Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Alex
Somewhere behind me, Vicky gives a gasp of horror.
Interestingly, I have no reaction. My pulse doesn’t increase. My palms don’t sweat. My anger is cold, curling icy through my stomach and feeding me strength.
I might be about to lose a finger, but I’m going to kill every man in this room. Maybe not today—I’m not a fool. I can be patient.
If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s finding solutions. Fournier has just signed his death warrant, even if he doesn’t know it.
“Very well,” I say lightly. “Your desk, or the table?”
Fournier barks a laugh of surprise, and doesn’t look away from me even as he addresses Van Wyk.
“You’re correct as always, Lukas. We do have the right woman.
” He gestures to the meeting table a few feet behind me.
“Over there, please.” He pats the desk he’s leaning against. “This was owned by Louis XV, and I don’t want it scratched. ”
Van Wyk walks to the table and pulls a chair out of our way. “Put your left hand here.”
So he’s going to do it for me, and not give me the knife. I suppose the end result is the same.
I take the half-dozen paces to the table, still busy watching myself as if from a distance.
It’s almost curious how little I’m feeling, yet at the same time, how cold my rage is.
Thoughts flick through my mind: how much it will hurt, how easy it will be to make no sound.
What it will be like to be short a finger, and how much I’ll miss it.
How difficult it will be to reach Fournier and Van Wyk for my revenge. I’ll find a way, however long it takes.
This table is mahogany too, but evidently not from eighteenth-century France. The surface is polished to a gleam, with light scratches from age and use, each carefully buffed out, hardly visible. I wonder how many of them came with accompanying pools of blood.
Vicky hasn’t made another noise since her gasp, but I don’t distract myself by looking at her. If I see her held like that again, I might lose it all and leap at Van Wyk. I’m under no illusions I’ll win that fight. No, that’s not the way to take him down.
I place my right hand on the table, palm flat, fingers spread, staring at my pinkie with morbid curiosity. Au revoir.
“Your left hand,” Van Wyk repeats.
“I’m left handed.” I don’t bother to look at him.
Van Wyk chuckles, glances at Fournier behind me, then shrugs. “As you wish.”
He grips my wrist, pulls my pinkie finger farther away from the others, then waves his karambit before my eyes. It’s nothing more than showmanship; irritating and irrelevant.
Van Wyk places the curve of the blade against my finger, just beneath the knuckle. It’s sharp, pressing into my skin. Idly, I wonder how many fingers it’s severed, and whether I’ll ever get it off him. What I’ll slice off first, if I can.
The image of the man in the gallery with a missing finger flashes through my mind. I had assumed it was the price of failure; maybe instead he also had a wife he didn’t care to share. How many others? How often has Fournier pulled this trick?
DeLuca had all his fingers. Had Fournier taken his night with Maria?
Or is it personal? Am I being punished?
Is it Vicky he wants?
Van Wyk pauses with the knife pressing against my skin, looking to Fournier again.
“Quite sure, Alexander?” Fournier asks from behind me. “Your finger, rather than loaning me your fiancée for one… mere… night?”
“Alex, don’t,” Vicky blurts out. “I’ll… do it.”
“Seems like your fiancée has her own opinions,” Fournier notes, amused. “Maybe she wants me?”
“Get on with it.”
“Very well.” A pause. “Proceed, Lukas.”
Van Wyk’s arm flexes. His weight shifts. His grip tightens on my wrist, holding my hand to the table, and I don’t try to pull away. I want a clean cut.
The blade presses in slow. My skin parts, blood welling. The knife is so sharp it hardly stings, the pain mild and lagging a few seconds behind. Van Wyk is going to draw it out, make it last.
I promise myself he’ll pay for that, too.
He’s watching me, eyes flat. He doesn’t need to see the knife to know what he’s doing. It’s my expression that interests him, and I give him back as little as I can. I wonder how far through my finger he’ll cut before I flinch.
Then he lifts the knife away and steps back. Wipes it on his sleeve. Folds it, puts it in his pocket. Crosses his arms.
Adrenaline surges then fades. I grip the edge of the table, feeling momentarily weak. Then I straighten, turning to regard Fournier.
“And there we have it,” he says, almost wistful. A nod to me. “Walk with me, Alexander.” He crosses the room to an outside door in one corner, and pauses by it, waiting.
I look at Vicky. The gorilla has released her, and she trembles where she stands, staring at me in confusion.
“Don’t worry about your fiancée,” Fournier says. “I give you my word she’ll be quite safe.”
“I’ll take her to Amelia.” Van Wyk makes his way to her and offers his arm, as gallant as he was at the ball.
I hesitate, not wanting her out of my sight, not after this.
“Come now, Alexander.” Fournier’s voice carries his amusement. “Don’t you trust me?”
Vicky meets my eyes, and we exchange a silent communication. A vow of our commitment to each other, to get through this and get out.
Then I turn, face composed, hands relaxed, my finger dripping blood as I walk to where Fournier awaits.
“Good,” he says. “Let’s get some air.”
Behind me, Van Wyk has Vicky. I don’t look back. She’s being escorted by a dead man, but if he touches her, he’ll die slowly.
Fournier leads me out onto a decking that rings the lodge.
To one side, a hot tub embedded into the floor bubbles with water, steam rising.
A balcony offers a view over a forest, the lake to our side.
I take it all in automatically, brain working overtime, my anger cold and driving me.
I’m grateful to it; I need every aspect of my wits for this.
“There are fifty-two members of the Company, not counting the few women we have,” Fournier says, walking to the railing and gazing out over it. “I’ve fucked the wives of forty-nine of them.” He gives me a side glance, a self-deprecating smile, and a shrug of one shoulder. “It’s a perk.”
“The other three?” I ask, taking the prompt.
“Four now,” he corrects, “including yourself.” He holds my gaze with something like respect.
“Nearly everyone says no at first. It’s the part I like most, watching them trade their pride for their own wellbeing.
Offering up their women to save themselves.
That tells you a lot about a man, doesn’t it? ”
He pauses, scrutinizing my expression. I work hard to give him nothing back, even as I consider his words.
“To answer your question,” he continues, “of the three men before you that chose the knife and held to it, two of them are now among my most trusted inner circle. The other is dead—along with his wife.” He tilts his head. “Which path will you follow, I wonder?”
I raise my hand to my mouth, sucking the blood from the deep cut on my finger. The metallic taste is grounding, a reminder of the stakes in play and the fragility of life.
He watches my little performance, reading it as the price of what he just put me through, the debt he has accrued. And he gives me a nod, as if acknowledging it.
“There are no rules for men like me,” he says, taking my action and silence as some kind of answer.
“With the wealth I have, I can do whatever I want.” He waves a hand like it’s all beneath him.
“I can have any woman I see. Have been able to since I made my first millions. Hell, half of them throw themselves at me. But none of it compares to fucking another man’s wife for my own amusement. ”
He says it perfectly rationally, without any hint of self-delusion or mania. Like he’s explaining why he can buy groceries.
But he won’t be touching Vicky.
I’m curious if he’s had Amelia, or whether Van Wyk is excluded because he’s the one holding the knife.
He walks off down the decking, leading me into the gardens beneath, monologuing as we go. “This Company is built on loyalty, Alexander. It’s the only way it can work.”
“What sort of loyalty do you engender by taking a man’s wife?”
Fournier smiles. “If a man agrees, he soon rationalizes it as commitment. On the rare occasion he doesn’t cave”—a gesture of his hand encompasses me—“well, then he shows his weakness. Even the most successful of men respond best when suitably motivated, don’t they?”
“Ruling by fear?” I ask. “That’s hardly loyalty.”
“Ruling by incentive,” Fournier corrects. “You know what you can gain through success, and now I know how to motivate you if you fail.”
He pulls off an early spring flower from a rosebush, crushing it between his fingers and letting the petals fall. It’s an idle act as we walk, not some meaningful statement.
“I won’t fail,” I say, because it’s expected. He’s assuming I mean business; I’m referring to something else entirely.
He pauses, turning to me. “And I will watch with interest. Men like you are a fraction of the fraction that we’ve selected for the Company.
Men that say no to me are few, Alexander.
I always find that intriguing.” He pulls a business card from his pocket and hands it to me; it’s blank, save for a number.
“Should you encounter any blockers on your path, drop me a message. I’ll make them go away. ”
“Thank you.” I put the card inside my blazer, knowing I’ll never use it.
“Now, shall we talk about Victoria?”
It’s such a casual announcement that it takes me a moment to make the shift. I go still, then adopt what is hopefully a look of mild curiosity. “Yes?”
Fournier starts walking again. “You remember Origin Engineering, I assume.”
“Of course.” It was the acquisition I did where Vicky and I first met in the arbitration.
“She was meticulous in her research. Very impressive, for a woman so young.” He glances across at me to check my reaction.
“Indeed,” I say lightly. “If their legal team had given her free rein, it would’ve taken us another week to close.”
Fournier chuckles, then sobers. “She didn’t stop at Northbridge, you know. She explored Cadrion, found Apex Advanced, dug around in Sentinel Risk, and even spent more time than I appreciated investigating Armitage and Calder.”
That’s news to me; my Vicky has been holding out on me. But I don’t share that I didn’t know. “No great concern. There was no connection between those organizations and what we did with Origin.”
“Not entirely true,” Fournier murmurs. “You weren’t directly involved; DeLuca pulled the strings on that one.”
I wasn’t aware of that either, and I find it irritating. It was months of effort, only to now be told I owe someone else for its credit. I wonder if Rita knew when I didn’t. “How many of my deals does that apply to?”
“All of them.” Fournier looks amused. “How else do you think we knew you were so willing to… shall we say… break the rules?” He waves it away.
“But the point is Victoria. At first, we thought her interest in you was an extension of her investigation. We weren’t sure if she was being paid, or if it was personal motivation.
” He gives me a side glance. “Van Wyk, incidentally, still isn’t convinced she’s not playing you. ”
“She’s not,” I say curtly, the response a knee-jerk reaction. I press my lips together. Be more careful, Alex.
If Fournier noticed my reaction, he doesn’t say so, and his expression doesn’t change. “Yes, that’s my view too. Regardless, keep your lovely investigator in check. It’s your job to know what she’s investigating. It wouldn’t do for her to get too close to anything, would it?”
“I don’t think that’s much of a risk,” I say calmly. “She’s not even working in corporate anymore.”
Fournier nods. “Good. Keep it that way. And returning to our theme of loyalty, I want to be candid with you about Victoria.”
Something in his tone makes me still. “Go on.”
“Van Wyk has taken a personal interest.” He says it lightly, like it's a minor administrative note. “I've asked him to leave it with me for now. But Alexander”—he stops walking and looks at me directly—“I won't be able to hold that position indefinitely. She needs to stop."
Stop what?
“She has stopped.”
“Perhaps you should make certain of that.” A pause. “Van Wyk is not a patient man, and his solutions are often… expeditious. I would hate for something to happen that neither of us wanted.”
I hold his gaze. “Is that a threat?”
“Of course it’s a threat,” Fournier says pleasantly. “I do find you promising, Alexander, but let’s ensure our house is in order. You’ve got…” he makes a show of glancing at his watch. “…a week.”