Chapter 14
LUC
My phone buzzes just before six. Andy.
"Warrant's executing in half an hour," he says without preamble. "Thought you'd want to know."
I'm already awake, coffee brewing downstairs while Simone sleeps. After yesterday's interview, she needs rest more than she needs me hovering. But this—watching Andy tear apart the monitoring station that's been violating her for months—this I need to see.
"I'll be there," I tell him.
"Figured you would. LaCroix Petroleum, executive parking level. NOPD tactical is staging there now."
Standard protocol says I should stay with Simone, maintain close protection, let Andy handle the warrant execution. But the part that claimed her at Dominion and won't let go needs to see Armand's operation destroyed.
I head upstairs. Simone's still asleep, curled on her side, dark honey hair spilling across the pillow. Her breathing's even, face relaxed without the armor she wears when awake.
I pull out my phone and text Derek.
Need you at the guest house in ten. Simone's still sleeping. Don't let her leave.
His response comes immediately.
On my way.
I head back downstairs, pour another cup of coffee, and wait. Check the security feeds. Perimeter's clear. Media vans still camped on the public road but not breaching the property line.
Derek arrives within minutes. I let him in, brief him quickly.
"She's upstairs. Asleep. Keep her here until I get back."
"Got it." He takes position in the living room where he can see both the stairs and the front entrance.
I head for the SUV. The drive to LaCroix Petroleum cuts through empty streets, dawn breaking over the city. I run scenarios—what we'll find, how Armand covered his tracks, whether I'll be able to keep my hands to myself when I see the setup he used to watch her.
NOPD tactical vehicles stage in the executive parking garage. Andy's standing with the team leader, both in tactical gear, reviewing building schematics.
"Luc." Andy nods as I approach. "Maintenance level, lower basement. Signal terminated there. Building security's staying clear."
"Search scope?"
"The maintenance room, adjacent spaces with server access. Looking for monitoring equipment, recording devices, access logs." He gestures to the tactical team. "Let's move."
We take the service elevator down. Everything sharpens. Tactical team's breathing, equipment shifting, elevator mechanics.
The doors open onto the maintenance level. Concrete floors, exposed pipes, the acrid smell of industrial cleaners and electrical components. Equipment rooms line both sides of a narrow corridor.
Andy leads us to a door at the end. The tactical team leader checks it—locked, reinforced frame, commercial-grade deadbolt. Someone wanted control.
"Breach," Andy says.
The team moves with practiced efficiency. Breaching tool positioned, three-count, the lock surrenders with a sharp crack. The door swings open.
And there it fucking is.
The monitoring station sits in the corner, partially hidden behind legitimate HVAC equipment.
Multiple monitors arranged like a command center.
High-end recording equipment that costs a fortune.
A dedicated server with storage capacity for weeks of footage.
All of it wired into the building's network with cable management that screams expensive installation.
The rage that surfaces is cold, controlled. Dangerous. Armand sat here. In Simone's own building, using her company's resources. Watching her most private moments. Documenting her vulnerability. Violating her while pretending family concern.
My hands want to destroy every piece of equipment in this room. Rip cables from walls, smash monitors, obliterate every trace of Armand's presence. But I force my breathing to stay even, my fists to stay loose. Get the evidence first, deal with the rage later.
"Jesus," one of the tactical operators mutters.
Andy's already photographing everything, documenting before touching. A forensic tech pulls on gloves and examines cable connections, tracing signal paths.
"Signal routes through the building's main network," she reports. "Terminates here. Whoever installed this had administrative access to LaCroix Petroleum's IT infrastructure."
"Access logs?" Andy asks.
"Working on it." She connects a laptop to the server. "Equipment has its own authentication. Keycard access, login credentials, timestamps."
I move closer. Each keystroke brings us closer to proof that will put Armand in a federal cell where he belongs.
"Got the logs." Her expression shifts. "This can't be right."
"What?"
"Primary user account belongs to Armand Deveraux." She turns the laptop. "His name, his Deveraux Oil credentials, his personal keycard. He didn't even try to hide it."
The arrogance is fucking staggering. Using his real credentials, his actual identity, so confident in his position that he skipped basic operational security.
"Last access?" My voice comes out rough.
"Days ago. Hours-long session. But there are multiple sessions logged over months—he's been accessing this regularly." She scrolls through logs. "Multiple camera feeds monitored simultaneously each time."
He sat in this room for hours at a time, watching Simone, documenting her. Armand's been doing this for months.
Andy's already on his phone. "I need FBI Cyber Crimes at this location. And get me a prosecutor. Federal charges."
"Federal?" I ask.
"Wire fraud charges. Conspiracy. witness tampering. Direct evidence placing Armand at the monitoring station." His jaw sets. "This just became federal."
The tech keeps working. "Communications log shows encrypted messages sent from this terminal. Can't decrypt without FBI resources, but timestamps correlate with major events. Photograph deliveries, break-in at Simone's penthouse, the night you were kidnapped."
Someone coordinated everything from this room. From inside Simone's building.
My phone rings. Remy.
"Yeah?"
"FBI just showed up at Rapier Strategic. They say Andy called about federal charges."
"Found Armand's monitoring station. He was running the whole operation from inside LaCroix Petroleum."
"Fuck." Remy's quiet for a moment. "They want to coordinate raids on Armand's office and residence. Simultaneous execution."
"Tell them I'll be there soon." I glance at Andy. "We're securing evidence here."
The call ends. The forensic team catalogs every piece of equipment, every cable, every login entry, building a case that will destroy Armand Deveraux.
But underneath the tactical assessment, I'm calculating different variables.
How long until Simone wakes and realizes I'm gone.
How to tell her that her uncle violated her from inside her own building.
How to keep her safe not just from external threats but from the emotional fallout of family betrayal.
I should care more about letting personal investment affect the job, but I don't give a fuck.
By the time I pull through the estate gates, I've run a dozen scenarios for telling her. Discarded them all. There's no good way to tell someone their family violated them this completely.
Derek is outside when I park. He nods as I approach.
"She's inside. Had breakfast, been on her laptop. Asked where you were."
I dismiss him and head for the door. Let myself into the guest house.
Simone's at the kitchen table, laptop open, coffee cup beside her. She looks up when I enter, relief flashing across her face before she controls it. The instinct to pull her against me, feel her pulse under my palm—it hits visceral and immediate.
"The warrant?" she asks.
"Executed an hour ago." I move to the coffee pot, buying seconds. "Found it. The monitoring station in your building's maintenance room."
I turn to face her. Her spine straightens, CEO armor sliding into place even as her fingers tighten around the mug.
"High-end setup," I continue. "Multiple monitors, recording equipment, dedicated server. Everything needed to monitor camera feeds in real-time. And the access logs show exactly who used it."
Her face pales. "Armand."
"He used his real credentials. His name, his Deveraux Oil employee ID, his personal keycard. Logged in regularly, monitored feeds for hours at a time."
She stands abruptly, the movement sharp. Walks toward the window before catching herself, stopping, turning back. Her hands shake before she fists them.
"He was there." Her voice stays steady despite everything. "In my building. Watching."
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Logs go back months. Equipment's sophisticated enough it could've been there longer."
She presses her palm against her stomach, breathing deliberately. I move closer but don't touch her yet. Let her process on her own terms first.
"Months," she repeats. "Watching me for months. From inside LaCroix Petroleum."
"FBI's involved now. Federal jurisdiction—wire fraud, conspiracy, witness tampering. They're coordinating raids on Armand's office and residence, looking for communications, evidence of coordination with Julien."
"When?"
"Today. Staging now." I step into her space, cup the back of her neck. Her pulse races under my palm. "Once they arrest him, this goes public. Call Henry."
She nods but doesn't move. Just stands there, my hand on her neck, processing the violation.
"There was a time I trusted him," she says quietly, "before my father died. I thought—" She stops, swallows. "I thought he cared about the company. About family legacy."
"He cared about control." I pull her closer. "When you wouldn't give it to him, he tried to take it."
She leans into me then, forehead against my shoulder. Not crying. Just holding on while her world reshapes itself.
We stand like that for several minutes. When she pulls back, the CEO armor's firmly in place.
"I need to call Henry," she says.
"Do it."
She reaches for her phone, moves to the living room. I pour more coffee and lean against the counter, listening to her voice shift into business mode.
My phone buzzes. Text from Remy:
Need to talk. Call me.