I take down predators.
Could I go to him? Would he know what to do?
Turning to him means escalation. I can’t. So, I do what I’ve always done.
I hold the line and sit with the fear. Alone.
No cavalry or reinforcements. Just a high-profile case, a predator in a suit, and a father too close to the edge.
And I’ll have to decide if I’m willing to set myself on fire just to keep them from winning.
Chapter 27
Bastien Montclaire
The moment Julian Lemairethreatened her, he etched his name into a headstone.
The glow from Laurette’s feed casts her living room in ghost-blue stillness. Her father is gone, but the aftershock remains.
A predator marked her.
Julian Lemaire.
The moment his shadow fell across her, the outcome was fixed. A non-negotiable death sentence.
And Julian signed his without hesitation.
On paper, he’s a man the city loves to parade. Philanthropist, patron, smiling sponsor of historic districts and children’s museums. His handshake buys goodwill, and his bank account buys silence. Photos capture him mid-laugh beside judges and senators, a man polished to an impossible sheen.
Camouflage.
The cleaner the image, the deeper the filth.
The further I dig, the more the truth surfaces. Not in official reports, but in the encrypted corners where no oneuses their real name. Whispers and codes. Patterns that look harmless until you align them in the right light.
Properties tucked across the state. Cars registered to shell companies. And the crown jewel—his membership at a gated club with a pristine reputation.
Squeaky clean on the surface. Except encrypted forums don’t lie. They never do.
Power lives there and trades favors. Men of Julian’s dark caliber indulge every appetite they can buy and bury the evidence beneath charity galas and high-end wine auctions.
His name doesn’t appear once. It’s there dozens of times.
Board of trustees—that tells me everything I need to know.
Courtroom proof is irrelevant. Evidence isn’t necessary. Conviction isn’t the goal.
Once I reach him, the rest writes itself. Julian Lemaire will stop breathing, and Laurette will sleep safer for it.
The decision settles in my blood, familiar and final.
My preparation begins.
The hidden door clicks open, revealing a room that doesn’t exist on any blueprint. It’s my sanctuary of steel, order, and quiet endings. Shelves line each wall, everything arranged with surgical precision. Rifles rest in shadow—restrained beasts, cleaned and oiled, waiting. Knives sit in their sheaths, edges honed to silence, custom-balanced to my hand. Tools rest in neat rows, untouched by daylight. They exist for these kinds of moments.
Tonight, this room earns its purpose.
Blades come first. I lift one from the tray, checking the edge, the weight, and the balance. Satisfied, I set it carefully on a black cloth, its sharpness gleaming under the faint light.
