21. Julian
JULIAN
The words hang in the air between us, and I latch onto the idea immediately, my mind already running through scenarios and possibilities.
Isabelle is back to sitting on the edge of the bed, her shirt pulled back down over the bandaged wound on her ribs, her expression exhausted and wary.
She mentioned Vivienne almost as an afterthought, a casual dismissal of the only person she knows who actually dislikes her.
But I don't believe in coincidences. Not in my line of work.
The first and most important thing is to get us away from Stanislav.
Within ten minutes, I have us out of the hotel and in a back alley, where I take Isabelle down a number of side and back streets until we reach a part of the city where it will be easier to disappear.
I get us a room, lock the door, slide the dresser in front of it, and then sit down at the small rickety table on one side of it and pull my laptop out of my bag.
"Tell me about your stepmother. Everything you know. "
Isabelle shakes her head, a bitter smile crossing her face. "This is ridiculous. Vivienne is cold and distant, but that doesn't make her a criminal. She's just—she's just a bitch who married my father for his money and barely tolerates my existence."
"What's her full name?"
"Vivienne Montague. She took my father's name when they married."
"Maiden name?"
"Beaumont. Vivienne Beaumont." Isabelle's eyes narrow slightly. "I don't know her middle name. Why does this matter?"
"Because someone ordered a hit on you," I say flatly. "Someone with access to significant resources and connections to organized crime. Someone who benefits from your death. Your stepmother is the only person you've mentioned who has any negative feelings toward you."
"Negative feelings don't equal murder," Isabelle says, but there's less certainty in her voice now.
"No. But they're a starting point." I turn to my laptop, fingers already moving across the keyboard. "How long have they been married?"
"They got married when I was twelve, so—ten years?"
"And your relationship with her?"
Isabelle's jaw tightens. "There is no relationship. She tolerates me because she has to. She's never been warm or maternal. She looks at me like I'm an inconvenience she wishes would disappear. She's irritated or annoyed with me most of the time, and she thinks I'm spoiled and ungrateful."
My mouth twitches. "Does she have access to family accounts?"
"I—I assume so. She's my father's wife. She lives with him, obviously, she has credit cards, she attends charity events and galas.
She spends money." Isabelle pauses, something shifting in her expression.
"She spends a lot of money, actually. My father complains about it sometimes, but he never does anything to stop her. "
Now we're getting somewhere. I pull up the first database, entering Vivienne Beaumont Montague's name and running a preliminary search.
The results start populating immediately—social media accounts, charity board memberships, society page mentions.
All surface-level information, but it gives me a framework to build on. "Does she work?" I ask, still typing.
"No. She's a socialite. Lunch with friends, shopping, spa appointments, charity galas. That's her entire life."
"So her income comes entirely from your father."
"Yes."
I make another note, then reach for my phone.
I have contacts who owe me favors—people who can access financial records that should be private and pull banking information and transaction histories without leaving a trace.
Isabelle watches me work, her expression shifting skeptically.
"You really think she could be behind this? "
"I think it's worth investigating." I don't look up from the laptop. "Tell me about your trust fund."
"What about it?"
"How much is it worth? Who controls it? What happens to it if you die?"
Isabelle is quiet for a moment, and when I glance up, I see her face has gone pale. "It's substantial," she says slowly. "My grandfather established it when I was born. It's worth about fifty million dollars."
I keep my expression neutral, but internally, my first thought is that fifty million is more than enough motive for murder. "Who controls it?" I ask again.
"I get controlled deposits—regular payments that go into my personal account. Sometimes I ask my father for extra if I want it for something. It's more than enough to live comfortably, but I don't have access to the full amount until I'm twenty-five." She pauses. "Or if certain conditions are met."
"What conditions?"
"Marriage. Children. My grandfather wanted to make sure the money stayed in the family, that it was used responsibly." She chews on her lower lip. "If I die before I'm twenty-five, the trust reverts to the family estate."
"And who controls the family estate?"
Isabelle's eyes widen. "My father. But… Vivienne has access to those accounts, I think…"
I see the pieces click into place in her mind. She shakes her head, still disbelieving, but I feel more and more certain with each passing moment. There's a motive where one eluded me before.
By the time a few hours have passed, I have some information—Vivienne Montague has been making significant withdrawals from family accounts over the past three years, transfers that far exceed any reasonable allowance or spending pattern.
I open the attachment and start reading through the transaction history.
Withdrawals of fifty thousand, seventy-five thousand, a hundred thousand at a time.
Transfers to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands and Switzerland.
Credit card bills that run into six figures every month. The woman is hemorrhaging money.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, scrolling through page after page of transactions.
"What?" Isabelle leans forward, trying to see the screen. "What did you find?"
I turn the laptop so she can see. "Your stepmother has been spending money at a rate that should be unsustainable.
Look at these withdrawals—she's taking hundreds of thousands of dollars from family accounts every month.
And these transfers here—" I point to a series of transactions from two years ago, "—those are going to offshore accounts. She's moving money out of the country."
Isabelle stares at the screen, her face going even paler. "That's—that's millions of dollars."
"Over the years, yes. Probably close to fifteen million, based on what I'm seeing here." I scroll down further, finding more transactions. "She's spending faster than the family fortune can sustain. Your father's wealthy, but not infinitely so. Eventually, this kind of spending catches up."
"So she needs more money," Isabelle says quietly.
"She needs a lot more money." I close the laptop and look at her directly. "And there's a very quick way to get it."
Isabelle's fingers twist together in her lap. "If I die, my trust fund goes back to the estate. And if my father—if something happened to him—"
"Then Vivienne would have access to fifty million dollars. Much more if he were gone. She's already spending money she doesn't have, and she's probably afraid he's going to find out. She's desperate. And desperate people do desperate things."
"But hiring assassins—that's—" Isabelle's voice breaks. "That's insane. That's murder."
"In the world your father operates in, murder is just another transaction. You hire someone, you pay them, the problem goes away. Vivienne has access to your father's connections. She knows how to reach people like me."
Isabelle stares at me. "What do you mean, my father's connections? He's just a businessman."
I let out a slow breath. "Based on the pieces I'm putting together, I'm guessing your father has some connections that are… less aboveboard. Possibly some business deals with this mafia family. And Vivienne, it seems, might be leveraging those connections to get what she wants."
Isabelle stands abruptly, pacing to the window. Her shoulders are tense, her entire body radiating shock and betrayal. "She hates me that much? Enough to have me killed?"
"It's not about hate." I stand as well, moving closer but not touching her.
"It's about money. She's in a hole she can't climb out of, and you're the solution.
If you die, she gets access to your trust fund.
She can pay off whatever debts she's accumulated, maintain her lifestyle, keep living the way she wants to live. "
"And my father?" Isabelle's voice is barely audible. "Do you think he knows?"
"I don't know. But if he doesn't know about the spending, he will eventually. And when he finds out, there will be consequences. Vivienne is running out of time."
Isabelle turns to face me, and there are tears streaming down her face now, silent tears that slide down her cheeks and drip off her jaw. "My stepmother ordered a hit on me. She wants me dead so she can steal my inheritance."
I breathe out, looking at her sympathetically. "I think so, yes."
Isabelle wipes at her face with the back of her hand, her expression hardening. "I still hate you."
I feel my chest contract at that, but I don't flinch. "I know."
"You lied to me. You were hired to kill me. You made me trust you, made me—" She stops, her jaw clenching. "You made me feel things for you, and the entire time you were lying."
"I know," I say again.
"But I'm not stupid." She crosses her arms over her chest, her posture defensive. "I'm not stupid enough to refuse your help when there are multiple assassins actively trying to kill me, and apparently, my own stepmother wants me dead."
I nod slowly, understanding what she's offering. It's not forgiveness or reconciliation. It's pragmatism, pure and simple. She needs me in order to stay alive, and she's willing to set aside her anger long enough to accept that.
"I'll protect you," I say quietly. "I'll keep you alive. I'll use every resource I have, every contact, every skill I've developed over fifteen years to make sure no one gets to you, for as long as I can before they get to me."
"And then what?" Her eyes are hard now, all the softness gone. "When this is over, when we've dealt with Vivienne and the assassins and all of it—what happens then?"
"Then you walk away." I swallow hard. "You go back to your life, and… well, if I've survived that long, I'll keep surviving until they finally catch up to me. But you'll never see me again."
She stares at me for a long moment, searching my face for something I'm not sure I can give her. "You protect me. You keep me alive. You use whatever resources you have to stay ahead of whoever's hunting us. But we're not friends."
That sharp pang cuts through my chest again. "Okay."
"And we're not lovers." Her voice doesn't waver on the word, but I see the way her jaw tightens. "What happened in the hotel room… rooms—that was a mistake. Moments of weakness. It won't happen again."
Every part of me resists that thought, but I nod. "Okay."
"I don't want to know about your past. I don't want to hear about the people you've killed or the jobs you've done.
I don't want your confessions or your guilt or your attempts to make me understand why you do what you do.
" She's building walls now, brick by brick, and I can see her retreating behind them.
"You're a tool I'm using to stay alive. That's all.
And when this is over—when we've stopped Vivienne and dealt with the contract, and I'm safe—you disappear.
You don't contact me. You don't try to explain or apologize or make things right. You just go."
I nod once. "I'll go."
She stands, crossing to where I'm standing and extending her hand. It's a formal gesture, businesslike and cold. I take her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine, and shake once. "Deal," she says.
"Deal." It feels like shaking on my own death warrant… but then again, I did that the moment I chose to save her instead of killing her.
We stand there for a moment, hands clasped, and I can feel the desire that still burns despite the betrayal. The love I feel for her that she'll never know about, never acknowledge, and never return.
Then she pulls her hand away and steps back, putting distance between us again.
"So what's the plan?" she asks, her voice steady now. "How do we stop her?"