Hotel de Paris sits in the heart of Monte Carlo like a crown jewel, all Belle Époque elegance and old-world luxury. The kind of place where diplomats negotiate treaties and billionaires close deals over champagne. Neutral ground. Public enough to prevent violence, private enough for sensitive conversations.
The kind of place that makes an excellent trap.
I adjust my position in the lobby chair, eyes tracking movement through the ornate space. Fitz positioned us early, claiming the high ground before Moreau could set the terms. Logan's team has surveillance covering every entrance, every exit, every angle. We're wired, armed, and ready for whatever Moreau brings to the table.
Marissa sits across from me, outwardly calm, but I recognize the tension in her shoulders. She's been quiet since we left the safe house this morning, mask firmly in place. Last night she fell asleep against me after Fitz's interruption about the Iron Choir representative, but this morning she woke distant. Preparing herself for whatever comes next.
Fitz's presence is the only thing keeping my hands to myself. We're operatives on a mission, not lovers waiting to see if the world burns down around us.
"Movement," Logan says through my earpiece. "Target approaching from the east entrance. Alone."
Alone. Not with the Iron Choir representative Fitz mentioned last night. That's the first red flag.
I track Moreau's arrival across the lobby. He's all Interpol authority—expensive suit, confident stride, the bearing of someone accustomed to power. Nothing about him suggests a man who burned an operation in Marrakesh and nearly got us killed. Just diplomatic charm and polish.
He spots us, and a smile crosses his face—warm and genuine, the kind of expression that makes you want to trust him, which is exactly why I don't.
"Fitz," Moreau says, extending his hand as he reaches our position. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
Fitz doesn't take the offered hand. "You said you were bringing an Iron Choir representative. You said they wanted to negotiate."
Moreau's smile doesn't falter as he withdraws his hand smoothly. "Change of plans. They wanted to observe first, see if this meeting was genuine or a Cerberus trap. I came alone to establish trust."
Lies wrapped in diplomatic language. I can see Fitz processing the same assessment.
"You also said you have intelligence about the Conductor's plans," Fitz continues, voice flat. "We're here to listen."
Moreau's gaze shifts to Marissa. "Nocturne. I'm glad to see you made it out of Marrakesh safely."
"No thanks to you," she says, voice flat.
"Ah." Moreau has the audacity to look pained. "I understand you're upset about how things unfolded. That's actually why I'm here. To explain. To help."
"Help," I repeat, letting skepticism color the word. "You burned her cover and ran. How exactly is that helping?"
"Because the Conductor doesn't trust her anymore," Moreau says simply. "Which means she's no longer useful to them as an asset. Which means they'll be watching for her at the gala, expecting her to interfere." He pauses, letting that sink in. "But that also means they won't be watching for me."
Fitz's expression doesn't change. "You're offering to go in her place."
"I'm offering to be your inside man," Moreau corrects. "I still have access to the Iron Choir's operations. They believe I'm with them. I can get close to Amelie in ways Nocturne no longer can."
Too smooth. Too convenient.
"Why?" Marissa asks. "Why turn on them now?"
Moreau's expression shifts, vulnerability crossing his features that feels calculated. "Because they've gone too far. A child barely old enough for school. Using her as leverage against her father. There are lines even I won't cross."
The mention of Amelie feels designed to appeal to our sense of morality and make us believe he's had some crisis of conscience.
"And the Iron Choir representative you mentioned?" Fitz asks. "The one coming to negotiate?"
"Delayed," Moreau says smoothly. "Trust takes time to build. Let me prove myself first. Let me attend the next meeting when they send someone. Let me show them I'm still loyal while feeding you their plans."
It's a good pitch, smooth and rehearsed and almost believable.
Almost, but not quite.
"We need to discuss this privately," Fitz says, standing. "Wait here."
