Chapter 25 #2
I let the disgust show on my face and let him see exactly what I thought of him in that moment.
"You knew," I said coldly. "You knew what was happening in that facility."
Moreau's jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it. Didn't pretend confusion or ignorance. We both understood perfectly what we were discussing without needing to name it.
"I did what was right. What any decent human would do."
"Right?" A bitter laugh escaped him. "You destroyed a significant business operation, Easton. You cost my partner and me considerable resources. And you think you were right?"
"Your partner." I took a slow sip, letting the information settle. Someone else was involved, someone with equal stakes. "Yes, Minister. I think stopping that operation was absolutely right. And I'm profoundly disappointed to learn you're the type of man who would protect something so vile."
His face flushed, anger and offense mixing together. His hands clenched at his sides, his maintained composure starting to crack. "You’re a self-righteous businessman walking around like you're better than everyone else. Like your money makes you moral."
I set my glass down and said nothing.
"You're not untouchable, Easton." His voice dropped, taking on an edge. "You have people on the mainland. A big, happy family."
I felt every muscle in my body go rigid. Ice flooded my veins, then instantly converted to steady rage. My vision narrowed until all I could see was his face—his smug, threatening face—and the implication he dared speak.
I crossed the space in two strides, grabbed his collar with both fists, and slammed him backward into the wall. A framed painting fell, glass shattering on the floor.
“What did you say?”
His eyes widened in genuine surprise that I'd touched him, that the controlled businessman had moved so fast. He tried to maintain his composure, to keep that superior expression even as my fists twisted his collar tighter.
I released one hand to slide my fingers slowly up his neck and let them rest against his throat. His pulse jumped frantically beneath my fingertips. My face remained perfectly composed, elegantly passive, but something cold and terrible built behind my eyes.
"My family," I said softly, each word precisely enunciated, "belongs nowhere near your lips."
His throat worked as he swallowed, fear starting to creep into his expression even as he tried to hide it.
"I'm just—" he started.
My fingers pressed down with just enough pressure that his next breath came slightly shorter.
"Just what?" I asked. "Just threatening my children? Just implying you could harm them? Just suggesting you have any power in this situation?"
His hands came up to grab my wrist, but he didn't pull, didn't fight. Because we both knew he'd seen my security, knew my resources, understood that I could make him disappear, and that nobody would find the body.
"We know about that evening," he managed, strained from the pressure on his throat. "We know you didn't just conduct business and leave. We know what you did."
"Do you?" I pressed down harder, watching his face start to redden. "And what exactly do you think you know?"
"The facility." Each word came out choked. "The women. The operation collapsing." His eyes met mine, a gleam there despite the hand on his throat. "We know the girl found you."
Everything stopped, and the world narrowed to a single point of absolute, crystalline clarity.
Marie. He knew about Marie.
My hand closed around his throat completely—all five fingers digging in, thumb pressing hard against his windpipe. The elegant businessman, the controlled empire builder, the careful strategist, were replaced by a violence that had been stalking beneath the surface.
Moreau's eyes went wide. His hands flew to my wrist, pulling, clawing, trying to break my grip. His mouth opened in a silent gasp, face rapidly turning from red to purple.
"Who,” I leaned in close, using my full height to pin him against the wall. "Is your partner."
His mouth worked, but no sound came out. I loosened my grip slightly, just enough for him to drag in a desperate breath.
“A name," I demanded, squeezing again. "Give me a name."
He stared at me with watering eyes, veins standing out on his forehead. His lips pressed together in stubborn, stupid silence. Even choking, even dying, he kept his mouth shut.
"Last chance.”
His lips moved, forcing words out through the crushing pressure on his throat, each syllable clearly agonizing.
"Too bad—" he choked out, a grotesque smile forming despite everything, "—I never—visited."
The words were shards of ice.
Visited. The Sanctuary. The women.
He was saying he wished he'd been there. Wished he'd paid for time with those women. Wished he'd gotten his hands on her.
My hand released his throat. I stepped back, pulled the gun from my waistband, and fired against his skin.
The gunshot was a crack that echoed off the walls, making my ears ring. The bullet punched into Moreau's chest dead center, right over his heart. His body jerked backward against the wall, his eyes going wide with complete surprise that I'd actually done it.
Blood bloomed across his white shirt in a spreading circle. Dark red, almost black. His hands came up to the wound instinctively, uselessly, and his mouth opened and closed.
He slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the white plaster. His legs gave out, and he crumpled to the floor in a heap, hands still pressed to his chest, blood pooling beneath him on the expensive hardwood.
His eyes stayed open, locked on mine, as the light faded from them.
I stood there, gun still raised, breathing hard, and watched him die. His chest stopped moving, his eyes went glassy, and his hands went slack.
Dead. I'd killed a government minister and shot him in my own building.
But I felt nothing. No remorse, no shock, no worry for the consequences. Just cold satisfaction that he was dead, and thoughts of a cover-up story.
I lowered the gun and tucked it back into my waistband with steady hands. I ran my fingers through my hair to smooth it back into place, adjusted my coat.
The body lay crumpled at my feet, blood still spreading across the floor. I stepped over it, avoiding the pooling blood, and dialed Thomas.
"Get security on everyone," I directed. “My family needs immediate protection details. And triple security here, nobody gets near Marie."
"Sir." Thomas could probably guess what I’d done. "What's happened?"
"Moreau had a partner in that operation," I said, looking down at the corpse without emotion. "They know it was me, and they know about Marie. And I just put a bullet in the minister's chest."
Silence for exactly two seconds.
"I'll secure your family, the women, and Mr. Rivers. You need to return to the main estate.”
"Five minutes."
I ended the call and made two more—cleanup crew and my lawyers. Both would be here within the hour to make this problem disappear.
Then I walked out of that building, stepped into the Rolls-Royce, and drove back to the main house, like I'd just finished a normal business meeting instead of executing a man in cold blood.
Because that's what I did when someone threatened my family, when someone threatened Marie. When someone dared to think about touching what was mine.