He ignored me and left the building, heading to where the SUV waited. He hopped inside first and scooted over so I could take the other seat. Then we took off down the empty street.
My eyes fired bullets into his face.
He launched into his explanation. “The Roman Emperor is at headquarters.”
It took a second to process that information. “Why is he in Paris?”
“Because he’s pissed about the Vatican Museum.”
“Why the fuck does he care about that?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Wouldn’t say anything else. Only wants to talk to you.”
“This should be fun…”
Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at one of our headquarters, pulled into the underground parking garage, then entered the building. The previous owner had defaulted on their payments,and once it belonged to the Republic, President Martin gifted it to us to use for business.
I passed through the armed guards and headed upstairs to the main room, rugs and couches everywhere, along with tables that held product that hadn’t been moved yet. There was also a sea of computers on the surface because it took an entire team of accountants to keep track of all this shit.
Constantine was seated in the armchair, knees planted apart, smoking a cigar like this washishouse. His eyes found mine as the smoke left his mouth. Dressed in all black with heavy boots, he had ink creeping up his neck like it did with Bastien. “Emperor.”
I stepped forward. “Emperor.” I glanced at my men who lingered against the walls. “Leave us.”
They dispersed, heading to the stairs in the other room.
“Where are your men?” I sat in the armchair that faced him.
“What do I need them for?” He puffed on his cigar and let the smoke coat his tongue. With dark hair and eyes, he looked like a man who belonged in the Mediterranean, his tanned skin having a hint of olive. “The pretense of this meeting is friendly. At least at the moment.” He crossed one ankle over the opposite knee and let the smoke leave his mouth. “That could change pretty quickly, depending on your level of cooperation.”
“Don’t come to my city with bullshit threats.”
His tone darkened. “Don’t come to my country and hit my church.”
“I did no such thing.”
“But as the French Emperor and leader of the Fifth Republic, you know exactly who did.” He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and put it out on the table, right into the wood, not in an ashtray. “The Vatican is a sacred place. The birthplace of Catholicism. The home of our beloved Pope. And your people tarnished that holy place with their mud-trodden boots and their lack of respect.”
I could feel his anger hitting me in waves, could tell this was somehow personal to him. “My job is to ensure no innocent life is affected by criminal affairs. No one at the Vatican was hurt, as far as I’m aware.”
“It’s your job to defend the Fifth Republic and defend the purity of your city. Because France is in your heart, your soul, and your blood.” His hand tightened into a fist and thumped against his chest. “Just as the blood of the Romans runs in mine. You don’t get to come to my house and take our artifacts and our history.”
“As far as I’m aware, the objects they took are of French origin.”
“French, Italian, Greek, I don’t give a fuck. They were ours—and you took them.”
“Stop sayingyoulike it wasme,” I snapped.
“You represent all the gangs of Paris, including those psychopaths, the Aristocrats. So yes—you.”
So, he already knew who did it. The same people I assumed were behind the hit.
“I want everything stolen returned to the Vatican Museum. And I want the heads of those who thought they could steal from Rome.”
Any issues I had to resolve in my line of work resided in Paris. This was the first time an international affair had become my problem.
“If you refuse, Italy is prepared to start a trade war with France. That means no pharmaceuticals, no luxury furniture with Italian craftsmanship, no shoes, none of the fashion brands you love so much. And what you love above all else, our steel.”
I couldn’t believe this had escalated in such a manner.
