Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Lyam
Boom.
A thrill goes through me when I pull the trigger. Always.
If I believed in superpowers, I’d know what mine is: I hit with the first shot.
Fuck flying or seeing through walls. Give me a cold, hard weapon, ammunition, and a target.
Sometimes I feel like my body’s connected to my gun, as if it’s a part of my actual being. An extension of my person. When I feel the weight of a gun in my hand, my body and mind fuse. Laser-focused.
You don’t know how heavy a body is until you watch it collapse. You don’t know how red blood is until you see it spill. You don’t know the power you wield until you look into the eyes of another person whose life you’re about to end.
Boom.
There’s something almost divine about watching your bullet hit the target. There’s nothing methodical or rote about it. Pulling the trigger and hitting a target makes me feel godlike. I have the power, right in the palm of my hand, to end life.
I’ve got a variety of places I like to go for target practice but today, I wanted to shatter glass.
So I came to one of my favorite spots in Paris: a private, remote field on the edge of the city my family’s bought for this purpose.
When it’s cold or snowing, I practice inside, but this, this is my favorite—a brick wall where I line up glass bottles.
My friends who know my favorite hobby save empty bottles and give them to me by the bucket.
I love watching the glass explode. I love the boom of gunshots. The sharp crack of shattering glass, followed by a rainstorm of tiny, brilliant, sparkling shards.
I pull the trigger again and the cobalt blue bottle on the far right disintegrates.
“Jesus.”
My bodyguard, Philippe, shakes his head. “How far away is that target?”
I squint at it and shrug. “A hundred meters.”
“Mon Dieu.”
Some shooters routinely shoot fifty yards, but hunters and sharpshooters can easily hit targets at further distances, depending on the weapon. I like to practice long range. I don’t always have my target bound, on their knees in front of me, served up on a silver platter.
I aim for the next blue bottle and smile at the memory of Thayer handing me a case of empties after his honeymoon, when my phone rings.
God, I fucking hate technology. Obtrusive and obnoxious, a man can’t even take a piss in private without some kind of goddamn interference.
Speak of the devil. It’s Thayer.
“Yeah?”
“She’s ready for you.”
A different kind of thrill runs through me.
There was a time when I would have moved heaven and earth to be alone with Cosette, but she ruined that. What we had is gone, and in its place, I have another laser-focused target.
She’s earned the ultimate penalty for betraying my family: execution.
But Cosette is too beautiful for death. Her betrayal too deep to end things so quickly.
My brothers agreed to allow her to live, but she’ll suffer the consequences. Namely, she’ll answer to me.
My job is to keep her in my custody. Punish her for betraying my family.
I stand and slide my gun, the metal still hot to the touch, into a holster at my waist. I don't go anywhere without a weapon, which has made for some strategic planning.
I roll my neck and stretch my shoulders.
My plane is ready for me. Cosette’s been kept prisoner at Le Luxe, the private sex club owned by my brother Thayer. But I’ve already made my decision.
I won’t keep her there. What kind of a punishment would it be for her to be in a place familiar to her, where she has friends and acquaintances and the potential to escape?
I’ll bring her back to Paris.
Here, I can make sure that she'll never betray us again. Here, I can keep a closer eye on her.
And here, I'm closest to the people I need to ultimately destroy.
“Hey, man.” Philippe grins at me and shows me a bag of tiny glass bottles. He mouths, “You want a drink on the plane?”
I grin back and move my mouth away from the mouthpiece. “You fucking know it.”
Thayer doesn’t need to know. My older brother’s the most serious asshole I know, and he’d kick Philippe’s ass for drinking on the job. He’d roll his eyes at me and talk about the loss of control, the need for precision and focus, but I don’t fucking care. Sometimes, it takes the edge off.
I grab one and slide it into my pocket. I’ll drink it on the plane.
“For one goddamn time I wish you’d take a ride,” Thayer says. “Do you have any idea how much easier that would be for us?”
I clench my jaw. “No.”
I drive my own cars and I like it that way.
“For Christ’s sake, Lyam. You should really consider trusting the people we hire. You know we vet the fuck out of them.”
“No.”
Why does he have to harp on this?
He blows out an angry breath on the other end of the line.
“Lyam, you should reconsider.”
“Why?” I ask, as I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine. “You know I like to be the one behind the fucking wheel.”
He curses. “Because people know you’re someone important. They respect you. Because if anything happened, you could shoot instead of having to navigate a fucking car.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need a driver to get respect.” Being a trained assassin who hits on the first shot will do that just fine. And if that fails to work, I have other methods. “And I can handle myself.”
I transfer the call to the car speakers.
He drops the subject. “Fine, suit yourself.”
“I will. After I park, one of my men will take the car back.” I take a left turn as Thayer pauses. “What?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Thayer sounds apologetic, my first warning sign. It’s out of character for him. “I was going to tell you about that—”
My voice is low and controlled when I respond. “Tell me about what?”
Up ahead I see a flash of black. I narrow my eyes at the signature uniform of the gendarmerie and slow down to get a better look.
Two of them, unfamiliar to me. One, a man who has a tattoo on his lower right arm, forbidden until recently. The other, a woman with short black hair.
I draw in a breath and let it go.
I don’t know them. They’re not my targets.
They weren’t there.
In my mind’s eye I see a flash of rope, hear the clink of chains and the insidious laughter of uniformed men. It takes me a minute to realize that Thayer is still talking.
“…and I thought it better that she be brought here instead.”
“Who brought her?”
He pauses before he snaps, “Did you hear a fucking word I said?”
“Of course I did,” I lie, as I turn down the main road that takes me to my family home in Paris, the same road that leads to the airport.
“I said, I had Claude bring her back.”
“How?” I snap.
“How? What the fuck are you talking about?”
Beside me, Philippe stiffens. My voice is low and unamused when I ask, “Did he touch her?”
“Of course he didn’t touch her. He knows better than to take advantage of her. Lyam, who do you think we hired?”
“No,” I say, my jaw clenched. “I meant did he put a hand on her in any way, shape, or form? Did he hold her arm? Grab her if she stumbled?” My hand begins to ache, and I realize I’m holding the phone too tight. “She’s mine, Thayer. We agreed. I don’t want anyone else to even look at her.”
I can hear Thayer swallowing on the other end of the line. “Fuck. I don’t know the answer to that. I’m sorry, Lyam. I should’ve sent you.”
Philippe squirms on his seat. I ignore him.
Thayer continues, “Fabien said that you wanted her in Paris, so he had her sent to Paris. He thought it would be the most expedient.”
“Expedient my ass.” I grit my teeth. “I’m the one that makes sure she never betrays our family again. I’m the one that makes sure she understands the severity of what she did. Me. No one else. Fucking me.”
“I got you, brother. I get it. Why do you think we let her go? If it were anyone else…”
I know. Woman or no, she’d have died a slow and painful death.
I draw in a breath and let it out slowly.
“I’m almost there.”
“Lyam, don’t kill him,” Thayer says. “Send him back here and I’ll make sure you never see him again. He’s good people.”
I nod. “I’ll find out how the trip went, and I won’t do anything without talking to you first.”
Thayer curses. “Alright. Okay, I got it. Listen, Savannah and I will be back soon, but I have a few things to tie up here at the club first. Keep an eye on Maman?”
“Of course.” I have my own residence in Paris, but my mother’s only about thirty minutes away. “When do they land?”
“Fabien arranged for a car to bring her to you.”
I grit my teeth and take a deep breath so I can fabricate patience.
It doesn’t work.
“When. Do. They. Land?”
“Ten minutes.”
I hang up the phone before I curse him out.
It's unlike my brothers to keep me in the dark like this. I know the only reason they did was because they had to choose a more expedient route, but I don’t like not knowing when the playing field changes.
Philippe clears his throat. "Sir, I know Claude. He wouldn't touch her. He would know better."
Maybe so but I don't like the idea. I am still here only because I’m waiting for one of our private jets to return, or I’d already be in Corsica.
When I don't respond, Philippe looks out a window. “There’s talk about us publicly today. Did you hear it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you hear Montague’s recent declaration? Party line? Fabien and Thayer said they’re not afraid of him, but…”
“We’re not afraid of anybody,” I correct, but it’s only so he doesn’t hear the real concern in my voice. “When did he speak?”
“Last night,” he explains. “It was on the news. I saw a clip online.”
“Pull it up.”
Francois Montague looms on the screen, larger than life.
Red-hot hatred pulses through my veins. I turn away, grip the steering wheel, and focus in front of me when something scratches at my memory.
I know that location…
“Where is he?”
“I’m not sure.”
It’s familiar….
“Louvre and Tuileries?”
The Louvre and Tuileries district of Paris brushes the Seine in the south, with the neighborhoods known as Bourse and Grands Boulevards to the north. Ah. He’s in front of the green trees that border the Tuileries Garden.
My home’s only a few blocks away.