Chapter 17 #2
Remy straightens. "You know JJ? Jordan James-Fitzwallace?"
"Know her?" Margot's smile is sharp. "Several of her people began their careers at Beaumonts. I've been part of her network for years."
No one speaks for a long moment.
"You've been operational this whole time," Luc says, respect threading through his voice.
"Support, not operational." Margot's distinction is precise. "I don't go into the field. I don't handle weapons. I coordinate the infrastructure that makes operations possible. Documentation, transportation, supply chains, secure communications. The logistics that keep people alive."
Remy's staring at his sister like he's seeing her for the first time. "How long?"
"Since shortly after Papa died. JJ reached out through mutual contacts, asked if I'd be willing to help with a humanitarian operation that required discretion.
I said yes, and it grew from there." She refills her coffee with studied casualness.
"You're not the only Pascal who wanted to make a difference. I just found a different way to do it."
"JJ knows?" I ask, remembering mentions of Fitz's wife in conversations with Remy.
"JJ and I have worked together on dozens of operations.
She runs her Orpheus network coordinating trafficking rescues across Europe and Africa, and I provide the logistics infrastructure that makes those rescues possible.
" Margot straightens. "We're very good at what we do.
Those girls who made it to safe houses, who got new documentation, who disappeared before their traffickers could find them again—that was our work.
JJ's courage and my logistics, keeping people alive. "
"Then Rapier Strategic has its logistics coordinator," Luc says, decisiveness in every word.
"Margot handles supply chains, documentation, transportation coordination.
I handle client acquisition, financial systems, legal infrastructure.
Remy runs tactical operations. Isabella provides consulting on chemical threats and maintains academic cover. "
"A family business," I say softly.
"The Pascal way," Margot confirms. "We've always been better together than apart. Maybe it's time we actually acted like it."
Remy's hand finds mine under the table, thumb brushing across my knuckles. Claiming the connection. Making it real.
"Then let's prove the model works," he says. "We need a test run. Something moderate-stakes that demonstrates we can deliver results without complications."
"I might have something," Margot says, surprising all of us.
She pulls out her phone, scrolls through messages.
"One of my restaurant suppliers has been having problems with shipment theft.
High-end ingredients disappearing from their warehouse, security footage mysteriously corrupted, local police investigation going nowhere. "
"Organized theft," Luc says immediately. "Professional crew, probably inside help."
"They asked if I knew anyone who could handle it discreetly." Margot looks at Remy. "Corporate investigation, potential surveillance work, maybe some strategic pressure on the right people to make the theft stop. Exactly the kind of assignment that would test your operational model."
Remy and Luc exchange glances, some wordless communication passing between brothers.
"Timeline?" Remy asks.
"They want it handled soon. They're losing thousands per month in stolen inventory."
"Payment?"
Margot names a figure that makes my eyebrows rise.
"For a theft investigation?" I ask.
"For discretion and results," Margot corrects. "They can't afford to have this become public knowledge. Bad for business if their clients think their supply chain is compromised. They need this handled quietly, professionally, and permanently."
Remy's already running scenarios, tactical assessment playing across his features. "What are they losing?"
"High-end proteins mostly. Wagyu beef, premium seafood, specialty game. Things with significant black-market value in restaurant circles." Margot pulls up her supplier's inventory on her phone. "Also wine. Cases of expensive vintages that should be in climate-controlled storage."
"Inside job," Luc says, no question in his voice. "Someone with access to inventory systems and security protocols. They know what's valuable, when it arrives, and how to bypass surveillance."
"We'll need surveillance equipment," Remy says, tactical mind already building the operation. "Background checks on warehouse personnel, analysis of shipment schedules and theft patterns, coordination with local law enforcement if we need official backing."
"I can handle equipment acquisition," Luc says. "I've got contacts who provide that kind of gear without asking questions."
"And I can provide the supplier's complete personnel files," Margot adds. "They've already authorized background checks for anyone I recommend."
The planning continues through the afternoon.
Luc pulls up background information on the supplier, analyzing data with the same precision Remy applies to demolitions.
Margot coordinates logistics, arranging surveillance equipment and secure communications through contacts she's used for her Cerberus work.
I listen, learning how this world operates now that Rotterdam's immediate crisis is behind us.
"The Wagyu and game can be moved quickly," Margot says, studying the stolen inventory list. "Standard restaurant supply chain stuff.
But the premium seafood? That requires specific temperature control during transport.
They'd need refrigerated trucks, proper storage at the destination. Limits who can receive it."
"High-end restaurants or distributors with the right infrastructure," Luc says, making notes. "Someone in the supply chain with access to that kind of equipment."
"Someone our supplier probably does business with," Remy adds. "Competitor trying to undercut their market position."
Margot nods. "I can pull client lists from the supplier, cross-reference with restaurants that have the capacity to receive stolen goods. That'll narrow our suspect pool significantly."
The pieces fall together with satisfying precision. This is what we're good at: analysis, planning, execution. Building something instead of just destroying targets.
Margot stands, stretching. "I need to get to Beaumont's. Prep doesn't handle itself. Try not to burn the house down while I'm gone."
"We'll try to restrain ourselves," Luc says dryly.
After Margot leaves, the three of us continue refining details. Surveillance placement, personnel background checks, coordination with the supplier's security team. Every variable accounted for, every contingency planned.
Twilight deepens outside when Luc finally closes his laptop. "I'll start the preliminary work tonight. Background checks, equipment acquisition, setting up surveillance protocols. We can begin active operations tomorrow."
Remy nods, and Luc disappears to the guest house, leaving us alone in the study.
Humid air drifts through the open French doors, carrying the day's heat and the particular rhythm of New Orleans settling into evening.
Distant jazz from the Quarter. Streetcars on St. Charles Avenue.
The city sounds different at twilight, softer somehow, like it's exhaling after holding its breath all day.
Remy pulls me against him. The tension I've carried since Rotterdam finally begins to ease.
"We made it," I murmur against his chest. "Actually made it home. Started building something permanent."
"We did." His hand slides up my spine, fingers splaying possessively across my back. "And we're not done yet."
I lean into him, breathing in his scent: leather and smoke and something uniquely Remy. The combination grounds me, reminds me this is real.
"Speaking of building something," he says after a moment. "There's somewhere I want to take you tonight."
I pull back to look at him. "Where?"
"A place called Dominion." His eyes hold mine with predatory focus. "Private club in the Warehouse District. Very exclusive, very discreet. The kind of place where people explore the dynamics we've been building between us."
Heat flares low in my belly at the implication. "A BDSM club."
"Yes." No hesitation. No apology. Just absolute certainty. "I want to show you that world properly. Not rushed in safe houses between operations, but deliberately. Where we can explore what control and surrender mean when our lives aren't constantly under threat."
The weight of what he's offering settles over me: permanence, commitment, a future built on trust forged in fire and blood and choices that don't have clean answers.
"Then take me," I say. "Show me."
His smile is dark, dangerous, exactly what I've come to crave. "Tonight. After dinner. I've already arranged for appropriate clothing to be waiting at the club."
"You were confident I'd say yes."
"I was confident you'd be honest about what you want." His thumb brushes across my lower lip, command wrapped in silk. "And you want this."
Command, not question. And the way my body responds to that tone tells me everything about how right this is, how perfectly we fit together in ways that have nothing to do with operations and everything to do with understanding each other's needs.
"Yes," I breathe.
"Good girl." The praise sends heat through my veins like whiskey. "Now go get ready. We have plans for tonight, and I intend to show you exactly what you've signed up for."
I climb the stairs to our suite, my pulse already quickening. Dominion waits in the Warehouse District. Remy waits to show me his world without safe houses or operations between us.
No more running. No more surviving. Just this: him and me and whatever we're building in the space where danger used to live.