CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE #2
I’m not a good man, and I never intended to be good to anyone other than my family.
But now that I have her, I will incinerate heaven and earth to build her the world she deserves.
Watching my family become hers just fuels my desire to help her pave any path she fucking wants.
We’ll line a trail with kindling, set anyone who dares to cross it ablaze, and tango among the flames.
A crew destined for hell, but living each day in our personal utopia.
Maddox guides her to the other side of the lanes to throw hatchets—not because that’s part of the plan, but because we put money on how well she’ll do, and she chooses to indulge us. Without a single reservation, I go all in.
It takes her a little while to master the best throw of the hatchet, but as I predicted, she dominates.
And when she lands the last one in the bull’s-eye, she does a cheeky little curtsy and bats her thick lashes.
Wads of bills are thrown my way, but all I can think about is how magical Sylvie is and that my mother would be as in awe of her as I am.
To celebrate, we all head to Café L’Ambroisie for lunch, where the musicians prove to be just as eerie as I claimed. Even though I think we’re well past the Flora issue, it’s not in my best interest to call attention to the musical selections, so I let them do their thing while we eat.
Thankfully, Sylvie is too captivated by the classic New Orleans setting to seem to notice. She drinks in the eclectic vibe with its industrial wood ceiling, aged brick walls, polished concrete floors, and the burnt orange and turquoise color scheme as she gets lost in conversation with my family.
Jax finishes chewing a fry and looks across the table at her. “Why are you so opposed to carrying a gun on a job?”
The lead vocalist strums her guitar and announces into the microphone, “It’s always a good time for Bob Marley,” before she plays the opening chords of “I Shot the Sheriff.”
Unable to completely ignore it, I widen my eyes at Maddox and shake my head. He and Tessa barely contain themselves. And Zara, who is a believer in this bizarre witchcraft like me, bites her lip and does a double take at the band.
Sylvie doesn’t acknowledge it or hesitate to answer Jax. “It doubles the sentence if you’re caught.”
“You enter all jobs with that in mind?” Zara asks, likely because assassins don’t give much thought to possible prison time. That’s the least of their worries.
“Always,” Sylvie confirms, her brows furrowed at the musician for a beat before she returns her attention to us.
“When my father was on trial, he drilled it into me—that it would’ve been so much worse if he’d been caught during the job rather than after.
Because he’d had a gun with him. It didn’t work out the way he’d thought, but he was pleased that he had the possibility of parole after eight years.
It would’ve been twenty or more if he’d been caught armed. ”
We all silently soak that in, unsure how to phrase the reply without freaking her out.
I pull Sylvie closer while I spear a piece of sausage in her bowl and pop it in my mouth.
She understands the stakes as much as she needs to because the worst-case scenario doesn’t apply to her.
The rest of them might be going to Minds of Our Time for some secret information.
I’ll assist with that too. But my primary mission is to ensure not a hair on her head is disturbed.
Finally, Maddox sets his po’boy down, wipes his hands, and shifts his gaze between me and Sylvie. “This isn’t the kind of job that thinking applies to.”
She pushes her gumbo around, not ready to hear the underlying message. “There’s always a possibility of being put away.”
“Not this time.” Jax brushes his pale blue hair off his forehead, waiting for her eyes to lift to his. “If we get caught, no one’s calling the cops.”
And right on cue, the band breaks into “Only the Good Die Young.”
Sylvie hears the message loud and clear. Her ambers snap to me, and her jaw pops open. “Sorcery.”
“Yep.”
RECON
We’re back in the conference room today, examining what we believe are the security checkpoints and doing the best we can to compile a possible guest list.
“It doesn’t exist anywhere?” Axel asks in frustration. “Surely, the resort has something.”
Sylvie shakes her head. “They’re known for how secretive the invitations are.
Social media is forbidden—one mention, and you’re banned for life—so there’s no precedent.
E told me it wasn’t important, so I can’t get it from him.
Last year, I didn’t get a glimpse of those on the main level beyond the handful of names I already provided to you, and I couldn’t find anything else.
The Wall Street Journal even tried to access it for an article a few years ago, to no avail. ”
“What we do have is a profile.” Ryker tosses a stack of papers down. “Billionaires. Tech industry moguls. Super-elite stars. And sometimes, the invited bring other high-profile guests.”
“Like how Axel is approved to bring all of us,” I muse, “which opens us up to endless possibilities.”
Maddox shuffles through the papers that Ryker threw down and narrows his gray eyes at him. “Five thousand names meet the profile?”
Despite the astronomical number, Jax hunkers down at the table, silently combing through each one and ignoring the rest of us.
“I’ve got it on the computer, and Liam’s working on it too,” Ryker says.
“I just wanted to demonstrate what we’re up against. Axel and Zara can use some of the information they have to guesstimate who might be there and whether they are involved.
But you’ll have to do some evaluation after you arrive. ”
“Why are the specific guests important?” Tessa asks.
“Because it isn’t enough to know where the security guards are stationed.” Zara paces, her wheels turning as she works through the specifics and lays it out. “That gets us in, but the guests could impede our exit. We need to figure out who’s invested in that information.”
“We basically have three groups of people to narrow down,” Sylvie tacks on. “The guards, Kratos, and the unknown group that the keyholders are a part of—let’s call them X.”
I walk over to the bar, freshen my coffee, and fix a cup for Sylvie. “Did we get anything off Danny Gordon’s phone?”
Even out of the corner of my eye, I see her shoulders go rigid at the sound of his name. Since I’ve taken the saintly road and not killed the bastard, I am determined to help her bring her warranted feminine rage to the next level. But one mission at a time, I suppose.