Chapter 14 #2
I thought harder. The only connection I had was the clinic where I'd gotten stitched up this morning. Where Ella's sister had died. Where I'd met Ella and my life had tilted sideways without asking permission.
"Near the clinic where I got stitched up this morning." I told him the general location.
Ellsworth nodded, typing coordinates with precision.
Two results.
He looked up, expression neutral but knowing in a way that made me wonder exactly how much the man saw. "Would you like a complete dossier on each?"
"Yes."
Two minutes later, the printer hummed to life in the corner, spitting out pages with professional efficiency.
Ellsworth gathered them, tapped them into alignment, and handed me two files—thick, thorough, the kind of intelligence reports that would've taken most people days to compile through official channels.
I had them in under five minutes.
Background. Employment history. Known associates. Financial records. Photos from CCTV. Everything.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it.
Ellsworth inclined his head, something that might have been approval in his eyes. "Anytime, Mr. Black."
I headed back upstairs, already dialing before I'd reached my room.
Ella picked up immediately, like she'd been holding her phone.
"That was fast," she said, surprise and hope mixing in her voice.
"I got a couple hits. Do you know anything else about him that might help narrow it down? Approximate age? Profession? Physical description? Anything?"
"I think he's younger than forty. Light brown hair. Short, professional cut. And …” She paused, thinking. "Corporate something. Maybe consulting or risk management. My sister worked in corporate training, so they might have overlapped professionally."
I flipped through the files quickly, scanning details.
Only one fit the description perfectly.
étienne Moreau, thirty-six, corporate risk management consultant specializing in crisis response and business continuity planning.
Offices in the 6th arrondissement near Luxembourg Gardens.
Light brown hair in the professional headshot attached to his company bio.
Clean-cut. Handsome in an unremarkable way.
The kind of man who blended into board rooms and business dinners.
The kind of man a woman like Rose might have met through work.
And fallen for.
"I think I have the right one."
"Really?" Hope threaded through her voice, bright and fragile. "You're sure?"
"Pretty sure. The details match. Corporate consultant, right age, right location, right physical description."
"Oh, my God." Her breath caught. "You actually found him."
"I did."
A pause.
Then: "Can you send me his information?"
"I can do better than that." I hesitated, then committed, knowing I was crossing a line I'd told myself I wouldn't cross. "I can give you the address. Or I can come with you. Now. Your choice."
A long pause.
Longer than before.
I waited, heart beating slightly faster than it should, wondering what she was thinking. Whether she wanted me there or if she'd prefer to handle this final, fragile piece alone. Whether seeing me again was something she actually wanted or just something she'd said in the heat of the moment.
"I want you to come," she said finally, quietly, voice carrying something I couldn't quite name. "Just in case. I don't … I don't know what I'm walking into."
Relief hit harder than it should have, flooding through me with an intensity that made no sense.
She wanted me there.
"Give me the address."
She did. Her sister's apartment in the Marais, a street name I recognized from my mental map of the city.
"Thirty minutes?"
"Yeah. Thirty minutes."
I ended the call and stood there for a second, staring at the file in my hand, heart still beating too fast.
Fuck. What are you getting into?
Helping her find answers was one thing. Noble, even. The right thing to do.
Spending more time with her was another.
Being alone with her in her dead sister's apartment, surrounded by grief and secrets and all the raw vulnerability that came with loss?
That was asking for trouble.
That was begging for me to do something I'd regret.
Or something I wouldn't regret, which was worse.
But I was out the door in five minutes, anyway, file in a small backpack I’d gotten from Ellsworth, moving with purpose.
I wanted to get there early. Scope the area. Check for problems. Make sure the route was clear and the neighborhood was safe and there were no surprises waiting.
Habit.
Old instincts carved into muscle memory that never quite went away no matter how long you spent pretending to be civilized.
But I wasn't two blocks from the Sanctuary when I spotted them.
Two familiar figures moving down the street with the kind of purposeful stride that said they were looking for someone specific.
The fat men from the fight club.
And they weren't alone.
Three other men flanked them like bodyguards. Well-dressed in expensive suits that couldn't quite hide their bulk. Tailored jackets. Designer shoes. The kind of clothes that said money but the postures—weight forward, eyes scanning, hands ready—that said violence was their primary language.
Trouble.
Professional trouble.
I wasn't one to run.
Never had been. Running meant showing weakness, and weakness got you hurt or killed.
So, I walked straight toward them instead, keeping my pace even, hands visible at my sides, body language calm.
Non-threatening.
For now.
Fat Man #1 saw me first and waved me over with forced casualness, smile too wide.
"American friend!" he called out.
I stopped a few feet away, close enough to talk, far enough to move if this went sideways. "I'm in a rush."
Fat Man #2's smile didn't reach his eyes, which were calculating and cold despite the friendly expression. "You should make time, my friend. Is important. Very important."
"Not now."
One of the suited men shifted deliberately, moving his coat aside just enough to show the pistol holstered at his hip in a quick leather rig.
The message was clear.
They were all armed.
And this wasn't a request.
In any other place—Bangkok, Moscow, Caracas, half a dozen war zones where life was cheap and witnesses were scarce—I would've fought, for sure. Would've taken my chances despite the bad odds. Three armed men weren't ideal, but I'd faced worse and walked away.
But this was Paris.
The sky had gone inky, streetlights casting pools of amber across wet pavement.
Pedestrians still moved through the city—couples drifting arm in arm, late dinners spilling laughter onto sidewalks, tourists lingering too long over photos they didn’t need.
Old women walked their tiny, ridiculous dogs one last time before bed, jeweled collars catching the light.
Witnesses.
Too many innocent bystanders who didn’t deserve to be caught in the blast radius if this went bad.
And hadn't Connor said something about keeping a low profile? About not drawing attention to the Sanctuary or the operations they were building here?
I couldn't remember the exact words now, but the implication had been crystal clear.
Don't make waves.
Don't create problems.
Stay invisible.
"How long will this take?" I asked, voice flat, already knowing I wasn't going to like the answer.
The fat men deferred to the suits with a gesture, stepping slightly back.
Acknowledging the real power structure.
One of the suited men stepped forward—tall, broad, Eastern European features, accent heavy and clipped when he spoke in careful English.
"You make time."
I almost decked him right there.
Almost.
My fist clenched reflexively at my side, muscles coiling tight, ready to strike. The urge was so strong I could taste it, feel the satisfying impact of knuckles meeting jaw.
But I forced myself to breathe instead. To think past the impulse.
Ella was waiting.
I'd told her thirty minutes.
Promised her I was coming.
And these assholes were going to make me late.
Were going to make me break my word.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth, each word bitten off sharp. "But make it quick."
But all I could think about was the fact that I'd promised her.
That she was sitting in her dead sister's apartment right now, waiting for me.
Trusting that I'd show up.
That she'd asked for my help and I'd said yes.
Fuck.
I'd burn this entire fucking city down if it meant getting to her.
These assholes better make this very quick.
Or I'd show them exactly how dangerous impatience could be.
Exactly what happened when you got between Kane Black and something he wanted.