Chapter 8 #4
I snap the folder shut. “And?”
“We need more information. These are the pieces we have so far; it’s up to you to connect the dots.”
“Then get someone else.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “This isn’t a request, Herron. You took the documents. You're the one who’ll follow the thread.”
I clench my jaw, weighing my options. Walking away isn’t really a choice, not in this world.
“Where do I start?” I ask, hating myself for playing along.
He hands me another slip of paper. “Start there.”
I glance at the note. A single name scrawled in ink: Emile Laurent. Beneath it, an address in Paris.
Paris. Of course, it couldn't be just a quick car ride away.
I tuck the paper away and turn on my heel. As I walk out, the man calls after me, his voice tinged with amusement.
“Try not to make a mess this time, Herron.”
I don’t bother replying.
The flight to Paris was uneventful, more than I can say for my mood. I spend most of it flipping through the folder, piecing together fragments of a story I still don’t fully understand.
Margaux Belmont isn't just Martine’s mother.
She’s a ghost woven into the fabric of something bigger—old money, old power, and even darker secrets.
The documents hint at financial dealings spanning continents, but the most interesting parts are the gaps, the missing pieces, the redacted lines, and the photos of her with more men than just her husband.
Someone went to great lengths to bury the truth. My job is to dig it up.
Just like I dug up those deviant little feelings in her daughter, she’s in the back of my mind even when she shouldn’t be.
I never could stand that family, the rot beneath all that wealth, the performance of perfection. Ford and Dex became surprisingly good friends to me. I got close to them because of our commitment to the Brotherhood. Trusted them, even if I despised their father.
But Martine…she was an unwelcome surprise.
A dream I never meant to touch, wrapped in everything I can’t stand, and everything that tempts me.
She’s consumed my thoughts for two years.
I could almost pity her for that, for how much it makes me hate her.
I set out to dismantle her family. Instead, I found obsession.
By the time I land, the city is cloaked in soft rain, streets slick with reflected lights. I head straight to the address on the paper, hoping to be back on the jet within the hour.
An unassuming café, tucked between shuttered storefronts and glowing pharmacy signs. Inside, late-night drinkers are packed elbow to elbow, voices low and threaded with laughter, smoke curling between them. The air is thick with the scents of espresso, wine, and smoke.
Inside, I easily find my contact seated farthest in the back, wearing the hat I was instructed he would wear. Emile Laurent is older than I expected, silver-haired at the temples, and impeccably suited despite our modest surroundings. He nurses an espresso, gaze sharp.
“Mr. Herron.”
I slide into the seat across from him. “Laurent.”
He watches me for a second, then pulls a small envelope from his coat and sets it on the table. Taps it once.
“This is what you’re looking for,” he says.
I don’t touch it right away. I reach into my jacket and pull out a silver cigarette case, plain except for the skull-and-bones carving on the lid. I flip it open, light one, and take a slow drag.
“Let’s see it,” I say.
I pick up the envelope and open it. Inside is a single photograph. Margaux Belmont stands beside a man I recognize immediately.
Pierre Marchand.
Younger than Margaux by a few years, but older than me by more. He’s a member of the Society. I’ve spoken to him at Eulogia, in the mausoleum, and at a few Society events. He owns Seraphim, an underground club in the city.
What I don’t understand is why he’s in this photo. They don’t look like lovers. If anything, they look…familiar. Comfortable.
I lift my gaze back to Laurent. “What’s his connection to Margaux?”
Laurent hesitates, which tells me everything I need to know.
“I don’t ask questions, I just deliver the information,” he finally says.
I take a few drags of my cigarette and then smash it into the ashtray, ready to head back to the jet. I slip the photograph back into the envelope and tuck it inside my coat.
Laurent’s expression mixes amusement with pity. “I suggest you be careful, Mr. Herron.”
“Unfortunately for both of us, I don’t take suggestions,” I stand, tossing a few bills onto the table.
Outside, the rain has intensified, drumming steadily against the pavement.
A car waits at the curb. I slide into the back seat, settling against the leather as the driver silently pulls away from the curb, navigating swiftly through rain-slicked streets.
Streetlights blur past, illuminating my reflection briefly on wet windows as we approach a private airstrip on the city's outskirts.
Within minutes, the car rolls smoothly to a stop beside my waiting jet, its engines humming softly in preparation for departure. Luckily, the café was conveniently located near the private airstrip.
Once onboard, I pour myself a drink and stretch out in my seat, pulling my silver holder out and placing another cigarette between my lips and lighting it.
The photograph sits beside me, and my mind drifts to how Margaux might have known Marchand.
Marchand owns a private sex club with an entrance fee of a million, with monthly dues, a place notorious for its secrecy and complete lack of oversight within its suites.
Could the Belmont family have had some connection there, perhaps financial backing?
Or maybe Martine's parents frequented the club. It’s known as a reprieve for even the simplest Bonesman. I wouldn’t put it past these Legacies being members. Margaux being photographed with the founder of the club can only mean so many things, and few of them good.
My thoughts shift elsewhere.
Martine.
She has a way of getting under my skin, intentional or not. I haven't been gone long, but enough to know she isn't the type to sit still. The thought of her, restless, pushing limits, testing boundaries, makes my grip tighten around the glass.
Has she behaved herself?
Probably not.
The idea that she might need reminding of her place sends a sharp thrill through me.
I take a slow sip, lips curling at the thought.
She won't know when I'm coming back. But she'll feel it when I do.
The jet hums beneath me as the city shrinks away. I let my mind wander to the power I hold over her, the control she pretends she doesn’t crave. Soon, she’ll understand. Soon, she'll be exactly where I want her.