Jack glanced over the numbers, his gaze lingering over some concerns. Scattered chance of showers and lows that might still bite like winter without appropriate attire.
He frowned at the manic climate. “The tributes will be running in next to nothing.”
“Shall I arrange for heat lamps along the primary paths?”
“Yes. And blankets in the safe zones. Stock the grotto with warm robes, hot tea, and anything that might comfort those in need of respite. They’ll be overwhelmed enough. Let’s not add hypothermia to the list.”
“Very good, sir.” Nick made a note in his portfolio and followed him back into the suite. “There’s also the matter of the hunters.”
“Any surprises?”
“One, I’m afraid. Raphaël de Saint-Clair.”
The name meant little to Jack. French aristocracy, if he recalled correctly. Old money. “What about him?”
Nick cleared his throat, a nervous tick he often displayed when dispensing unpleasant news. “It seems Monsieur de Saint-Clair has been accused of inappropriate conduct with a minor.”
Some might ask how old, but Jack knew from experience that age didn’t matter. All children had a right to innocence.
“The situation was settled out of court,” Nick continued.
“Of course it was,” Jack growled. “A resolution only the guilty find favorable.” His hand curled into a fist at his side, the signet RA ring on his finger a constant reminder of the need for justice in a broken world. “Revoke his invitation.”
“Sir, he’s already en route. His plane lands within the hour.”
“Then have someone meet him at the tarmac.” Jack’s voice dropped to a dangerous register that made men twice his size step back. “He’s not welcome here.”
“Consider it done.” Nick made another note. “And the matter of his... continued comfort?”
“Find out what ventures he’s invested in. Properties. Partnerships. I want all of it in my hands by Monday.”
At the wet bar, Jack poured two fingers of bourbon into a crystal rocks glass. The amber liquid caught the firelight, glowing like molten gold. His gaze narrowed on memories only he could see.
“Let him see how it feels to be powerless.”
Nick closed his portfolio. “It will take time. The French are notoriously protective of their elite.”
“Time won’t save him.” He took a sip. “And don’t give me that look. I never claimed to be good, Nick, but I am damn good at what I do.”
“But you are good, Jack. You’re better than most of them.”
“I’ll be the death of them—at least the ones that deserve to suffer. They just don’t know it yet.”
“True power rests here.” Nick tapped a thin finger to his temple. “In wisdom.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Exactly. And, because of everything you taught me, I am the way I am. What’s done is done.”
Nick would never know the extent of dark, demented thoughts that roamed freely through Jack’s head or how he still drew twisted satisfaction from another man’s demise.
Some might call it poetic. Jack called it surgery.
When he spotted an infection, he cut it away and disposed of the cancer completely. Cancers like Rupert Aurin and Raphaël de Saint-Clair. He didn’t wait for their excuses. He took the victims’ word, knowing exactly what it cost to say those words out loud.
Jack’s reflection stared back at him from the dark window. A man now, tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a three-piece suit. Violence wrapped in grace and tailored wool. A lifetime of beatings and abuse refined into something lethal. “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
“Fitzgerald?”
“Yes.”
