I snap the folder shut. “And?”
“We need more information. These are the pieces we have so far; it’s up to you to connect the dots.”
“Then get someone else.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “This isn’t a request, Herron. You took the documents. You're the one who’ll follow the thread.”
I clench my jaw, weighing my options. Walking away isn’t really a choice, not in this world.
“Where do I start?” I ask, hating myself for playing along.
He hands me another slip of paper. “Start there.”
I glance at the note. A single name scrawled in ink: Emile Laurent. Beneath it, an address in Paris.
Paris. Of course, it couldn't be just a quick car ride away.
I tuck the paper away and turn on my heel. As I walk out, the man calls after me, his voice tinged with amusement.
“Try not to make a mess this time, Herron.”
I don’t bother replying.
The flight to Paris was uneventful, more than I can say for my mood. I spend most of it flipping through the folder, piecing together fragments of a story I still don’t fully understand.
Margaux Belmont isn't just Martine’s mother. She’s a ghost woven into the fabric of something bigger—old money, old power, and even darker secrets. The documents hint at financial dealings spanning continents, but the most interesting parts are the gaps, the missing pieces, the redacted lines, and the photos of her with more men than just her husband.
Someone went to great lengths to bury the truth. My job is to dig it up.
Just like I dug up those deviant little feelings in her daughter, she’s in the back of my mind even when she shouldn’t be.
I never could stand that family, the rot beneath all that wealth, the performance of perfection. Ford and Dex became surprisingly good friends to me. I got close to them because of our commitment to the Brotherhood. Trusted them, even if I despised their father.
But Martine…she was an unwelcome surprise. A dream I never meant to touch, wrapped in everything I can’t stand, and everything that tempts me. She’s consumed my thoughts for two years. I could almost pity her for that, for how much it makes me hate her. I set out to dismantle her family. Instead, I found obsession.
By the time I land, the city is cloaked in soft rain, streets slick with reflected lights. I head straight to the address on the paper, hoping to be back on the jet within the hour.
An unassuming café, tucked between shuttered storefronts and glowing pharmacy signs. Inside, late-night drinkers are packed elbow to elbow, voices low and threaded with laughter, smoke curling between them. The air is thick with the scents of espresso, wine, and smoke.
Inside, I easily find my contact seated farthest in the back, wearing the hat I was instructed he would wear. Emile Laurent is older than I expected, silver-haired at the temples, and impeccably suited despite our modest surroundings. He nurses an espresso, gaze sharp.
“Mr. Herron.”
I slide into the seat across from him. “Laurent.”
He watches me for a second, then pulls a small envelope from his coat and sets it on the table. Taps it once.
“This is what you’re looking for,” he says.
I don’t touch it right away. I reach into my jacket and pull out a silver cigarette case, plain except for the skull-and-bones carving on the lid. I flip it open, light one, and take a slow drag.
“Let’s see it,” I say.
I pick up the envelope and open it. Inside is a single photograph. Margaux Belmont stands beside a man I recognize immediately.
Pierre Marchand.
Younger than Margaux by a few years, but older than me by more. He’s a member of the Society. I’ve spoken to him at Eulogia, in the mausoleum, and at a few Society events. He owns Seraphim, an underground club in the city.
