Rule: Paris Mob Book Three Read online

  Rule

  Paris Mob Book Three

  Michelle St. James

  Blackthorn Press

  Contents

  Rule

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Links

  Also by Michelle St. James

  Rule

  Paris Mob Book Three

  Michelle St. James

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2016 by Michelle St. James aka Michelle Zink

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Isabel Robalo

  ISBN 978-0-9975464-8-4

  1

  Christophe looked up as the man entered the dimly lit room. His head was still pounding from the last beating they’d given him, and his arms had gone numb from being tied behind his back. He had tried to keep track of time in the beginning, but it had become impossible in the windowless room. How long had he been there?

  One week? Two?

  “Are you ready to talk?” the man asked, pulling a chair in front of him and sitting in it.

  He felt a surge of relief as he looked at the man across from him. This wasn’t one of the ones who beat him. This was the man they sent in to coax and cajole, to try and convince Christophe to give up information on Luca and Farrell, on their financial operations and safe houses. It wouldn’t last long. Soon they would realize he still wasn’t going to tell them anything.

  Then the beating would begin again.

  He allowed himself a moment of peace in the meantime, turning his mind inward instead of focusing on the man’s words. Her face immediately drifted across his mind.

  Charlotte…

  The dark eyes, filled with knowledge of him no one had ever had.

  The elegant cheekbones, so fine they might cut glass.

  The full lips and long neck.

  “Are you listening to me, Monsieur Marchand?” the man said. “The boss is quickly losing patience with you. Soon he’ll have no use for you at all. Is that what you want?”

  Christophe met his eyes and smiled, his split lip stinging with the effort.

  “I’m trying to help you.” He held Christophe’s gaze, as if that might compel him to talk, then sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to send Rudy back in then.”

  He rose from the chair and moved it across the room. He was almost out the door when he turned around.

  “They’re going to take you down anyway, you know. All of you. It’s only a matter of time. Telling us isn’t a betrayal. It’s only expediting that which will happen anyway — and maybe saving your life in the process.”

  Christophe had the urge to laugh. If this man thought a few beatings would take down his operation, make him talk against his brothers, he was mistaken. And he was even more mistaken if he thought Farrell and Luca would go quietly, to say nothing of Nico.

  And they would bring Nico back in if they had to.

  Nico wouldn’t be happy about it, but he would answer the call if it came.

  It would be all-out war. A battle that would make the takedown of the Syndicate look like child’s play. This time there would be no jail. No plea bargains.

  There would be only death.

  Christophe’s body was broken, but he would be ready to fight when the time came. And it would come soon. The knowledge gathered in his bones like a storm. Julien and Farrell and Luca were coming for him. Then these men would pay.

  For taking him during the few days Julien had been in L.A.

  For beating him.

  And most of all, for keeping him from Charlotte.

  His heart squeezed when he thought of her, wondering what had happened to him. Wondering why he’d left without word for her. And if Julien had followed instructions, he would have been no help. Christophe had been very clear that if anything happened to him, Charlotte was to be taken care of but kept out of it. It would hurt her not to know what had happened, but it was better than having her in danger.

  The man left the room, and the brute named Rudy entered, slapping a baseball bat against his palm. A textbook sadist, Rudy enjoyed their little meetings. Christophe retreated into his mind, calling Charlotte forward. She was his refuge, his safe place.

  He was still thinking of her when Rudy landed the first blow.

  2

  Charlotte walked down the street, trying to turn her mind away from him. It wasn’t easy, especially in Paris, and she revisited the debate that had been playing over and over in her mind for the last month.

  She should go back to L.A.

  Paris was no good for her. Not without Christophe.

  And it was especially no good for her knowing that he’d changed his mind about them. That he’d been too much of a coward to say it to her face. Instead he’d simply disappeared, seemingly vacating the house on Saint Germain and the city itself. She assumed he was at his family’s estate in Corsica, although she didn’t understand the logistics of meeting the threat to his territory from an island in the Mediterranean.

  Had Raneiro Donati given up? Turned his attention to other territories?

  But that didn’t make sense either. She’d met Farrell Black and Luca Cassano in Bermuda. Had listened as the men talked about the attacks being launched on London and New York and the attacks they’d heard were being launched to a lesser degree in other territories across the world. Raneiro was the fiercest mob boss of them all, and he’d emerged from prison determined to take back what was his. He’d failed to get the cross from them in Bermuda, which meant he was probably low on capital. Still, her research on Raneiro — research she couldn’t seem to stop herself from doing even though Christophe’s business was no longer her concern — made it clear that he was a man of rare will and determination. He’d been in charge of the Syndicate for decades before it fell. It only made sense to assume he had powerful friends — and rich ones, too.

  Was Christophe meeting the threat from Corsica? Were the stories on the news about execution-style killings in the city related to the takeover?

  She shook her head, tucking her chin into the scarf wound around her neck. The city had grown cold in the month since she’d arrived, turning on her like an angry lover. It matched her mood, and she spent most nights working in the shop, rehabilitating the pieces bought at auction by Joelle, then curling up in her father’s big armchair in the apartment over the store, drinking tea and gazing out the window at the city beyond her window.

  Paris: romantic, lovely, and the worst possible place for her at the moment.

  She looked up to find h
erself on Christophe’s street and silently cursed herself. She hadn’t been back to Saint-Germain in two weeks — since she’d promised herself she was done waiting for him. Done staring at the shuttered house, the darkened windows, the empty street in front of the historic house.

  And yet here she was.

  She was on her way home from a rare home visit to appraise an enormous Gothic cabinet. Had been walking with her head down, trying to keep the wind from snaking into the back of her coat.

  Trying not to think of him.

  It still hurt, and never more so than now, making her way down the street, his house in the center of the block, knowing he was a million miles away from her.

  She picked up her pace, forcing her gaze forward, focusing on the sidewalk in front of her. She wouldn’t look. She would get to the end of the block and turn the corner, make her way home, get warm and make tea.

  But the pull of the house was too strong to resist, and she turned her head almost instinctively as she passed. She’d expected the empty street. The unlit windows. Instead she saw that several cars were parked out front, the glass in the window panes glowing behind the drawn curtains. Several men in suits stood next to the cars out front, although a quick scan of their faces told her Julien, Christophe’s second-in-command, wasn’t among them.

  She told herself to keep walking. He didn’t want her. It didn’t matter why. Talking about it wouldn’t change anything.

  She almost didn’t notice herself step into the street. She was in a kind of fugue state. Her body operating with a will of its own, her legs moving purposefully toward the steps leading to the carved front door.

  She felt no fear as she passed the big men by the cars, not even when they noticed her. Not even when they hurried up the steps after her, one of them with his hand on a gun at his side.

  They grabbed her just as she reached the door, but she’d already managed to beat on it twice by the time they pulled her away, kicking and screaming. She didn’t know what she was doing. Didn’t know why she was doing it.

  It was pure rage. Pure pain. All of it spilling out of her like an oil slick.

  “What the…?” one of the men said, lifting her off the ground from behind. His massive biceps were a vise over her chest, holding her arms at her side as she struggled against him.

  She was still thrashing when the door opened, a sliver of light leaking onto the stoop, a large figure shadowed in the doorway.

  “Put her down,” Julien said. “Now.”

  She was released, and she hurried to straighten her scarf, her hair, embarrassed to be seen so disheveled on Christophe’s doorstep like some kind of wild woman with no dignity at all.

  When she was done she lifted her chin, tried to calm her rapid breathing. Julien scowled, narrowing his eyes as he studied her in the moment before he sighed. He opened the door wider.

  “You better come in.”

  3

  She stepped into the house, not sure what to expect. She’d been changed so completely by the last month. By Christophe’s final abandonment of her. It seemed impossible that the house on Saint-Germain would be the same.

  But it was just as she remembered it. The triple-height foyer, the travertine floors, the elaborate white moldings.

  Julien closed the door. He studied her for a moment, then sighed, shoulders sagging. “Come with me.”

  She followed him into the hall, past the parlor where she’d first asked Christophe for help. The Hiler mural was a swirl of color on the far wall, but that’s not what caught her eye as they passed.

  It was the men.

  Farrell Black and Luca Cassano.

  And they weren’t alone. There was a group of them, probably there to discuss the takeover by Raneiro Donati.

  They passed too quickly for her to see if Christophe was among them. Was that the plan? For Julien to secret her away to a room at the back of the house? Explain that whatever had been between her and Christophe was over? That it was to her advantage to accept it with dignity?

  Her face burned, fury simmering her blood as they turned into Christophe’s study. So that’s what she was now? Just another woman Christophe had fucked. Another fling that needed to be ended as quietly as possible so he could move onto the next beautiful thing.

  Julien closed the door, made his way to the chairs in front of the desk where she’d first seen Christophe, it’s black lacquer shining, the angels mounted at its corner standing guard. Her gaze drifted to the 16th century Spanish desk she’d delivered all those months ago. The piece that had started it all.

  “Please,” Julien said, gesturing to one of the chairs, “sit.”

  She considered refusing, then decided it would only make her seem petulant. She was angry. Furious, even. But she would try to get out of the situation with some semblance of dignity. She lowered herself into the chair.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Julien asked.

  The kindness in his voice pierced through the armor she was trying to construct around the wound in her heart. How many times had he done this for Christophe? How many times had he been tasked with dispensing of Christophe’s women?

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  He took the seat next to her instead of sitting behind the desk. She studied her hands, folded in her lap, and avoided his eyes.

  “It’s not what you think,” he finally said.

  She looked up, all the fury inside her threatening to boil over. “How do you know what I think?”

  His expression softened. “Because you’re a smart woman. Because it makes sense.”

  “It makes sense?” She shook her head and stood. What was the point in this? Why was she doing this to herself? He’d said it all by disappearing. By leaving without saying goodbye again. She’d been a fool to come here again. She should have left it alone. “Speak for yourself.”

  She was almost to the door when he spoke behind her.

  “He’s missing.”

  For a moment, she was sure she’d heard him wrong. She turned around to face him. “What did you say?”

  He rubbed his hands on his jeans, like he was nervous, and rose to his feet. “He’s been gone almost a month, although it’s hard to figure out exactly when it happened because I was with you in L.A.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  And she didn’t. His words had suddenly morphed into some new language. Something nonsensical. Because men like Christophe didn’t go missing.

  Julien paced the room. “I came back from L.A. and he was gone. I thought he was in Corsica, but he wasn’t returning my calls or texts, so I took care of business, checked in on all our operations. There was no sign of him.” He shrugged. “One week became two… No one’s heard from him.”

  There wasn’t any room for relief. Panic was seeping through her body, filling her skin like a helium, making her dizzy and light-headed.

  “Has anyone talked to Bruno?” she asked.

  “He’s off the grid, too.”

  She folded her arms, let them hang at her side, refolded them. It was hard to breathe. Hard standing in place. Adrenaline flooded her body, made her want to run and run from this news that was even worse than the news she’d expected.

  “Is he…” She swallowed, forced the words from her mouth. “Is he dead? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “No,” Julien said. Then, “We don’t think so.”

  “We?”

  “Farrell and Luca are here,” Julien said. “And some of the others.”

  She didn’t have the energy to ask about the others. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Christophe.

  “How do you know he’s not dead?” She hated saying it out loud. It felt like a jinx, and she wanted to take the words back. To reclaim them from the universe.

  “We don’t know for sure,” he said. “But there are… rumors.”

  “Rumors?”

  He drew in a breath. “I can’t tell you more, Charlotte. I shouldn’t hav
e told you this much. He…”

  “What?” she prodded.

  “He made me promise,” Julien said. “He didn’t want you involved if everything went bad.”

  She swallowed the bitterness that rose in her throat. “So you let me think he didn’t want me. He let me think it.”

  “I didn't have a choice,” Julien said. “It’s what he wanted. He’s protecting you.”

  “I didn’t agree to that.” But even as she said it, she remembered their conversation on the tarmac in L.A. He’d been clear about the risks of his business. His life. And she’d agreed to follow his lead on matters of security.

  To trust him.

  Julien was staring at her like she knew it was a lie, and she finally nodded with a sigh. “All right. We did talk about security.”

  “And?” he asked.

  “And I agreed to trust his decisions.”

  Julien nodded. “The best thing you can do is go back to the store. I’ve had someone watching it since you got back. You’ll be - ”

  “What do you mean you’ve had someone watching it?” she interrupted.

  “It’s what he wanted.”

  She should have been angry. The thought of being watched should have creeped her out. Instead all she could think was that even now, Christophe was protecting her. That he’d made plans for her safety before he’d been taken.

  “You’ll be safe there,” Julien continued. “We’ve seen no sign of anyone near the store. Go home. Let us handle this.”

  She was already resigning herself to the fact that she would have to leave. That she would have to go back to Galerie Duval and wait. It was his final words that made her pause.

  “Handle what?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

  He shifted a little. “The… investigation into his whereabouts.”

  “You know something,” she said. “Something about Christophe.”

  He sighed. “We don’t. Not for sure.”