Chapter 33
GABE
Paris is a world of extremes. There are the ugly slums filled with ancient buildings crumbling under the weight of their own decay; the rich townhouses lining wide promenades with lovely blossoming trees in the springtime; and the old sectors of the city where history is still alive in intricate structures with beautiful detailing work around their lintels and aged paneling throughout their interiors.
It’s this last kind of place we park out front of and sit in silence for a long moment.
We’re in the third arrondissement, in the Le Marais neighborhood, where dozens of old mansions are scattered all over.
This particular one looks like many of the others: sandstone exterior, massive windows, three stories tall.
Except I notice the cameras, the bars, the men in black suits standing out front talking quietly into earpieces, clearly armed and dangerous.
Snipers on the roof and across the street, and more soldiers in unmarked vans left discreetly near the curb.
“Last chance,” I tell Nika, taking her hand tightly and squeezing. “There’s no reason for you to risk yourself in there.”
“We’re in this together. Come on, don’t tell me you’re afraid.”
I lean in and kiss her, wishing we were still back in the hotel in bed. “Never.”
I get out of the car. My guards flank me to the door, but they’re denied entry. Only Dragons get the privilege of an armed escort. The men at the door check me for weapons and move to pat down Nika, but I stop them before they can touch her.
“You’re going to run your hands along my wife’s body in front of me? You really think you could survive an insult like that?”
The men exchange a look. Their leader shakes his head. “No offense meant, sir, but I have strict orders from Dragon Serre—“
“It’s fine, Gabriel.” Nika rolls her eyes and submits herself to checking.
But in deference or politeness, her pat-down is perfunctory.
Inside the building is cool. A striking woman in a black tuxedo guides us into the foyer, across a gorgeous central staircase, and toward a side room. “They’re waiting in the grand hall,” she murmurs, her French accent thick and muddy. “Dragon Serre is expecting you both.”
Nika slips her hand into mine as a large intricate wooden door is pushed open and we’re ushered through.
I’m not sure what I expected. Some kind of raised dais behind which the four dragons would sit in judgement, maybe?
A guillotine waiting for my pretty neck?
Instead, it’s a massive ballroom, the edges carpeted, the center with a wooden dance floor.
One wall is covered in mirrors. An enormous crystal chandelier hangs from lovely teal-and-white paneling.
Everything is Art Deco in style, redone sometime in the last century, though also old.
I can smell the age in this place, musky and dull with a sharp undertone of rot.
There’s a table set up on the dance floor.
It’s long, white tablecloth, covered in magnificent floral centerpieces.
I recognize Massimo sitting toward the head and Zohran across from him.
Lorcan Brun, the Irish Dragon, is beside Massimo, talking quietly with a grin on his handsome and weathered face, while Prosper Serre is at the head of the table, since this is his main powerbase.
The Frenchman is in his late thirties, in surprisingly good shape, wearing an impeccable black suit.
He’s the picture of pious taste and refinement, while there’s a sharp edge to Lorcan that’s hard to ignore.
And at the other end of the table, sitting on the same side as Zohran, is Artyom.
He stares at me with unrestrained hatred. His face is pale and gaunt, and it looks like he lost some weight. He’s favoring one side. I resist the urge to smirk in his face, the bastard. I hope he’s suffering immensely.
“Welcome, welcome, our final guests have arrived.” Dragon Serre stands, spreading his hands in greeting.
The others watch. Massimo nods. Zohran’s sneer is plastered on his face. Lorcan tips a glass and drinks with a wink. The vibe in the room is tense and painful, like an unspoken threat’s lurking at the edges.
There are two empty places. I steer Nika toward them and seat her to my left, beside the Dragon Brun. I sit across from Artyom, ignoring his glares, as wait staff pours wine and begins to serve the first course.
“How are you finding Paris, miss?” Lorcan asks Nika politely. His Irish brogue is vague but still present.
“It’s lovely. I’ve never been outside of L.A. before.”
“I find it overrated.” Brun grins viciously at the Frenchman. “You hear that, Serre? Paris is nothing compared to Dublin.”
“Only if you prefer depression to opulence.” Serre looks bored and I get the sense this is an argument they’ve had before.
Lorcan laughs loudly, which makes Nika wince.
It’s like someone’s cackling during a funeral.
Artyom eats and drinks stiffly, occasionally looking up at me, a strange triumphant smirk creeping into his expression.
I barely touch what I’m served, and only drink what’s polite.
Most of dinner is spent watching the Dragons, trying to get a sense for them.
I don’t know much about Serre or Brun. The Frenchman is notoriously cold and reserved.
He’s from old money, or at least that’s the rumor.
Meanwhile, Brun’s the opposite: he grew up on the streets of Dublin, ran drugs, money, and guns for the Irish Republican Army, and killed his way into his current criminal empire.
Serre’s cold and dispassionate; Brun burns like a comet.
They hold my fate in their fucking hands and I hate them for it.
After the main course of duck and filet is served and cleared, Zohran stands, his chair legs grinding on the floor, the sound echoing through the cavernous room.
“Alright, gentlemen, I have been patient enough and went through this farce out of obligation to our illustrious host—“ He nods at Serre who merely gazes back, giving away nothing in his expression. “However, it’s time we put an end to this ugly business and moved on.”
"Something I can fuckin’ agree with,” Brun says heartily. “You lot know how much I hate coming to Frenchie’s home turf.”
“The city’s a little filthier with you around, that’s true,” Serre murmurs, sounding almost apologetic for it.
“We’re here to fill the final seat.” Zohran looks around the table. Massimo still remains silent and watches intently. “There are two potential suitors, and we all know who we’re going to choose. My vote’s for Artyom.”
“Mine as well.” Prosper Serre glances at me coldly.
“Hate to do this to such a lovely lady such as yourself—“ Brun says, grimacing. “But I smell which way the wind’s blowing.”
Zohran grunts, triumph stretching his old, craggy face. He gestures at Massimo. “And you, Cardone? Are you going to sit this one out?”
Mass shakes his head. “My vote’s for Artyom.”
That gets a surprised murmur from Serre and a loud laugh from Brun. Zohran’s face pinches in frustration. He likely wanted to make sure Mass was on the wrong side of this vote, probably to isolate and weaken him, but Mass didn’t go for it.
Nika tenses at my side. Her shoulders go tight as Artyom beams in victory, almost screaming with the joy of it. He’s vibrating, eager to leap to his feet, desperate for the Dragon crown, but I touch my wife’s hand to calm her before standing instead. Every head turns toward me.
A dead man. The condemned.
“Before you make this official, what about one last game, Zohran?”
The Greek’s lip twitches. “What are you talking about? The vote is finished. Even your brother-in-law spoke against you. This is done.”
“Becoming a Dragon is about winning, isn’t it? But this result was never in question. From the beginning, you chose Artyom because he was a useful idiot.”
“Fuck you, Gabriel,” Artyom snarls, shoving at the table. Glasses rattle and wine spills, but nobody seems to mind. “You lost, you fucking cunt.”
“One more game,” I repeat, staring at Zohran, ignoring Artyom’s outburst. “That’s how it should work, right? I’m given the chance to prove myself.”
Zohran glares at me. His lips are pulled back in a snarl. Artyom shouts his protest, but it’s Dragon Serre who also stands and holds out his hands in a gesture of calm and quiet. He’s got an aura to him, and that’s enough to make Artyom bite his tongue.
“The candidate has a point,” Serre says softly. His voice is low and gentle. “Why not a game?”
“Yeah, why not?” Brun echoes, banging his glass on the table. He downs half with a sigh. “This was so bloody boring until now.”
“We voted.” But Zohran doesn’t sound convinced anymore. His eyes bore into me, raging and wild, but curious too.
“Since when was this a democracy? I always thought the Dragons were a meritocracy.”
“More like a bloodocracy,” Brun says happily. “The more blood you spill, the better.”
“One more game.” I stare Zohran down. He gazes back and I see his willpower crumble. Like the journal said, he can’t help himself, the bastard. It’s too much of a temptation.
This is a risk, but I have no other choice. I’m leaving too much to the Greek. Except if I had sat there and kept my mouth shut, the vote would be over, I would have lost, and Artyom would be a Dragon.
I don’t intend to leave here a corpse. Much less let my wife get hurt in the process.
“You want to play then?” Zohran slowly walks around the table as he speaks.
He shoves Artyom back down into a chair, ignoring the young man’s protests.
“Brun is right. Becoming a Dragon is about spilling blood. It’s about doing what must be done, about burning all bridges, about struggling in the mud. It’s about sacrifice.”
“That’s right,” Prosper Serre mutters, his eyes shining with intensity.
Zohran stops a few feet from me.
“I’ve sacrificed,” I say, glancing at the men around me. “And I’m prepared to do what’s necessary.”
“Are you, Gabriel?” There’s a wicked smile on his lips as he reaches into his jacket and draws out a blade.
It’s a simple knife, but clearly sharp, likely a weapon he keeps on himself at all times, a habit from a harder time in his life.
He holds it toward me, hilt first. “Are you willing to do what’s necessary? To sacrifice anything?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You will play my game, and if you win, you will be Dragon. However, if you refuse, you will step aside. Do you agree? The game is very simple.”
“Yes. I agree to your terms.”
“Wonderful. All I need you to do is take this knife and cut your wife’s throat.”
The table goes dead silent.
Nika stares at me in horror. Her pretty eyes are wide and desperate, her hands shaking. She knocks over her wine glass and shoves back, getting to her feet. She staggers, leaning against the back of her chair.
“This… this is crazy, what are you…” She turns, but Brun’s standing behind her.
“Sorry, lass, but you’ll have to play too,” he says, blocking her escape.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Everyone’s watching. Artyom’s got that victorious smile back on his face. Massimo looks outraged. Serre is fascinated.
My world’s about to fall to pieces.
“You’re fucking crazy,” I say breathlessly, not able to move an inch.
Zohran beams, showing teeth. “I told you, becoming a Dragon is about sacrifice. It’s about winning, and this is my game.
Kill your wife. Cut her pretty throat and stare her in the eyes as you do it.
I’ll crown you Dragon over her rotting corpse myself.
But if you refuse—“ He leaves the ending hanging in the air.
If I refuse, both of us will die anyway.
That’s the fucked up part of the game. There’s no real choice.
If I do this, if I take the knife and kill Nika, then Zohran owns me.
He wins either way. If I refuse, his chosen man takes the seat; if I accept, I murder my own wife in front of witnesses, likely filmed the whole time, and the shame and the horror of what I’ve done will taint me for the rest of my life, and I will be Zohran’s to manipulate and destroy.
He’ll use Nika’s death against me, over and over, until I’m nothing more than his puppet.
Kill her and become Dragon.
Refuse and she’s still dead.
I thought the game would be easier—I thought it might be a game I could win.
Instead, there’s no way out of this.
I feel like gagging and screaming. My heart hammers as sweat beads on my back. I reach forward slowly, barely thinking, blinking sweat from my eyes, sweat from my forehead, and grasp the hilt of the blade, my hand sticky with more sweat. I draw it away from Zohran’s grip.
Kill the girl. Win the game.
What was she to me? The day we spent in bed, our bodies twisted together. She was a checkbook from the start. She was a collection of sums in a ledger.
What did we say earlier? Those were words, weren’t they?
I’d sacrifice anything to get what I’ve always dreamed about.
And Nika’s only one life. She’s only one girl against all my people, against Daniel, against Massimo and my sister and my brother. What’s one person compared to all that?
I slowly turn and face her.
Nika’s eyes are pleading. Tears stream down her cheeks.
She whimpers, shaking her head, trying to form words but she’s too afraid to speak.
I want to tell her, it’ll be okay, it’ll be fine, I’m good at this.
She won’t feel a thing. There won’t be any pain.
A part of me is dying, it’s breaking and struggling, it’s cracking into pieces.
I hate what I’ve become and hate what I used to be, and I know I’ll be worse when I cross this impossible line.
“Sacrifice,” I say gently, reaching out to touch her cheek. I wipe some wetness away. She nuzzles into me, whimpering, sniffling.
“Sacrifice,” she repeats, voice husky with fear.
I draw back the blade, angling it at her throat—
Then turn in one, fluid motion, and plunge it directly into Zohran’s chest.