Chapter 19 #2
As the Escalade pulled away from Spade Tower, I watched my purpose and my identity recede in the rear window.
The vehicle's height placed me above the chaos of the street, insulated from the world by acoustic glass and magnetic ride control.
No bumps and no noise, just a cocoon of calm as Williams navigated through traffic without a word.
The Escalade pulled through the wrought-iron gates into the circular driveway of my Clifton estate.
The nineteenth-century mansion rose before me, its classical facade bathed in afternoon light.
Four Corinthian columns framed the entrance, exactly the kind of gravitas Algerone deemed "suitable for a man of your position. "
Williams opened my door without a word. I stood for a moment on the cobblestone drive, staring at the house I'd never learned to inhabit. The front door unlocked with a fingerprint scan, admitting me to the cavernous foyer where my footsteps echoed on marble.
I moved through the space like a stranger, noticing details I rarely registered.
The grand staircase I never used, preferring the service elevator installed during renovations.
The formal dining room with its twelve-person table, crystal chandelier, and chairs that had never held guests.
The professional decorator had insisted on "proper entertaining space," though I'd never hosted a dinner party.
My study, the only room that bore any sign of use, contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound business texts and historical biographies.
A massive desk faced the windows overlooking manicured gardens I couldn't name a single plant within.
Everything was arranged with mathematical precision, decorated to impress guests I never invited, cleaned by staff I didn't know.
I passed doors to guest bedrooms I'd never entered, the home theater, the wine cellar stocked with bottles selected by a consultant based on investment value rather than taste.
It looked like power, but lived like a mausoleum.
I placed my tablet on the glass coffee table, sinking into the leather chair in my study. My fingers tapped my password onto the screen.
"Authentication failed."
I frowned, trying again. Same result. I reached for my phone instead. Three emails from Mason. Two from Legal. A calendar notification for the Pentagon briefing I was missing.
I tried to open Mason's message. "Your credentials do not match our records."
My hands went cold. I tried the VPN, the secure server, even the emergency backup system. All blocked.
Algerone hadn't just removed me for the day. He'd cut every digital connection I had to Lucky Losers.
I stared at the dark screen, my reflection ghostly and unfamiliar. Without access to our systems, what was I? My pulse quickened, breath coming shorter. Thirty years of identity, locked behind screens I could no longer access.
Panic rose in my chest. What did I do when there was nothing to do? How did a blade know it was still a weapon when not in use?
I paced the length of the room, the movement aggravating my injured ribs. Without function, what was I? Without duty, who was Maxime St. Germain?
The doorbell interrupted my existential spiral. I crossed to the entryway, checked the security camera, and opened the front door. A young man in chef's whites stood on the steps, insulated containers stacked in his arms.
"Mr. St. Germain? I'm from Maison Marcel." He gestured to the containers. "I have your delivery."
"There must be a mistake. I didn't order anything."
"It's been taken care of, sir. Prepaid with specific instructions." He handed me a small card. Algerone's personal stationery. His distinctive handwriting: Eat. That's an order.
I admitted the chef, watching as he unpacked containers onto my rarely used dining table. The aroma hit me immediately—rich, savory, and painfully familiar.
Tourtière.
Steam rose from the pastry as the chef sliced it open, releasing memories I'd buried beneath spreadsheets and corporate acquisitions.
"There's also maple syrup pie for dessert," the chef explained, methodically arranging each dish. "And instructions to leave the extras in your refrigerator for later."
When he departed, I stood staring at the food like it was booby-trapped with sentiment. The rich scent of spiced meat and buttery pastry pulled at something long neglected, awakening hunger not just of the body but of the soul.
I sat at the table, the first forkful hesitant.
The familiar taste unlocked a memory I'd filed away decades ago: my grandmother telling me to eat while the food was hot, her accent thicker when she was tired.
Pork, cloves, and cinnamon in the exact spice combination from my childhood.
How had Algerone known? When had I ever mentioned this dish?
The doorbell rang again as I finished eating. When I opened the door, I recognized the woman immediately as Dr. Elaine Vance, a physical therapist who occasionally consulted on executive wellness programs at Lucky Losers. She carried a portable massage table, her expression professionally neutral.
"Mr. St. Germain? I understand you have some injuries that need attention?"
"Dr. Vance." I blinked in surprise. "You're here for me?"
"Mr. Caisse-Etremont insisted." She held up a small card with Algerone's distinctive handwriting: Don't argue with her. She knows what she's doing.
For the next hour, I surrendered to hands trained in therapeutic techniques. She avoided my damaged ribs while working miracles on knotted shoulders and a neck that hadn't properly relaxed since 1992.
When she finished, I felt strangely weightless and untethered from both pain and purpose.
The deliveries continued throughout the afternoon. A black cashmere robe. Skincare products. A signed first edition of Anne Rice's "Interview with the Vampire" in pristine condition. A bottle of 1987 Chateau Margaux, the year my grandmother died.
Each gift arrived with the same message: Rest. That's an order.
I changed into the robe, the cashmere soft against skin that knew only the starch of dress shirts. The touch of it against my shoulders reminded me of flannel sheets from my grandmother's house, winter in Montreal, and sleep without fear.
The bottle of wine breathed on the counter while I examined the book, fingers trembling slightly as I traced the signature on the title page.
I'd never told anyone about my fascination with this novel, had never mentioned the battered paperback I'd hidden under my mattress as a teenager, reading by flashlight until dawn, heart racing at the relationship between Lestat and Louis.
The control, the submission, the blood-bond that transcended time.
How had Algerone known? What else had he seen in me while I thought myself unreadable?
The wine tasted of oak and blackberries and memories of who I'd been when Algerone first claimed my loyalty. Young, hungry, and already shaped for service.
Late afternoon found me standing at the French doors in my study, gazing out at the manicured gardens behind the house.
Three acres of meticulously maintained grounds spread before me with formal parterres, stone pathways, and a small reflecting pool centered around an antique fountain.
A professional landscaping crew arrived every Tuesday and Friday.
They worked silently while I watched from this same window, never speaking to them, never learning their names.
I'd owned this property for years but had never actually walked the grounds, had never knelt in the soil or pruned a rose bush or planted anything with my own hands. The garden existed as a status symbol, another box checked on the list of things a man in my position should possess.
What would it feel like, I wondered, to have dirt under my nails? To create something that grew rather than something that accumulated? Perhaps someday I might find out. The thought startled me with its unexpected appeal.
I moved to my desk, pulling out a notepad.
My fingers itched for productivity and purpose.
I began writing a to-do list for tomorrow.
Security protocols to review. Assets to liquidate.
Contingency plans for Macau. My handwriting grew smaller, tighter, more frantic with each item.
The list stretched to a second page, then a third.
When I reached the bottom of the third page, I stared at what I'd created—a desperate attempt to reclaim control.
I was afraid of the stillness, terrified of the void that waited when the doing stopped.
A memory surfaced of Algerone, years ago, reviewing my first acquisition analysis.
His approving nod. "Perfect, Maxime. This is why I keep you close.
" The rush of validation had been more potent than any drug, setting the pattern for decades to follow.
Work, approval, and purpose in an endless cycle that defined my existence.
But now he wanted something else from me, something I wasn't sure I knew how to give.
I ripped the pages into tiny pieces, watching them scatter across the polished desktop like confetti in an act of rebellion against my own nature.
The couch called to me, its leather soft from the one indulgence I'd permitted myself when furnishing this space.
I sat, then reclined, then sat back up again as a sudden rush of anxiety propelled me to my feet.
I paced the length of the living room, straightened a book on the shelf, and poured myself a glass of water I didn't drink.
I reached for my pen, but it slipped through my fingers, rolling beneath the coffee table. When I bent to retrieve it, pain lanced through my ribs, forcing a gasp. My body refused to cooperate, refused to let me work.
Eventually, I returned to the couch. I reclined again, the position sending only dull pain through my ribs rather than sharp agony.
"I am not tired," I told the empty room. But there was nowhere to go and nothing to do. The robe was warm. The air was quiet.
My eyes drifted to the ceiling, catching on a hairline crack I'd never noticed before.
How long had it been there? What other details had I missed, rushing through this space without truly inhabiting it?
The imperfection drew my gaze, a reminder that perfection was an illusion and control temporary.
My hand reached automatically for the tablet. I stopped short, fingers hovering over the glass. Not today, and not this time. I turned away from the screen, folded myself into the silence, and let the world spin without me.
A thought hit me with unexpected clarity, a question I'd never allowed myself to consider: What if there could be more than this?
My eyes closed. The world went dark.
I woke disoriented, the room bathed in golden evening light. For one terrifying moment, I didn't know what day it was or what appointments I'd missed, or what crises remained unmanaged.
Then pain flared in my ribs, grounding me in the present. I'd slept, actually slept. Not the tactical four-hour rest I permitted each night or the calculated recovery period between tasks, but just sleep for its own sake.
I had done nothing. And the world hadn't ended.
I touched my face, finding a spot of dried saliva at the corner of my mouth.
My hair, always perfectly arranged, felt rumpled against my fingertips.
My body ached in ways I hadn't expected, but looser somehow, less clenched, as if my muscles had forgotten their constant vigilance for the first time in decades.
I couldn't remember dreaming, just emptiness, a black void of nothing, the first time my mind had truly quieted since I was a child.
I moved to the window, watching the sun sink behind the city skyline. Lights flickered on in office towers. Workers streamed out of buildings toward homes, families, and lives.
What would happen when I could no longer serve? When age or injury or circumstance removed my utility? What remained of Maxime St. Germain without Lucky Losers?
A memory surfaced of Xavier at twenty, brilliant and furious, challenging me across Algerone's desk: "You're just a function. There's no YOU in there at all."
I'd taken it as a compliment then. Now the words haunted me.
If I died tomorrow, what would I leave behind? Not the man, just the systems he'd built. Spreadsheets didn’t grieve. No one would weep over a quarterly report. Efficient systems, profitable quarters, and security protocols would remain, but would anyone remember me kindly?
The HVAC unit clicked on, sending a cool draft across my skin. The mechanical hum filled the silence, unnaturally loud in the emptiness. No music and no footsteps, just the artificial pulse of a space where no one lived.
Another memory surfaced of Xion laughing at something I'd said during a rare visit to his auto shop, an unexpected moment of connection with the most withdrawn of Algerone's sons.
Xander's rage at the cemetery had been about more than just anger at what I'd done. They had been denied their mother's memory. They wanted what I had: connection, history, and the threads that tied past to present.
For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine a different future where Xavier stepped into a leadership role, his brilliance finally given proper scope.
Xander at a negotiating table, leveraging their theatrical nature into diplomatic victories.
Xion and Algerone in the garage together, heads bent over engine parts, their shared love of cars creating a bridge where words often failed.
And me, not merely adjacent to this family circle, but within it. Not through blood, but through choice. Standing beside them, belonging, part of something that would outlast spreadsheets and contracts.
Not as the servant clearing the plates afterward or the COO ensuring the catering arrived, but as someone with a seat at the table, someone whose presence didn't require utility but just invitation.
I hadn't dared to dream of a family since leaving Quebec.
And it was starting to sound strangely good.