Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) (14 page)

C
hristophe sat
at the back of the bar, sipping his beer while he kept an eye on the doors. The place was small, dark, and lacking refinement, which is exactly why he’d chosen it. An old counter stretched along one side of the room, and three pool tables with stained green felt sat in the center. He occupied one of the few dingy booths on the opposite wall. There was no sign to announce the name of the place. Just the dilapidated cedar siding that had probably fronted the place in Charlestown for the past fifty years. But he wasn’t worried.

The other men would know where to find it.

He took another drink of the beer and thought about Charlotte, back at the hotel. They’d been in Boston for five days, researching Peter Montoya, the assistant at the Gardner whose name they’d gotten from Anna Muller, and everything they could find on the theft of Tucker’s Cross, all thanks to his cyber lab in Paris.

It had been a strange kind of dream, being in Boston with Charlotte. They hadn’t talked about their relationship. They had simply fallen into it, working side by side to learn more about Peter Montoya and gossip about the cross that had arisen in certain circles of the art community over the years. Their nights were spent walking the streets of Boston, fragrant with spring, and making love until they were both limp and satiated. They fell asleep tangled in each other’s limbs and woke up the same way. He was grateful she didn’t insist on quantifying what was happening between them, but it wouldn’t have changed anything.

He’d known since the night on the plane that she was meant to be his.

Had known it almost since the moment he’d laid eyes on her, if he was honest with himself.

Maybe it had been the chase in Vienna, knowing she was under threat. Seeing that threat with his own eyes. Knowing he was the only thing standing between her and harm.

He’d understood then that he would do whatever was necessary to protect her, and while he’d felt the urge to protect before, the object of that protection had always been inanimate. Something precious, but ultimately replaceable.

He’d known in Vienna that Charlotte was not replaceable. Had known in his soul that if she were lost, he would spend his life looking around every corner for her. Listening for her voice. Dreaming about her touch.

So he’d gotten her out, and he’d made love to her as they soared across the sky, daring to let her in during the magical hours when they’d been between countries, between time zones, between worlds.

By the time they’d stepped off the plane in Boston, he was irrevocably hers. He didn’t know how she felt about him, but he knew there was something. Some kind of wordless language that moved between them when their bodies were connected, and more and more, when they were simply holding hands, when she smiled at him over coffee in the morning, when she stepped from the shower, her body glistening like a jewel.

He hadn't told her about seeing Felix in Vienna, but he’d been doing some digging since they arrived in Boston, and he’d learned some interesting things about his brother’s operation, if that’s what one wanted to call it.

First, his brother had not picked up the shipment in Lille as they’d agreed. That meant he’d been otherwise occupied right about the time Christophe and Charlotte made their way to Vienna.

Bruno also had a minor run in with Farrell Black in London, had stepped on the London mob boss’s toes by commandeering a drug shipment without permission. Christophe hadn’t been surprised by the fact that Bruno had been defiant when caught. That he’d been cavalier with Leo, Farrell’s second-in-command, when he’d been threatened. But he had been surprised to heat that he’d told Leo it would be a mistake to interfere in his activities because Leo “didn’t know who he was messing with”.

It had left Christophe with a deep sense of disquiet. His brother was up to something. He simply couldn’t figure out how his increasingly careless — and dangerous — actions were connected to Tucker’s Cross, an antique that wouldn’t have held any interest at all for his brother a year ago.

But that’s why Christophe was here.

The door swung open, and he watched as a big man with dark hair took the measure of the place before ambling to the back of the room. He slid into the booth, and Christophe pushed one of the two extra beers toward him.

“Got Julien on guard duty out front?” Luca Cassano said.

Christophe shrugged. “It’s his job.”

Luca nodded, took a drink of the beer. “It was my job once, too.”

“I know,” Christophe said. “How’s the new life treating you?”

“Can’t complain,” he said. “Isabel’s going to the art institute while Sophia is in school during the day.”

“Both are healthy and well?” Christophe asked. He didn’t usually care to know about the families of the men who worked for other crime families, but now he found that he was curious. Like him, Luca had seemed content in his loneliness. Then he met Isabel Fuentes and her little sister, and suddenly he was as domesticated as any happy house cat.

“They are.” The contentment was clear on his face.

Christophe nodded, watched as Luca turned in the booth when the door opened. The threshold was darkened by the shadow of a man bigger than both of them. For a split second, his face was hidden by the flash of sun behind him. He looked around the room, made eye contact with Christophe, then stalked toward them. When he got there, he folded himself into the booth, no easy task given the man’s size.

Christophe looked at him for a long moment, remembering the time nearly a year before when Farrell Black had sought asylum with Jenna Carver in Paris. Christophe hadn’t been happy to see him. And he’d been even less happy to help him.

Now he was glad he had done so.

Farrell sat, rested a hand on Luca’s shoulder before turning his eyes to Christophe. He handed one of the beers to Farrell.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Sounded ominous,” Farrell said, tipping the beer to his mouth.

There was something savage about him, something that had more to do with the steel in his eyes than the scar that ran down one side of his face from temple to cheek. He understood why London ran so smoothly. Why there were rarely uprisings in that territory, even after the Syndicate was out of the picture. Farrell liked hurting people. He even liked to do it himself, and while most of the people in their business had weapons of choice, Farrell preferred to use his bare hands.

No one wanted to fuck with Farrell Black.

Which was why his brother’s brazenness made him even more concerned.

“It might be,” Christophe said.

“Tell us,” Farrell said.

Christophe started with Paris, filling the two men in on Bruno’s history, his tendency to work the edges of a game instead of playing properly. Then he continued with the ring and Charlotte Duval, the trip to Vienna and Tucker’s Cross, his sighting of Felix during the car chase.

Farrell studied him across the table for a long moment when he was done.

“I take it the girl is more than an antique dealer?” he asked.

“That is none of your business,” Christophe said.

To his surprise, Farrell started to laugh.

“Care to fill me in on the joke?” Christophe asked, ice in his veins.

Farrell rubbed a hand over his face before returning his eyes to Christophe. “The girl. It sounds a little…
familiar.
”

Luca barked out a short laugh next to him, then took a long swig of his beer.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Farrell leaned forward. “We’ve all been there, mate. Woman comes into the picture — a particular woman — and suddenly you’re balls deep in a shit storm like you’ve never seen.”

“Balls deep in a shit storm without a compass,” Luca clarified.

Farrell and Luca clinked their bottles together as if in solidarity.

“Let’s keep my personal life out of it,” Christophe said.

Farrell grinned. “If you say so.”

“You think your brother is the same man who threatened Charlotte,” Luca said.

“The man who threatened Charlotte had a knife. My brother likes knives. And his man was in Vienna.”

“But that’s not all that’s bothering you,” Farrell said.

“No.” Christophe hesitated, looking for the right way to tie the pieces together. “Have you experienced other problems in London lately? Shipments gone awry? Sources disappearing? More attrition among your men than is normal?”

A wall came down over Farrell’s features. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I have,” Christophe said. “I hadn’t quantified it until recently, but we’ve had more problems than usual. More glitches. More turnover. Not enough to make it obvious, but…”

Farrell set down his beer. “But?”

“Kind of feels like someone might be making a play.”

“You think your brother is making a play for your territory?” Luca asked. “For Farrell’s territory?”

“I don’t know,” Christophe said. “I have Julien looking into it. What’s the word in New York?”

“New York’s a shit show,” Luca said. “I’m not involved. Not formally anyway. The Vitales were old school. It was a real family business. Nico’s absence has left a vacuum no one seems capable of filling. It’s anyone’s guess who’s in charge there now.”

“So you don’t know if they’re having more problems than usual?” Farrell asked him.

“No, but I can find out.”

“You might want to do that,” Christophe said. “Because if I’m right, someone else is behind this. Someone besides Bruno.”

Farrell looked at him. “What makes you say that?”

“My brother isn’t ambitious enough for a takeover. Not on is own. If I’m right, someone else his pulling the strings.”

“I just don't understand what this has to do with the cross,” Farrell said.

“Neither do I,” Christophe said. “Not yet.”

“What do you need from us?” Farrell asked.

“Nothing right now,” Christophe said. “Just keep your ear to the ground, see if you can get a handle on anything that might be going on behind the scenes, anyone who might be looking to take advantage of the disorganization left in the wake of the fall of Raneiro Donati and the Syndicate.”

“I can do that,” Farrell said. “You need help with this cross thing?”

“Not yet.” Christophe wanted to see what came of the meeting with Peter Montoya before he said any more about the cross. “But I’ll let you know.”

Farrell nodded. “I owe you. I’m here if you need me.”

“Me, too,” Luca said. “Haven’t been in the game in awhile, but family is family.”

Christophe nodded. They’d been rivals once, but somehow the dissolution of the Syndicate had thrown them together. Now it was all of them against whoever else was out there that might take advantage of the void left by the organization that had once kept everyone in check.

“Thank you,” Christophe said.

Farrell drained his beer, then stood. “I have to go.”

Luca followed suit. “Me, too. I have to be back in the city tonight. I don’t like to leave Isabel and Sophia alone.”

“I’ll keep you posted.” Christophe said. Farrell nodded and turned to go. “Farrell?”

The other man turned around. “Yes?”

“How is Jenna? And your daughter?”

His face broke into a smile, and for a moment, he was transformed. He looked nothing like the man who struck terror in the hearts of London’s underground crime network. “They’re beautiful. Fucking beautiful.”

Christophe nodded, wondering if the tightening in his chest was envy or fear.

C
harlotte looked
at her ringing phone, eyeing the name on the display with trepidation.

Debra Hughes.

In other words, her mother.

She didn’t want to talk to her mother. Didn’t want to either explain why she wasn’t in Paris or lie and say she was still there. Didn’t want to hear her mother’s manic happiness or the melancholy brought on by another breakup, another lost role.

It was her mother’s face on the screen that finally forced her to pick up the phone. The photo had been taken during a particularly lovely lunch at the Getty Villa one afternoon when her mother had surprised her with a visit. They'd talked about the recently installed Renoir exhibit, books they’d read, family friends. There had been no mention of the man in her mother’s life. No bitterness over work or lack of it.

Charlotte had snapped the photo impulsively. At the time she’d only glanced at it, but later when she found it in her phone she realized it was one of the only candid pictures she had of her mother. Her dark hair framed her face in soft waves, and her full lips were turned up into a private smile. She was wearing little make-up, and while laugh lines fanned out from her eyes — lines her mother hated — Charlotte thought she had never looked more beautiful.

She picked up the phone. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hello there, stranger.” Her mother’s voice was low and hoarse like her own.

“Sorry I haven’t called,” Charlotte said, pacing to the window overlooking Boston. “Things have been a little crazy.”

“Is everything all right?” her mother asked. “When are you coming home? Have you put your father’s shop on the market?”

The questions got under Charlotte’s skin. They were spoken casually, as if leaving Paris, leaving her father’s work behind for the final time, was nothing.

“I’m not in Paris actually.” She knew she would come to regret telling her mother the truth, but it was a kind of revenge. The kind she regularly enacted on her mother, even as she hated herself for being so juvenile. It was the anticipated reaction she enjoyed. Knowing she could push a certain button and get exactly the reaction she expected.

“Well, where are you then?” She sounded angry. As if Charlotte had broken the terms of some unknown agreement by being somewhere other than where her mother expected her.

Charlotte turned her back to the window, leaned against the cool glass. “Boston.”

“What are you doing in
Boston?
”

There was no mistaking the disdain in her voice. Her mother hated the East Coast, had never understood Charlotte’s desire to go to school in New York or her eventual affinity for the city where she’d gotten her degrees.

“Something came up.”

Her mother’s throaty laugh sounded in her ear. “And by something I assume you mean a man?”

Charlotte’s face flushed, not because she was embarrassed to be in Boston with Christophe, but because her mother had so accurately called it.

“Not everything is about a man, Mother.” The statement made her feel even more humiliated. Now she was lying to her mother to save face. To avoid admitting that even Charlotte — paragon of reason — could be swayed by love.

No, not love. That’s not what the last few days with Christophe had been. It had been sex and even romance. It had been laughter and long walks filled with their easy silence.

But love was something else.

Wasn't it?

“Then why are you in Boston?” her mother asked, the sly smile evident in her voice.

“A problem arose with one of the pieces from the store.” It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. “I had to come to Boston to take care of it.”

“I don’t understand.” Her mother paused, and Charlotte heard the clink of ice. It was only noon in L.A., but according to her mother, it was always five o’ clock somewhere. “I thought you were selling the shop.”

“I haven’t decided that definitively,” Charlotte said.

“Surely you don’t intend to
keep
it. What on earth will you do with a dusty antique store halfway around the world?”

Annoyance prickled Charlotte’s skin. Her mother was acting like the Galerie Duval was an irritating piece of detritus to be disposed of instead of her father’s lifework, the only real connection she’d ever had with him.

“It was my father’s work,” Charlotte said. “I’m going to take my time deciding what to do about it.”

She read the anger in her mother’s pause. “I don’t know why you would bother. He never seemed to care much about you. About your life and your work. But I suppose he’s a saint now that he’s dead.”

No more than you,
Charlotte thought.

She took a deep breath, stuffing down her anger, something she was practiced at when it came to her mother. “I’ve never said he was a saint. But he was my father.”

“No one remembers that more than me.”

Charlotte wanted to be mad, to hold onto the anger that was the only insulation she had against her mother’s mercurial mood swings. But there was an undercurrent of sadness, of something like regret, in her mother’s statement. For the first time, Charlotte wondered if any of that regret was directed inward. If maybe the blame her mother had laid at her father’s feet over the years was a cover for the fear that she, too, had somehow failed their marriage. Personal feelings aside, Charlotte had always thought it an odd pairing: her father, only capable of showing affection to the inanimate objects he revered, married to her mother, a woman who needed attention above all else.

She looked down at the carpet in the hotel suite, tracing the plum and gray swirls with her eyes. “You were both young. I’m sure you both made mistakes. He wasn’t perfect — but he was my father. I just… I need some time to figure everything out.”

Silence greeted her from the other end of the phone, and Charlotte wondered if maybe she’d gone too far by speaking about one of the only subjects that was taboo to her mother.

“Fine,” her mother finally said. “But you could tell me if you’re in Boston with a man. Jake has left me, you know. You could at least keep me entertained.”

So that’s why her mother had called. Even when Charlotte had been a child she’d never been more interesting to her mother than when she was between men. The rest of the time, Charlotte could have set herself on fire and her mother would have calmly dumped a bucket of water on her flaming body while laughing coyly at her man of the hour.

“It's not my job to entertain you, Mom.” It had taken Charlotte a long time to understand the truth of it.

“Well, I hope you’re with a man,” her mom said. “A woman your age needs flesh and blood, not hundred-year-old furniture and paintings done by people long dead. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

Charlotte sighed. “I’m hanging up now. I’ll talk to you soon.”

She was pulling the phone from her ear when she heard her mother call her name.

“Charlotte!”

“What is it, Mom?”

“I… I love you.” She suddenly sounded young and unsure. “And… I’m sorry about your father.”