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“Le jeune homme said he would find le livret. And he did not. He failed like he always does. Cocked the entire thing up and let the girl escape my stable.” The way he touches Winnie, when I know deep in my soul he’s talking about Truie, makes my blood boil. “So I will claim this one. She can entertain me until I get what I want back where it belongs.”

Did he touch Truie like that?

Did his men?

Did my fucking cousin put a single finger on her, touch her, hurt her?

My thoughts spiral, going to a dark, dark place as I think of all the ways I could happily make Desmond Grey suffer. Desmond and any number of his friends who I know are involved with Alain. And after taking them out, I would sleep like a fucking baby without a care in the goddamn world.

For now, though, I have to stay calm.

Doing so while surrounded by chaos is one of those random skills that’s lauded in my line of work. It’s never been an issue, but tonight as the overly decorated, stuffy office of the head of the French underworld descends into utter mayhem, I might be struggling.

Struggling with the shit Alain Robicheaux is tossing around against different families. Mine included.

Struggling with his admission that the asshole took out a hit his own brother to take over le Milieu. That he left his nephew without parents and cut him out of his due.

Struggling with the fact that if this situation goes any further south, the woman I left safely tucked in bed, the one who has consumed me, mind and soul, will be left alone, broken and without the retribution she’s due. Because a single wayward twitch of an eye could have this whole thing blowing up in our faces.

And right now, it’s not looking good.

“I rid this world of your father, and I will happily dispose of you in a similar fashion. All I ask for is one move, a flinch, something to assuage my complicity in your expungement.” Alain’s heavy French accent twists and bends around each word he utters to his nephew.

He’s nothing if not a pompous motherfucker who latches on to big words in an attempt to sound smarter than he is. Though, he really did manage to hide his involvement the murder of Christophe’s parents for almost a decade, so maybe he’s smarter than I’ve given him credit for.

Christophe’s tone is pained when he asks, “And Maman?”

“It was simple, really. And it will be even simpler to do it again and get you out of the way for⁠—”

Two shots ring out in rapid succession from the back of the property, blowing the window and spraying glass inward. Everything slows unnaturally. On reflex, I fire my weapon and hit the sentry standing behind Alain while clocking the fact that the one who had his barrel aimed at me is in a heap on the floor, leaking profusely. Yeah, he’s done.

My focus darts around the room taking note of those I care about. Christophe is up and blood free, but Winnie is still trapped in Alain’s grasp, marked with splatters of crimson. A thousand little slices match the bloom of blood spreading rapidly across the white expanse of his shirt. How the shot missed her is beyond me. Glass shards glitter under the light of the heavy chandelier suspended in the center of the room. It would be beautiful if it didn’t signify that something isn’t right.

The majority of our men are at the front of the house, and the rest are posted around the perimeter.

“Who fired from the back?” I mumble into my comms while sprinting across the room.

The silence is broken by a sharp, “Negative, sir. Not one of ours.”

My feet barely touch the balcony before I hurdle over the edge and drop to the ground, landing in a crouch that’s going to fucking hurt when the adrenaline wears off.

Weapon raised, I stay low and cross the distance toward the still form in the center of the precisely manicured lawn.

“Drop it.” I seethe and order on a growled command.

A gun falls to ground from a small, trembling hand. Not small, tiny. Frail and delicately made like a hummingbird’s wings.

“Christ.” There’s only one person it can be. “Truie, love. What are you doing?” I drop to my knees in front of her and toss her gun out of reach. I’m torn between checking our surroundings and checking her for injuries.

Movement in my periphery catches my attention as my men move in to suppress the shooter and lockdown the situation.

“Stand down. I’ve got this,” I murmur into comms.

“But sir⁠—”

“Fuck off out of here. I said I’ve got this.” There’s no room in my tone for misinterpretation. If anything, when we debrief, there will be a not-so-gentle reminder that orders are to be followed without question.

I shove my Glock into the waistband at my lower back and slide closer to Truie, the wet grass seeping through and soaking my knees. A chill runs through Truie as my hands hover just shy of touching her.