Chapter 14
Bastian guided me down a narrow alley parallel to The Champs and The Peak.
We walked hand in hand, my fingers tugging at the sleeve of his shirt as if afraid to touch his bare skin.
I told myself that I just didn’t want to get lost again.
As closing time approached, people hurried to their destinations, trying to stretch the night as much as possible.
We wove through a huge crowd heading in the opposite direction of the club, and just when it seemed like we were getting nowhere, Bastian stopped.
“Is this it?” I asked, scanning above the heads of the people for a sign that would announce the place.
Bastian pointed down at the ground. Written in large, yellow letters that glowed in the dark, I could make out seven letters:
THE SOR-
The rest of the words were obscured by a sea of moving feet. We were at Sortija.
“And now what?” Bastian asked.
“I think I’m looking for a room,” I grumbled. “This can’t be it.”
I searched for Enzo among the faces, unable to distinguish his brown hair in the crowd.
“Hey,” Bastian hissed. “This is the only area I know in here that’s got that weird name.”
I tried calling Enzo again, now that my phone’s signal had returned to full strength. No answer.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I said, avoiding looking him in the face. “You can go back to the casino. I’ll wait alone.”
The fluorescent lights caught Bastian’s teeth, making them gleam.
“Did you just thank me for the second time today? Wow, V, that must be a new record!”
I turned my back.
“Yeah, yeah. See you on Monday.”
Then, Bastian rested his hand on my shoulder, gently urging me to turn back around. His gaze lingered just above my brow, as if he were summoning the courage to meet my eyes. He leaned in.
“I’m not leaving you alone in this place.”
So we waited together, surrounded by a swirl of bodies that moved like a tide—muscle-bound men and women whose laughter felt a bit too loud, a bit too carefree.
Each minute felt like an eternity as I stole glances at my phone, hoping for a notification that never came.
Was it really urgent, or had I been led to believe something more than what was there?
I unlocked my phone and sent Enzo a message. It didn’t go through.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I insisted.
Bastian pointed to the ground again.
“I only brought you to where you asked me to.”
THE SOR-
The Sortija. I was sure Enzo had told me to come here as soon as possible. But it didn’t seem like a specific place. The Sortija. An intersection of alleys with the name painted on the ground. Sortija. A band of gold with no beginning or end. I pursed my lips.
“Are you sure this is the place?”
Bastian put his hand to his forehead in a gesture of exasperation that I was now used to.
“Can’t you see the name on the ground?”
I looked again at the yellow letters. No, I really couldn’t see the name of the place. There were too many people.
Oh, my God.
“Excuse me! Sorry! Hey, you, move out of the way!” I shouted.
I elbowed people, stepped on someone’s big toe with my heel, and made my way through the crowd, following the letters on the ground.
THE SORT-
“Make way!” Bastian shouted, going along with me.
THE SORTIJA
The full name of the place where Enzo had told me to meet him. The name of this maze of streets…
“Why are there three letters in a different colour?” I asked Bastian.
He stared at the ground while stretching his arms to keep people from passing by. The first L was in a bright yellow, just like the last J, both As. The letters in the middle were orange, much brighter than the other three.
SORTI
“Sorti,” Bastian said, with a perfect Parisian accent.
“Out,” I translated.
People started crowding around us again. Bastian grabbed my hand. I looked in all directions, hoping to see my friend or Enzo.
“We need to get out of here.”
Bastian led me through the square at a brisk pace, just as Enzo had done hours earlier.
I thought we were heading to the maze of mirrors, but just before reaching it, we turned left into an alley I hadn’t seen before.
This alley was narrower than the other five, a shadowy corridor with hardly anyone around.
Only two booths broke the darkness—one at the entrance and the other at the far end.
No sign marked the street, just an empty stretch that felt like an afterthought.
It was the exit of Club Montari. As I stepped further in, my gaze fell on the first booth, half-hidden in the shadows.
A woman with a carnival mask and a long, voluptuous dress sat in a cushioned armchair.
The curtain covering her back read elle est sortie. Upon seeing us, she stood up.
I approached.
“I’m Madame Bovary, dear,” she said, with a sweet voice and a crimson smile. “Tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll tell you if I have it.”
I noticed Bastian next to me. This booth seemed similar to the ones Gina and I had passed in the main alleys, filled with gemstones and gold arranged in intricate designs.
I looked at the woman’s face. There was something different about her, something that the other merchants in the club didn’t have.
Besides the diamonds embedded in her teeth, of course.
The woman wore pearls in her ears, jewelled piercings on her cheeks, and she sparkled. Like…
“A sortija,” I said slowly. “That’s what I’m looking for.”
“What we’re looking for,” Bastian corrected.
The woman tilted her head.
“Is that all?”
I nodded. She extended her hand.
“The price for entry is whatever you consider fair.”
I paid for both Bastian and me. How much? Ten thousand? I don’t remember. I didn’t care. I would have given away all my money there if Bastian weren’t following me like a loyal puppy. Then the woman gestured with her hand. The door behind her opened.
“Welcome to the Sortija,” she said, sitting back down. “The Ringlet. You have half an hour.”
Bastian was tense.
“You should know,” he said as we approached the entrance the woman had indicated, “I didn’t think this was a real place.”
Inside, the room smelled of incense and old age.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
The door closed behind us. The room was elongated and dark, despite being illuminated by an amber cascade of light in each corner.
“This room,” Bastian said, lowering his voice, “belongs to the family that owns the Club.”
The walls were lined with plush seating, similar to the one occupied by the woman who had welcomed us.
To the right, a spiral staircase ascended, disappearing into the ceiling above.
We pressed forward, weaving through a crowd.
Older patrons—those who looked to be in their fifties, like my mother or Mrs. Meng—were seated around low tables, while younger guests stood near the bar, engaged in conversation.
I could feel their gazes on us, the quiet whispers trailing behind us as we made our way through the room.
I couldn’t see Enzo anywhere.
But it mattered little, because amid those young faces, I spotted Gina, or rather, her head, her red and black hair catching the lights. She had her back to me, leaning against a wall.
And she was making out with someone.
None other than Elo?se Hawtrey-Moore.
I think I screamed, though I can’t recall the words—and honestly, I’m glad I can’t.
The shock of it all caught Gina’s attention, as well as Elo?se’s, and a few other people nearby.
My friend was making out with a celebrity!
The reality of it sent my heart racing, and I felt like I might actually pass out right then and there.
No, no, no. Wait. We screamed. That’s it.
I shouted something nonsensical, and Bastian, next to me, said something like “Not again!”
Gina turned red as a tomato. Elo?se, on the other hand, pulled away from my friend and approached us, adjusting the brown blazer draped over her shoulders.
“Oh, come on,” she said monotonously, smoothing her straight brown bob with her hands. “Monogamy is so last century, don’t you think, Bastian?”
Bastian didn’t have time to respond because Elo?se Hawtrey-Moore, who was the same height as him with her stiletto heels, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. I’m not going to go into details, for God’s sake. I’ll just say I was in shock. And tongue was involved.
“You know what else is from the last century?” he responded once Elo?se let him go. “The torture your father will put me through if he finds out you’re here.”
Elo?se shrugged.
“It’s not like Laurent would find out.”
“Those people back there,” Bastian glanced at the older gentlemen we had just passed, “are his friends, aren’t they?”
She didn’t bother to deny it. She put her arm through Bastian’s, holding him like an elderly couple, and, before turning around, winked at Gina.
“No one will dare say anything. This is my club,” she declared. “Shall we go?”
My mind struggled to grasp the situation. Elo?se Hawtrey-Moore, the adopted daughter of Timotheo Larousse, had a thing for Bastian, the nephew of Larousse’s lawyer. And also for my best friend, apparently.
But that was not the worst of it. The note I had received along with the money had led me to the club owned by the Hawtrey-Moore family. Something smelled fishy. Very fishy.
“Sebastian Saidi,” I stepped in front of the couple, arms crossed and feeling like my eyes were going to pop out of my head. “What’s going on here?”
Bastian lowered his head.
“Uh…”
Elo?se stopped dead. Her body was slim, delicate like a ballerina’s; her sharp face gave her a stubborn, imposing air, and her almond-shaped eyes seemed capable of sinking me underground. I felt her presence was too real, too cutting, like a knife made human.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my family’s room?” she said tersely.
I opened my mouth to respond. I closed it again.
The truth was, I wasn’t quite sure why I was there. Had I misunderstood Enzo?
“She’s my friend,” Gina came to my rescue, grabbing my arm like Elo?se had done with Bastian. “Elo?se, let me introduce you to Vera.”
We all stood in silence.
“And…” Elo?se spoke again. “How do you two know each other?”
She looked at Bastian, who, despite having his arm around the girl, seemed to want to shrink and disappear.
“We work together,” I said.
This caught the girl’s attention. She tilted her head, a sly smile forming.
“You work at Saidi?” Her eyes scanned me from head to toe. “Bastian hasn’t mentioned you.”
I grimaced.
“Not surprising,” I smiled, tightening my grip on Gina’s arm. “He hasn’t mentioned you to me either. I wonder why.”
Bastian threw his head back in a gesture of defeat.
“André can’t know anything about this, okay?” he pleaded. “No one can know anything about this.”
“Especially the press,” Elo?se interjected. “So, keep your mouth shut, nina.”
I felt the weight of my phone in my bag. The photo of the suspect list I’d taken earlier that afternoon was still there.
Elo?se Hawtrey-Moore was on it.
Who would have thought I’d stumble upon a key piece in the Larousse case that night?
Bastian mouthed a word without saying it. Please.
His dark eyes had darkened, turning into a dirty brown. His posture was tense, and his carefree expression was gone. He was the portrait of a guilty man.
“Why should I not mention this to André?” I hissed. “Do you have something to hide, Saidi?”
“More than you think.”
His voice sounded challenging. His eyes pleaded with me to drop the subject. Elo?se tugged on the guy’s arm, pulling him back.
“Shall we go now, Seb? They’re going to close soon.”
Bastian nodded.
“Wait,” I cut her off. “She’s involved in Antonia’s murder. I’ve seen the documents.”
Elo?se stopped, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Don’t you dare mention my mother,” she hissed.
Oops. Okay, maybe mentioning the murder of her mother hadn’t been the best decision.
“Forget it,” Bastian said, his voice sharp as he nudged the girl toward the exit. “She’s had too much to drink. Besides, she’s just shocked by all of this.”
Was I imagining things, or had Bastian just defended me?
My next question slipped out, driven by the part of me consumed by work and the competition between Bastian and me at Saidi. It wasn’t my intention to pry, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Does your father know about you two?”
A flicker of curiosity sparked beneath my pride. The question seemed to take Elo?se off guard.
“That French idiot?” She scowled. “Of course, he knows. He has eyes everywhere. He won’t say anything. He’s the only one we can trust in that sense.”
I turned to Bastian, my voice betraying my tension, coming out higher than usual.
“I don’t understand. If Larousse knows about you two, why hasn’t he told André?”
Bastian rubbed his forehead in frustration. Elo?se stifled a laugh, clearly amused.
“Larousse?” She shook her head. “No, no, dear. I’m talking about my real father. I don’t know if you’ve noticed…”
“Elo?se,” Bastian interjected, his tone firm, “we should go now.”
“But Larousse’s just a go-between,” Elo?se continued, ignoring him. “Believe me, if Timotheo avoids the sentence, it won’t be thanks to Saidi. It’ll be thanks to Laurent Dubois.”
Laurent Dubois. One of the names at the top of the list I had found in my boss’s office. A person with enough money to do as he pleases. A person with enough power to bend the truth in his favour.
The Club Montari turned on its lights, and Gina recoiled, shielding her eyes like a vampire caught in sunlight.
“You,” Elo?se said, her smile tinged as she pointed directly at her, “I’ll call you.”
“I haven’t given you my number!” my friend shouted.
But Elo?se Hawtrey-Moore, heiress of Antonia Hawtrey-Moore and Timotheo Larousse, seemed to be done with us. As the crowd thinned and people began to trickle out of the Sortija, the clock struck 4:00 AM.
Time to leave.