian facade had been restored with a precision that spoke of generations of careful stewardship.
Not the aggressive perfection of new money trying to prove itself, but the quiet confidence of wealth so established it didn’t need to announce itself.
What caught Michael’s attention was how new the security looked.
Discreet cameras tucked beneath wrought-iron scrollwork with mounts still sharp-edged without the patina of age.
Motion sensors disguised as decorative elements that didn’t quite match the Victorian aesthetic.
The faint glint of reinforced glass in the sidelights.
Expensive upgrades that screamed recent threat assessment.
Someone had turned Gabriel’s home into a fortress, and they’d done it fast.
The man who opened the door before Michael could knock moved with the silent efficiency of professional security. Not a butler. This was someone trained to kill, dressed in domestic staff clothing. Another recent addition, Michael guessed.
Inside, Gabriel Rohan was waiting in the front hall, immaculate as always in perfectly tailored casual wear that somehow looked more expensive than most people’s formal clothing.
Michael was suddenly aware of his wrinkled jeans and travel-worn t-shirt. The comfortable clothes he’d thrown on for the long commercial flight from London. He’d spent nine hours in first-class trying not to think about what Marc might be doing to Henri while he was trapped at thirty thousand feet.
“Michael,” Gabriel said warmly, but there was an undercurrent of purpose in his voice that suggested this wasn’t a social call. “Come in. We’ve been waiting.”
The “we” became clear as they stepped into the living room.
Ellis Anouilh sat in an armchair near the fireplace, his posture carefully controlled but tense, hands clasped tightly in his lap.
His eyes flicked to Michael with the hypervigilance of someone who’d learned the hard way that strangers meant danger.
Michael caught the way Ellis’s breathing had gone shallow, the barely perceptible lean away from his position near the door. Gabriel noticed it too, his gaze sharpening as he took in Ellis’s discomfort.
On the sofa, Jean Saint-Clair was half-curled against Lucas Moreau, and Michael had to do a double-take at his outfit.
Black satin capris cinched below the knee, paired with a gauzy asymmetrical top that was solid black at the chest before spilling into sheer panels that trailed when he moved.
It was bold, feminine, and utterly impractical for anything except looking beautiful.
Jean wore it with the unselfconscious ease of someone who’d never questioned his right to exist exactly as he was.
“That’s...” Michael started, then caught himself.
Lucas’s smile was sharp with pride and possession. “I chose it. Jean has the bone structure to wear anything, and he looks stunning.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes with the long-suffering expression of someone who’d had this conversation before. “Lucas treats Jean as his personal dress-up doll.”
“And Jean loves it,” Lucas said without apology, his hand sliding possessively down Jean’s arm. “Don’t you, baby?”
Jean preened under the attention, pressing closer to Lucas’s side. “I like looking pretty for you.”
Michael filed away that dynamic. It was intimate in a way that made him think of Henri, and the sharp ache of loss that followed made him clear his throat and look away.
Alain Beaumont leaned against the far wall, a glass of red wine in his hand, watching the room with the detached interest of someone who’d seen a hundred such meetings and knew most of them ended badly.
Nikolai Rykov sat at the long dining table, laptop already open, monitor displaying what looked like financial flow charts.
Gabriel didn’t waste time. “Ellis, Jean. I need you both to sit this one out.”
Ellis straightened, already nodding, relief washing across his features. “Of course.”
Jean did not nod. His spine went rigid against Lucas’s side, and his voice carried more bite than whine. “You’re discussing my brother. My family. I think I’m entitled to know what you’re planning.”
“No,” Gabriel said, smooth but absolute. The tone was perfectly polite and completely immovable. “You don’t need the details. And Ellis,” his gaze softened slightly, “this isn’t for you either. Not right now.”
“That’s bullshit,” Jean snapped, pushing away from Lucas to sit forward. “Marc’s been using me as leverage against Henri for years. I deserve to know...”
“You deserve to stay safe,” Ellis interrupted, rising and reaching for Jean’s arm with the patience of someone who’d learned to de-escalate volatile situations. “Come on.”
Jean dug in, his jaw set with Saint-Clair stubbornness. “I have a right to...”
“You have a right to stay sane,” Ellis said firmly, wrapping his fingers around Jean’s wrist. “And we have a right not to worry about you doing something reckless with information you shouldn’t have.”
Lucas’s hand settled on Jean’s lower back, a gentle but unmistakable claim. “Go with Ellis, baby. Let us handle the ugly parts.”
For a moment, Jean looked ready to explode. His face flushed, hands clenching into fists. Years of being dismissed and infantilized condensed into visible rage.
“I’m not a child!” Jean’s voice cracked with frustration. “I’m eighteen, I’m not made of glass, and I’m sick of everyone treating me as though...”
He grabbed a crystal paperweight from the side table and hurled it at the fireplace. It shattered against the brick with a sound that made everyone flinch, sending sharp fragments skittering across the hardwood floor.
The room went deadly quiet.
Lucas was moving before the echo faded, pulling Jean against his chest with practiced ease. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, soothing register. “I know you’re frustrated. I know you want to help.”
Jean’s breath hitched, anger dissolving into something more fragile. “Everyone always protects me. But who protects Henri? Who protected him when we were kids and Marc was...” His voice broke entirely.
“We’re going to,” Lucas said quietly, his hand stroking through Jean’s hair with care. “But not if you’re in the room hearing things that will give you nightmares.”
Jean buried his face against Lucas’s shoulder, the fight going out of him all at once. Lucas murmured something too quiet to hear, then guided him toward the door with the kind of total attention that made it clear Jean was the center of his universe.
At the doorway, Jean threw one last glare over his shoulder, the gauzy tails of his top fluttering with the movement. “You’d better bring him home.”
The raw protectiveness in Jean’s voice hit Michael hard. This wasn’t just familial concern. This was someone who’d witnessed Henri’s suffering firsthand, someone who understood exactly what Marc was capable of.
Ellis followed them out, pausing only to squeeze Gabriel’s shoulder in silent support.
Once they were gone, Nikolai glanced at the scattered crystal fragments and shrugged. “It was ugly anyway.”
Gabriel huffed, looking mildly offended. “That was my great-great-great...” He paused, waving his hand dismissively. “Oh, hell, some ancestor’s. It’s an antique.” But his attention was already moving past the broken paperweight, clearly more concerned about the people in his house than the objects.
Alain took a long sip of wine and smirked faintly. “Trust me,” he murmured to Michael. “You don’t want him in on this. Kid’s got a good heart, but he’d probably try to storm Marc’s penthouse with a kitchen knife.”
“Jesus,” Michael breathed. “How long has Henri been protecting everyone else?”
Gabriel’s face went ashen, guilt radiating from him.
“All his life,” he said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
“Twenty fucking years, and I should have seen it sooner. I was so busy being the golden child, the perfect heir, building Father’s empire, that I let my little brother sacrifice himself. ”
Gabriel moved to the dining table, where Nikolai had already begun pulling up files.
The laptop screen filled with a maze of corporate structures, shell companies, and transaction flows that Michael recognized immediately.
He’d seen similar setups in his own consulting work.
Layers of legal obfuscation designed to hide money trails from regulators and competitors.
“Everything we’ve dug up so far,” Gabriel said, settling into his chair. “Nika’s contact in Financial Crimes confirmed it. Every dirty transaction we can trace points to Olivier Saint-Clair.”
Michael glanced at the man behind the laptop. “Nika?”
Nikolai didn’t look up from his screen. “I have a sister.”
Michael waited for more. Nothing came. He looked at Gabriel, who was suddenly very interested in his own laptop. Alain took a long sip of wine, his expression carefully neutral.
Right. The intimidating Russian man with financial crimes contacts wanted to go by Nika because of his sister, and everyone in this room had apparently learned not to ask follow-up questions.
Michael cleared his throat. “Okay then.”
Nika’s fingers flew over the keyboard, bringing up a web of shell companies with names bland enough to be invisible.
Meridian Holdings, Pacific Logistics Solutions, Gateway Strategic Partners.
“These feed into accounts tied to Don Haldeman. South African national, known trafficker. He moves product, human and otherwise, through Porte du Coeur with the help of local gang networks.”
Michael leaned forward, studying the branching lines of financial connections. “What’s the volume?”