18. Michael #2
“It’s my fault,” Lucas said, his voice thick. “I closed the door too fast, and he just...” He swallowed hard. “I should have known better.”
Jean pressed his face against Lucas’s shoulder. “You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have,” Lucas repeated, his arms tightening around Jean. “After everything he’s been through, I should have been more careful.”
They waited in the front parlor while Gabriel’s voice continued in the other room, steady and patient, trying to guide Ellis back to the present.
It took nearly half an hour for Dr. Chen to arrive, moving quickly through the house with her medical bag.
Michael watched through the doorway as she joined Gabriel on the floor beside the couch, speaking in calm, clinical tones while Ellis continued to struggle against memories that felt more real than the room around him.
It was another twenty minutes before Ellis seemed to recognize where he was, his breathing gradually slowing, his body going limp with exhaustion.
Only then did Gabriel carefully lift him, Ellis’s face buried against his shoulder, sobbing with the kind of weariness that follows surviving something terrible all over again. Dr. Chen followed them upstairs, and the house fell into the particular silence that lingers in the wake of crisis.
Jean explained more afterward. Ellis’s nightmares that left him screaming Gabriel’s name. The way he sometimes dissociated so completely that Gabriel would find him standing in doorways, staring at nothing, unreachable for minutes at a time.
It made Michael think about Henri with a clarity that was almost physically painful. How much damage had been done over decades of systematic abuse? How many layers of trauma would need to be carefully, slowly unwound?
Michael had started researching therapists in London. Specialists in complex PTSD, long-term captivity, systematic abuse. People who could help Henri remember what it felt like to exist without fear.
He’d bookmarked articles about trauma bonding, about learned helplessness, about the way prolonged abuse rewired the brain’s stress response.
Henri’s automatic flinch when someone moved too quickly. The way he apologized for taking up space. The practiced submission was so ingrained that it looked like a personality trait rather than conditioning.
How much of the real Henri was left underneath all that damage? How long would it take him to remember that he was allowed to want things, to say no, to exist for his own sake rather than someone else’s pleasure?
Because when Michael got Henri out of PDC, not if but when, Henri was never coming back to this city.
Never coming back to the place where his childhood had been traded away and his adulthood stolen piece by piece.
Michael would ensure Henri had the time, space, and help he needed to remember who he was supposed to be.
The sharp clack of Nika’s keyboard cut through Michael’s thoughts, dragging him back to the present. But the parallel remained. Ellis had Gabriel, had time, had safety to fall apart and rebuild. Henri had none of those things.
“Michael,” Nika said, his voice carrying the flat precision of someone who’d been staring at financial records for too many hours.
“Your instincts about Crescent City were right. It looks completely legitimate on paper. Proper documentation, regular contracts, and all the right permits. But the payment patterns are too clean. Always the same amount, always the same date. Real businesses have variation, fluctuation. This is artificial.”
Michael leaned forward to study Nika’s screen, where spreadsheets full of transaction data painted a picture of careful money laundering. “What kind of amounts are we talking about?”
“Quarter million monthly, like clockwork. Twelve payments a year for the past three years.” Nika’s fingers moved across the keyboard, bringing up a web of connected accounts.
“Nocturne’s decryption revealed the real scope of it.
Internal emails, payment authorizations, shipping manifests that tell a very different story than the public paperwork.
The money disappears into a network of personal accounts.
I followed the trail.” He pulled up another window showing international wire transfers.
“Some end up in the Caymans, others in Panama, a few in Switzerland. Classic banking havens. Could be payroll, could be bribes, likely both.” He highlighted several connection points.
“But here’s the interesting part. It’s all tied to Olivier’s network. Not Marc’s. At least not directly.”
Michael felt his jaw tighten with familiar frustration. “How convenient.”
“Every connection we find leads back to the father, never the son,” Gabriel said, rubbing his temples. “Marc’s footprint is so clean it’s suspicious, but suspicion isn’t evidence.”
Alain pushed off from the wall, setting his wine glass down with deliberate care.
“Speaking of Olivier’s network,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of information gathered from sources Michael didn’t want to think about too closely.
“Word from the Second Cat is that one of the Bosnian slumlord’s boys has been bragging.
Apparently, he had a ‘special guest’ he got to take his time with. ”
Ice spread through Michael’s chest.
Alain’s eyes met Michael’s briefly before looking away. “I’ll spare you the details. Trust me, you don’t want them.”
But Michael’s imagination was already filling in the blanks.
“That kid’s father runs drugs and weapons through the ports for Olivier,” Alain continued, his voice carefully neutral. “Same network that’s been trafficking people for years. Marc doesn’t have to touch it directly to benefit from it. Just like he’s never had to dirty his hands with Henri.”
“So we’re back to the same problem,” Michael said, forcing his voice to stay level despite the rage building in his chest. “Nothing we can tie directly to Marc.”
“Not yet,” Nika said, his fingers already pulling up new files. “But if we burn Olivier’s network, Marc’s protection and resources go with it. Might back him into a corner enough to make him cut his losses.”
“Cut his losses?” Michael’s voice sharpened. “Henri isn’t a fucking stock portfolio.”
“That’s not what I meant...”
“Wait.” Gabriel’s voice cut through the exchange, something sharp entering his tone. He leaned forward in his chair, studying Nika’s screen with new intensity. “What if we’re thinking about this completely wrong?”
Jean shifted in Lucas’s lap, his voice quiet but certain. “You are.”
All eyes turned to him. Jean’s theatrical mask had fallen away entirely, replaced by something harder, more knowing.
“Marc’s been planning this for years,” Jean said, his tone flat. “Father’s downfall, I mean. I used to hear him on phone calls when I was younger, documenting things. Taking pictures of documents. He has files on everyone.”
Alain set down his wine glass with deliberate care. “Elaborate.”
“Marc doesn’t react,” Jean continued, his voice growing stronger.
“He orchestrates. Always has.” His fingers twisted in his lap.
“Alexandre told me about when Marc was five and wanted a new puppy for his birthday. Mother said we already had a dog. Buster. Alexandre caught Marc looking online, asking strangers questions about what made animals sick. Then Buster got ill, and Marc spent weeks practicing being devastated, crying to Mother about how much he’d miss the dog.
” Jean’s hands clenched in his lap. “Alexandre said Marc rehearsed it all.”
The room went deadly quiet.
“Alexandre and Marc are Irish twins, tu sais. Barely eleven months apart. Should have been inseparable.” Jean’s voice hardened. “Alexandre told me that this was his first memory. Watching Marc kill the elderly family dog so he could get a puppy.”
The room went deadly quiet.
Jean’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper.
“That’s when Father started getting worried.
Alexandre told me Marc had been... experimenting on them too.
Psychological games that kept escalating.
” He swallowed hard. “Father had Marc evaluated by specialists when he was six. Antisocial personality disorder.”
The blood drained from Michael’s face. “And that’s when...”
“When Father struck the deal with Maximilien Rohan,” Jean finished. “Marc needed someone his own age to ‘play with’ to focus on. Someone who could teach him to mimic normal human behavior. The doctors said it was Marc’s only chance at functioning in society.”
Gabriel’s jaw clenched. “So Henri wasn’t just sold. He was prescribed.”
“To keep Marc from becoming a complete monster,” Jean said bitterly.
“But Alexandre and Philippe... they still remember what Marc was like before Henri was able to stabilize him. They’re the ones who told me the real family history when I got older.
I somehow doubt the doctors meant for father to give Henri to Marc as he did, but. .. mais bon, c’est ca qui est ca.”
Despite everything, Gabriel’s lip quirked slightly. “Ellis has taught you too much of his French.”
“His shrugs are more honest than most people’s speeches,” Jean replied with a ghost of his usual theatrical flair.
The brief moment of levity faded as quickly as it had come.
“But if Marc’s been planning this for years,” Gabriel said slowly, the words tasting bitter, “then what if burning Olivier isn’t backing him into a corner? What if it’s handing him exactly what he wants?”
“The grieving son who reforms the family business,” Alain breathed, understanding dawning in his eyes.
“Exactly.” Jean nodded. “He’s been positioning himself as the clean heir for years.”
Michael turned from the window. “You think he’s been planning this?”
“I know he has,” Jean said with quiet certainty.
Gabriel’s jaw clenched. “So we might be building him the perfect exit strategy.”
“And Henri becomes what exactly?” Michael asked, his voice hollow.
Jean’s voice was small when he spoke. “Marc doesn’t keep things that don’t serve him.”
Michael’s chest tightened at the simple statement. Lucas’s hand moved protectively to the back of Jean’s neck.
“But Henri’s different,” Jean continued, his voice barely audible. “Marc’s... attached to him. Possessive. It’s not just business with Henri. It’s ownership. Marc would rather destroy Henri than let him go free.”
“Jesus Christ,” Michael whispered.
Nika’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. “If Marc’s been documenting his father’s activities while keeping himself clean...”
“He becomes the hero,” Lucas finished grimly. “The one who exposed the corruption and saved Three Rivers.”
“The board would love that story,” Alain added. “Especially if he can distance the company from the criminal elements while maintaining profitability.”
The world tilted under Michael’s feet. “So what do we do? If we move against Olivier, we might be playing Marc’s game. If we don’t move, Henri stays trapped.”
Jean shifted uncomfortably in Lucas’s lap. “We need to disrupt his timeline somehow. Marc’s plans work because he controls when things happen.”
“What are you thinking?” Gabriel asked.
“I don’t know,” Jean admitted, frustration creeping into his voice. “Maybe if I...”
“No.” Lucas’s voice was flat, final. “Whatever you’re about to suggest, the answer is no. You’re not putting yourself anywhere near Marc or that family.”
“‘That family’ is my family.” Jean’s jaw set stubbornly. “I am still a Saint-Clair. I could...”
“You could get yourself killed,” Lucas said, his arm tightening protectively. “Or worse. You’re staying right here where you’re safe.”
Gabriel nodded in agreement. “Lucas is right. Marc’s already proven he’s willing to use family members as assets. We’re not handing you back to him.”
Jean slumped against Lucas, the fight leaving him. “Then what? We just... wait? Hope our legal approach works while Henri suffers?”
The room fell into frustrated silence. They had all this new understanding of Marc’s strategic mind, but no clear way to use it.
“We dig deeper,” Nika said finally. “Now that we know what we’re really dealing with, we approach this differently. Look for the financial footprints of his independent planning. Find the evidence of his long-term strategy.”
“How long?” Michael asked.
“A week,” Gabriel said. “Maybe two.”
Michael’s reflection in the window looked like a stranger. Harder. More dangerous than the businessman who’d arrived in PDC a week ago. Two weeks felt like an eternity when Henri was trapped with a diagnosed psychopath who might be calculating his usefulness.
“Then we’d better find something Marc doesn’t see coming,” Michael said quietly. “Because if our careful approach fails, I’m done being patient.”