CHAPTER TWO
MATHIAS
“ Dites-leur de nous envoyer les contrats signés avant la fin des activités, sinon l'accord est annulé .” The command barely leaves my lips before I end the phone call with my lawyers. Petit Enterprises’s attempts to fuck me over cement my decision to rip the company to shreds once it’s under my ownership.
Of course, that was always the plan, but now I’m even more determined to see it through.
CEO Louis Petit is a narcissistic asshole who has left leather-heeled imprints across Europe in his quest to dominate the legal and blackmarket trade of pharmaceuticals.
He’s also my father.
“ Qu'allez-vous faire s'ils ne se conforment pas? ” Luca asks. We’ve been best friends for over twenty years, ever since we arrived at Blackchapel Manor as two angry youths itching to break free from our tethers. So, he knows how much is riding on this deal.
I answer in French as we navigate through the building lobby. “Nothing. Because they’ll sign the contracts. There’s no other option for Petit with creditors breathing down his neck—specifically the Cosa Nostra . Unless he wants to take a permanent dive into the Seine, he’ll stop fucking around and agree to the deal. It means a massive payout for him and The Syndicate.”
Not that Petit will truly get to enjoy the influx of cash. He’ll be dead long before then, but not by the Sicilian mob.
By me.
The bastard son he abandoned.
Hugo's father, Conrad Steele, raised us at Blackchapel Manor. Trained us in the art of murder and manipulation to one day bring down The Syndicate, an underground network that controls the blackmarket and facets of world governments. The majority of The Syndicate’s leaders also happen to be our fathers.
Conrad had once been part of the organization before they blackballed him. We never learned the reason why he was ousted; only that he sought revenge through the sons of its leaders.
Unfortunately for him, none of us took kindly to being raised as mercenaries from such tender ages—stolen from our mothers in some cases—which is why we refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing his life's work come to fruition.
He died a bitter old man.
A small consolation prize for the torture we endured.
Luca and I step outside where a gray blanket of rain covers Paris. Hiking up the collar of my longcoat, I imagine the café crème and warm almond croissant awaiting me in the town car parked on the street. Those two items are always available when I visit my father's country or else it’d be someone’s head.
At least that’s what my employees fear.
To be fair, I’ve never decapitated a man for forgetting my mid-morning pick-me-up, though I suppose there’s a first time for everything.
“I’m over these games,” Luca grumbles from beside me, a grimace painting his tan face. “When we return home, I’m—”
Squealing tires pierce the air as a white van whips around the corner. A flurry of car horns erupts at the haphazard driving, but it’s the sliding open of the side door that draws my attention. A masked man hangs onto a handle above the opening while his other arm holds an automatic rifle—its barrel pointed straight at me.
Bullets explode from the weapon in one continuous sweep as the van speeds by, but before I have time to take cover, something slams into my side, dragging me down to the sidewalk as car windows shatter from above.
Screams and sirens form a distant bubble. Like my ears are stuffed with cotton, muffling the sounds. Raindrops sting my eyes as I stare up at the sky, and I lick away the wetness seeping between my lips.
Despite the ice running through my veins—from being targeted and the February chill—warmth envelops my limbs. Warmth that’s emanating from whoever pushed me out of harm’s way and now lays motionless over my body.
“ êtes-vous d'accord? ”
No answer.
“ Es-tu blessé? ”
Still nothing.
Rolling over, I switch positions with my savior, so I’m hovering over them.
Her.
It’s a woman.
Frizzy brown curls cling to the concrete and her eyes remain closed behind rain-splattered glasses. Dark patches of blood spread beneath the fabric of her pink sweater and unzipped raincoat—one blooming on her bicep and the other on her thigh.
This woman— this stranger —intercepted at least two bullets that were meant for me.
Why?
“Mathias, are you okay?” Luca army crawls across the pavement, a cut above his eyebrow leaving a trail of blood down his cheek and neck. “Who the fuck was that?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” As the Blackchapel Bastards, me, Luca, and our five brothers-in-arms, have no shortage of enemies. It could be any number of organizations looking to kill one or all of us. Hell, it could be Louis fucking Petit if he caught wind of my true intentions for him and his company.
He knows I'm his son, and he's aware of Conrad's desire for revenge. But I'm unsure if he knows that desire didn't die with Conrad.
It still lives within me.
“First, we need to get her to the hospital before she bleeds out.”
“An ambulance is on its way. Let them handle it. We need to leave.”
“No!” I bark, and stunned confusion passes over Luca’s face.
I’m the calm one.
Nothing affects my poise.
Except, apparently, a mystery woman diving in front of bullets meant for me.
Attempting to defuse the raging storm inside, I take a breath before continuing in a forced tone of calm. “No, she threw herself into a barrage of bullets for me, and I want to know why. I’m going to the hospital to ensure she survives.”
Luca remains silent before sighing. “Fine. Do you want me to go with you as backup in case those assholes try to finish the job?”
“I can handle myself. Go back to the hotel and notify everyone about the situation.” My brain buzzes with questions about this woman's motives, but a sliver of my usual cool, analytical self emerges long enough to give instructions. “Start pulling footage from the traffic lights to see if we can track the vehicle and find the culprits. Get Jonah to handle the security cameras from this building.”
“I'm on it. Be careful.”
An ambulance and several police cars roar to a stop on the street as Luca slips into the crowd—dodging curious onlookers—when a moan of pain comes from my rescuer. Her eyes blink open to reveal blurry blue irises behind her glasses, so I carefully remove the frames and slide them into my coat pocket to improve my view.
Eyes are the windows to the soul.
These windows better offer damn quick revelations, because I hate being kept in the dark.
“What… I need—” She tries to sit up then winces, falling back to the concrete.
“Don’t move,” I command in English. It seems my mystery woman is American with her blunt consonants and hard vowels. “You’ve been shot and need to remain still.”
Instinctively, my hands had moved to put pressure on her wounds, but they aren't doing much to stem the tide of blood, the viscous fluid pulsing from beneath my palms.
Two paramedics arrive with a gurney and immediately take over. Starting an IV. Pressing gauze into the injuries. And within five minutes we’re loaded into the ambulance speeding towards the hospital.
The uniformed men work on the woman as I contemplate her small, curvy form and casually confiscate her purse. Searching for clues as to who she is. What she wants.
Receipts for fast food. A few Euros. A North Carolina driver’s license registered to Allison Fields.
My jaw clenches at the discovery of her identity. It's the first solid bit of information concerning today's events I've gotten, and Rafe can use it to figure out Miss Fields's secrets.
No one does what she did without a reason. There's always an angle. A price to pay.
And I need to know hers.