“It’s not right, and it’s a stigma your mother worked very hard to overcome. But she did it. Beyond a few who were loyal to Sacha, even when he died, and those who Augustus had quietly turned, your mother was loved. She did great things forLe Milieu. She left behind a legacy so strong that we scraped ourselves from the bloody pavement and pierced the family back together in her name…”
He breaks off and cups my jaw, tilting my neck back to look at him. I quickly wipe away tears as he smiles and simply says, “For you.”
We fall into a moment of silence, the only sound in the room is the distant hum of the ventilation system, and the muted thuds of someone running on a treadmill. He drops his hand and steps away, turning back to the punching bag.
I can’t help but watch him as he continues, noticing the way he never misses a beat, his form as precise as it was when he started. His punches are harder than I expect, each one driving into the bag with a force that speaks of years of experience, of countless fights won and lost. I wonder if he’s putting all the quietly contained emotion into his punches, if he’s expelling his hatred for Sacha the way I want to.
He catches me staring and laughs, a deep, rich sound that fills the room. “What’s the matter, Skylar? You think an old man like me can’t keep up?”
I grin, shaking my head. “No, it’s just…you’re good. Really good.”
Jean-Luc chuckles again, a twinkle in his eye. “You’re never too old to fight, my dear. The body may slow down, but themind? The mind stays sharp if you keep it busy. Besides,” he adds with a sly smile, “a few tricks of the trade don’t hurt.”
I laugh with him, the tension in my chest easing just a little. “I’ll have to remember that.”
He nods, his expression turning serious again. “But remember this, too—fighting is about more than just strength. It’s about control, about knowing when to strike and when to step back. Your grandfather…he never learned that lesson. But you, Skylar Moreau, you still can.”
His words linger in the air, heavy with meaning. There’s something more he’s trying to say, something I can’t quite grasp, but I file it away for later. Right now, there are too many other things pressing down on me, too many other thoughts crowding my mind.
“Thank you,” I say softly, genuinely. He’s given me more than just advice; he’s given me a glimpse into the past, into the man my grandfather was, and by extension, a glimpse into the darkness that could have been my future.
But, there’s also light.
Charlotte. My mother.
He smiles, the lines around his eyes crinkling in a way that’s almost fatherly. “Anytime. Now, let’s get back to it, shall we? These bags aren’t going to hit themselves.”
We return to our workout, but the conversation lingers in my mind. I can’t shake the image of Jean-Luc as a young man, full of hope and ambition, only to be crushed by the very world he wanted to be a part of. It’s a harsh reminder of the dangers that come with power, the thin line between honor and corruption.
Charlotte avoided it. Could I? Is this world something I want to be a part of?
Is turning it down something I can even do?
As we work, I keep stealing glances at him, trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the stories he’s told. He’s strong,skilled, but there’s a sadness in him that no amount of fighting can erase. And I realize, with a pang of empathy, that he’s not just fighting the bag—he’s fighting the ghosts of his past, the same way I am.
When we finally finish, we stand in silence for a moment, catching our breath. Jean-Luc pats me on the shoulder, and warmth spreads through me. Why couldn’t this guy have been my grandfather instead of some murderous, greedy psychopath?
“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Skye,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “Don’t let this world take that away from you.”
“I won’t,” I promise, and I mean it. He’s right—I’ve got a lot to learn, but I’m not going to let the darkness consume me. Not like it did my grandfather.
As he turns to leave, I find myself calling out to him.
“Jean-Luc…thank you—” I break off, shrugging awkwardly. My cheeks burn. God, I’m so not a fucking queen. “For everything.”
He glances back, a warm smile on his face. “Remember what I told you the other day. Their voices will grow weak long before yours.”
I watch as Jean-Luc’s figure disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone in the gym. Or at least, I think I’m alone until I hear soft footsteps approaching. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. The air between us is already thick with tension, a tension that’s been brewing for days, ever since the truth came crashing down around me.
“Ella,” Madeline’s voice is soft, hesitant, as if she’s testing the waters, afraid I might lash out. And I just might. “Can I join you?”
Well, fuck.
Chapter 33
Iignore her, turningback to the punching bag. The solid thud of my fists against the bag is the only sound I allow myself to focus on. But I don’t miss the flash of hurt that crosses her face, the way her shoulders sag just a little.
Why am I so fucking mad at her? Why can I find myself slowly forgiving Evelyn and Daniel, but not Madeline?
