Chapter 54 Avalynne #2
"I've never lied to you." Shadows darken his features before he crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps straining the crisp fabric of his dress shirt. "By all means, if you want to take your chances with Reverend Mother, go ahead, but all I'm asking for is a few minutes of your time, Avalynne."
I frown at the closed door.
"I'll take that as a yes," he mutters, straightening his shoulders. "So, my question remains. What business did Pierre Immorier open upon his arrival to New Orleans?"
"A silk import business." My answer tastes like ash.
"Yes," he nods, firelight gilding the sharp angles of his face. "His business catered to the wealthy Louisiana elite, and he quickly became successful and married Amele …"
The answer comes automatically, drilled deep into my brain by my grandfather's bedtime stories.
"Moreau."
"Yes," he agrees, "Amele Moreau, a Southern socialite. Her brother was the cardinal of the New Orleans archdiocese, the largest archdiocese in the Southern United States at the time. Two children were born of the marriage, twin boys, Matthieu and …"
"Jean-Baptiste," I recite.
"Again, correct. But Amele dies. Pierre never remarries and dives headfirst into his business. And in 1861, what happened, Avalynne?"
"The Civil War."
He takes a singular step forward. Distant. Careful.
"Exactly, and everything collapses. Businesses shutter.
Tithes stop. Families divide, and North fights against South.
The church takes on substantial debt to maintain its massive infrastructure.
Desperate and with his business on the brink of ruin, Pierre strikes a deal with his brother-in-law—one that saves both him and the church. "
"No." My throat is tight. He's gotten it wrong. "Pierre partnered with the Union Pacific and expanded west. It is well-documented."
Xade looks at me, pleadingly.
"No, my brightest star," he murmurs, but I'm already shaking my head again.
He's rewriting my family's history. He takes another step forward but halts when I, again, step back. Pain wounds his features, and he winces down at his desk before letting his index and middle fingers follow the wavy pattern of the stained wood.
"At first," he remarks, his words low, "it was only the adults housed in institutions funded by the church—mental wards, hospitals, alms homes, and the like.
Women and men were traded and sold—turned into soldiers, machinists, factory workers, even surrogates.
The church no longer carried the burden of caring for them.
Excuses were made. Guilt was assuaged, but by the mid-twentieth century, preferences started to …
change. Children were no longer viewed as yet another mouth to feed.
" He looks me in the eye, his two fingers still on his desk.
"I'd give anything for it to not be true, Avalynne, but it is.
Now, there's a lot more money to be had for children. "
My stomach roils. My words are clipped. "You're lying."
"I wish I was."
"Stop it."
"The business expanded." Long lashes hood his dark eyes, and his stare scorches a path down my spine. "In the middle of the war, your family's business grew. Then, in 1862, on these grounds, they built the first transit point in their network. No one would dare question the dealings of a convent."
"Liar," I grit out, turning away from him, but he's right there, seizing me by the forearms.
"Think about it, Avalynne!" He draws me so close I smell the sugared coffee on his breath.
"Textiles? The railroad? Of course, the country needed trade, but there wasn't a fortune to be made in fabric during the War.
" His gaze searches mine, left to right and back to left.
"True wealth came from bodies—bodies to fight, to rebuild, to replace those lost to cannon fodder.
The Civil War was scorched-earth warfare—houses, farms, bridges, roads, infrastructure, everything gone—generational wealth, ancestral homes, all of it burned to nothing.
Widows couldn't feed their children. Families had no way, no means, to rebuild.
Orphans, abandoned by war and disease, roamed the streets.
Indigenous and marginalized populations fared even worse, yet your family prospered, the church recovered, and Pierre Immorier became the wealthiest man on the continent.
Human exploitation didn't end with Lincoln's Emancipation.
The world just got better at hiding it."
"You're wrong." Salty tears slip between my lips.
"My family expanded west. Then … then after Pierre died, his sons pivoted the business into logistics.
Every ship, every port, every border, my grandfather says.
My family has carried the church for well over a century.
We built orphanages, mental institutions, schools, and universities in its name. "
"Institutions all used, at one point or another, to serve their purpose, all justified in the name of a higher power.
The Crusades, the Inquisition, the Witch Trials, the sex abuse scandals, the sale of stolen children in Spain—all were atrocities committed in the name of faith!
For centuries, history has been written by powerful men who have used religion to justify despicable acts. God isn't the cause. He's the excuse!"
"But my family is good!" I shout at him.
A single tear slips down his cheek. "You are good. I told you before that your blood doesn't define you."
I sniffle, wet and loud, and pull away from him.
His office swims in my tears. "You're … you're wrong.
" I shake my head furiously. "Those papers prove it!
All those places paid out tons for things—chattels, antiquities, collector's grade items—it's all there!
They shell out millions with funds meant to keep their doors open! "
"Chattel, antiquity, collector's grade … those terms don't mean what you think they do." His words are thick with disgust. Revulsion scrunches his features, and he swallows hard. "Those terms. The serial numbers after them. The inventory is graded, Avalynne."
My stomach flips. I choke on bile.
"Those institutions aren't buying things," he tells me, stepping closer, "though they do receive a percentage of the profit upon a sale. Private buyers make the purchases, and the sales are concealed under the name of the church-funded institution."
"What is wrong with you?!" I sob.
"You're brilliant, Avalynne!" he begs, stepping closer.
"You're smarter than this! The church can't be audited, not without the Treasury Department's approval.
Churches don't operate like standard businesses.
There are no annual reporting requirements.
They're automatically tax-exempt. They're the perfect front for money laundering, for trafficking, for anything imaginable. "
The floor sways beneath my feet. "You're confused. You're … you're lying."
"I have never lied to you, Clarissima Stella."
"Don't call me that!" Pain splits through my temples. "You don't get to call me that again!"
Xade's jaw slackens, and hurt sharpens the angles of his face. He reaches for me, but I stagger away, out of his grasp.
"Please." His hands tremble before he tightens them into fists at his side. "I'm telling you the truth."
"Like I'd believe a man who pretended to care for me!" I turn and shout at him.
"It was real!" His body shakes, his dark eyes wild, as the words break free.
"All of it was real! I love you, Avalynne.
I've loved you from the moment I set eyes on you—when I wanted nothing more than to hate you.
Because of your last name! Because of your family!
I loved you when I shouldn't have—when I had no right to—because even now, I hate that you are Marcus Immorier's granddaughter. "
His lip curls over his straight teeth as he moves closer, his fingers straightening and clenching again.
"I hate the bloodline poisoning your veins and that your family's empire was built on the suffering of others.
I hate that your ancestors leveraged a desperate church and used it as their own shield.
" His loafers graze the toes of my shoes, and his chest scrapes against mine with every ragged breath.
"I hate that my brother died, and your family called it fucking charity.
But most of all, I hate myself for forgetting my sole purpose—to get vengeance for him—the moment I set eyes on you. "
Thick saliva strings between his teeth as tears bleed down his tawny cheeks. "Despite it all—despite everything—I love you, Avalynne! Nothing changes that." His fist thumps against his chest with every hard word. "I. Love. You."
The world tilts on its axis, terrible and nauseating.
"You're lying," I hiss against his jawline.
His lips nearly meet mine with his response. "As I said before, I have never lied to you."
"My grandfather is a good man."
Slowly, his gaze descends to my lips and climbs back up to meet mine. "People build altars out of sin, Clarissima Stella, yet the world calls them saints."
I flinch. His words slice between my ribs like daggers. I want to scream that he's wrong, but I see our so-called love for what it is now.
Subjugation.
He kept tabs on me for her. He pretended to care for me for her. He used me for her. I was never his student, and he was never my professor. I was an assignment, and he was her pawn.
I slap him, and he does nothing to stop it. The force of the blow turns his head as crimson mars his cheek. In a breath, I bolt like my life depends on it.
Because I think it does.