He sits up, ripping the tubes from his chest. "Where is the Syndicate?" he asks Kaiser.
"Monaco," Kaiser replies.
Alaric stands up. Naked. Wet. Reborn. He looks at me. "Get the dress, Elodie."
"Which dress?"
"The red one," he says. "We are going to a summit."
"And what are we going to do?"
Alaric walks to the window, looking out at the dark ocean. "We are going to introduce them to the grand finale."
CHAPTER 29
ROUGE ET NOIR
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:Casino de Monte-Carlo, Monaco
Track:The House of the Rising Sun– The White Buffalo (Sons of Anarchy Version)
Sensory:The click of ceramic poker chips, the scent of sea salt and Chanel No. 5, the suffocating weight of red velvet.
Mood:High-Stakes Glamour & Predatory Deception.
The dress is a weapon.
It is not the mourning black of the funeral gown I wore to bury Thorne’s reputation. It is red. Deep, violent, arterial red. It is made of heavy silk satin that pours over my body like liquid mercury, clinging to every curve, every scar, every secret. It is backless, plunging dangerously low, held up by thin spaghetti straps that feel fragile against my skin. The slit on the left side goes all the way to my hip bone, revealing the sheer stocking and the holster where the ceramic knife rests against my thigh.
I stand on the balcony of the Hôtel de Paris, looking out over the Place du Casino. Monaco glitters below me. It is a jewel box of a city, built on old money and new crimes. Supercars prowl the roundabout like metallic panthers—Bugattis, Ferraris, Lamborghinis. The air smells of expensive exhaust, jasmine, and the salt spray of the Mediterranean.
It is a different world from the oil rig. A different universe from the boxcar. But the monsters are the same. They just wear better suits here.
"Turn around," Alaric’s voice commands from the shadows of the suite.
I turn. He is standing by the minibar, adjusting his cufflinks. He is breathtaking. The rough, bearded exile of the coast is gone. In his place stands the Director. He is clean-shaven, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His hair is trimmed, slicked back. He wears a tuxedo that fits him as if it were grown in a lab—midnight blue, peak lapels, tailored to hide the bulk of the Kevlar vest beneath the shirt.
But it is his hands that draw my eye. His right hand—the one that was a claw just days ago—is flexing. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. Kaiser’s medical tank worked miracles. The scarring is there—faint white lines tracking across his knuckles and palm—but the movement is fluid. He picks up a glass of scotch. He holds it steady. Not a tremor.
"How does it feel?" I ask, walking toward him. The heels Kaiser provided add four inches to my height, making me look Amazonian.
"Like new," Alaric says, his eyes locked on me. He sets the glass down and walks to meet me. "But different. Rewired."
He stops in front of me. He reaches out and touches the strap of my dress. His fingers graze my shoulder. The touch is electric, familiar, yet terrifyingly precise. "Red," he murmurs. "The color of warning."
"The color of the target," I correct.
"You look..." He pauses, searching for the word. "You look like the end of the world, Elodie."
"Good. Because that’s what we’re bringing."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. Inside is an earpiece. Smaller than the last one. Invisible. And a chip. A single, black poker chip. "The buy-in," he says, handing it to me. "Fifty million euros. Courtesy of Kaiser’s slush fund."
I take the chip. It is heavy. "And the plan?"
"Silas Vane is in theSalle Médecin," Alaric says, his voice dropping to a low growl. "The private room. He is playing No Limit Hold'em with an arms dealer from Ukraine and a shipping magnate from Greece. He is winning. Because he cheats."
