Page 76 of Take Me Darkly

“Ma chérie, please,” Madeleine scoffed with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I have lived in Paris my entire life. I have dressed mistresses, politicians, royalty, and the unhappily married wife of a sitting prime minister. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that Americans treat their sexual appetites like a disease to be repressed. Whereas the French treat our desires the way we treat food, as something to be enjoyed properly or not at all. Do you truly think I would fail to recognize the feast beneath all this secrecy and pretense? I have eyes, Monsieur. What surprises me is you, Serena. I did not think living above a sex club would be… how to say… entirely to your taste.”

Caterina choked violently on her wine, coughing into her napkin.

Anton raised a brow. And then, to my great surprise, he smiled.

Lifting his glass with a resigned dignity of a man who knew when he had been outmaneuvered, he nodded and said, “Madame Toussaint, you are an exceptional woman. To the French.”

I burst into helpless laughter, laughing like I hadn’t laughed in years.

Madeleine smiled knowingly and clinked her glass against his. “To the French. And to delicious secrets.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Anton

* * *

The apartment door closed behind Madeleine and Caterina just after eleven, leaving behind a silence so absolute I could finally let the tension bleed out of my shoulders. Zeke had taken them to a hotel for the night. In the morning, he would drive them to the airport, where a private flight would carry them as far as Rome, and from Rome they would split for Florence and Paris.

More importantly, we hired two armed security officers to be there waiting on the tarmac, with two more assigned to shadow them at their final destinations. They didn’t know it, but they’d have invisible protection wherever they went. After all the loss Serena had experienced, the least I could do was help keep her friends safe. But it was also so I could keep an eye on them. Serena might have faith in her friends, but I trusted nobody.

They had sworn to keep her secret, and I believed they meant it. They understood enough of the danger to know silence was of utmost importance. Still, I’d be a fool to let my guard down.

After Madeleine had kissed Serena on both cheeks before leaving, Serena remained by the door for a long, quiet moment, her hand lingering on the frame. Her eyes were glassy, and it was hard to tell it was from all the laughter throughout the evening, the wine, or if she was just tired. Perhaps it was a bit of all three.

I scooped up my tailored jacket from the arm of the chair, planning a quick trip downstairs to the security hub. Ryan was on duty, and tomorrow’s flight logistics needed final confirmation. But as I watched Serena drift toward the kitchen, my chest tightened. I hadn’t held her since dawn. The urge to pull her against my heat was an ache I had no desire to suppress.

I was about to tell her I’d be back in five minutes when she paused, turning to face me.

“Wait.”

I stopped, my jacket hanging over my forearm.

“I was just heading down to command for a quick check, princess. I’ll be right back.”

“No. Not yet. Stay,” she said softly, gesturing toward the velvet sofa. “I need to get something. Stay right there.”

It was the nervousness in her voice that stopped any protest I might have made. It seemed as if she were steeling herself to do something before she could talk herself out of it. I let her go without question and sank onto the sofa. I rested my elbows on my knees, listening to the soft sounds of a drawer opening and closing down the hall.

When she returned, she didn’t sit. She crossed the room with quiet purpose, stopping inches from my knees, forcing me to look up at her. Then, with devastating grace, she sank to her knees before me, biting her swollen lower lip.

“Serena, what is it? You seem anxious.”

“Give me your hand,” she requested softly.

I frowned but did as she asked, holding out my hand in front of her. Her fingers trembled as she dropped something small and warm into the center of my palm.

The weight of it told me what it was before my eyes caught up.

I couldn’t move.

I had spent most of a decade hunting one of these. I’d been outbid by a Saudi prince for an inferior specimen at Sotheby’s, and outmaneuvered by an anonymous collector in Geneva. I thought it would forever be out of reach, now here it was, in my hand.

The Brutus Denarius.

I felt the air go out of my lungs.

I lifted the coin with reverent slowness, turning it in the light. The patina was deep, warm, and ancient, the high points worn glass-smooth by two thousand years of human hands. On one side, the sharp, uncompromising profile of Marcus Junius Brutus stared back at me, his name lettered around the edge. On the other, the pileus cap rose between twin daggers.