Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
I nodded like I understood, even though I didn’t understand a thing.
He looked out the window for a while, his beautiful eyes reflecting the lights of the Eiffel Tower on the Seine. He stayed that way, utterly still. “All my father ever cared about was the family business. It was the only reason he had sons, because blood was all he trusted. He took girls off the streets, from their homes, everywhere. He put them to work in our facilities, turning them into prisoners whose sentences would only end upon death. When I was fifteen, he said I was a man and ready to fulfill my role in the family business. He took me to the warehouse outside Paris. One of my classmates had gone missing months prior to that—and I saw her there.”
I realized he was answering the question I’d asked a few weeks ago—why he cared so much about the rules. Why he protected women he didn’t even know. Why it mattered to him when he had no daughters or sisters—that I knew of.
“When I tried to free her…my father made me shoot her.”
My hand instinctively slid over my mouth to hide the quiet gasp that wanted to break free.
His eyes were still on the Eiffel Tower.
“He said he would shoot me if I didn’t do it—so my brother did it instead.” He spoke with melancholy, his eyes glazed over in old memories. “Shot her right in the fucking head…and we never spoke about it.”
My hand finally left my mouth when the shock had passed. It was hard to picture Bastien as a boy when he was a six-foot-three man who could pick up a truck. Hard to picture a time when he was innocent and scared. But when I did, it hurt me. It hurt me so much. “I’m sorry, Bastien.”
The sound of his name brought him back to me, his eyes connecting with mine again, still dead.
“Thank you for telling me that… I know that was hard.”
He stared at me for a while. “It wasn’t hard to tell you, not when I can tell you anything.”
I didn’t expect him to say that, and I didn’t expect it to hit me so hard. His words slipped under my skin and hit all my buttons. He controlled my heart like a puppeteer and made me dance and sing.
He looked at the Eiffel Tower again. “I’m not a saint. I know how much money these guys are pulling in, and there’s no reason they can’t pay for the labor they need. It’s a reasonable compromise, but assholes always get greedy.”
“Did her family ever know?” Did they hope she was still alive?
“I told them she was gone and gave them some money.”
“That was nice of you.”
“Nice?” he asked quietly. “Shooting my father instead would have been the nice thing to do…and getting her the fuck out of there.”
“You tried, Bastien.”
He gave a slight shake of his head but didn’t argue.
“I didn’t know you had a brother.” His family life was shrouded in secrecy. He was open with me about every other aspect of his life except this one.
“Because I don’t. Not in the traditional sense anyway.”
“What happened between you…if you don’t mind me asking?”
He looked at the Eiffel Tower for a while before he answered. “We have different ideologies. He believes in everything my father stood for—and I believe in the opposite. There were a few years when we came to a compromise and found a way to be brothers, but that went to shit. Now we’re enemies, for all intents and purposes.”
“Is he still in the business?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m guessing he’s operating his business against your rules?”
“Yes.”
I nodded in understanding. “That’s complicated.”
“It is complicated. I have to stop him—but I can’t kill him—and he fucking knows it.”
“Do you think he’s the one who…who tried to kill you?”
“No.” He didn’t have to think twice about it. “But he knows who did.”
“And he won’t tell you?”
He shook his head.
I thought I knew Bastien before tonight, but now I saw him in a whole new light. “What’s his name?”
He looked at me again. “Godric. And I’ve spoken of him enough for one evening.”
I could tell how much the strained relationship bothered him. How much it got under his skin and bubbled to the surface like a painful welt. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.” His beautiful eyes looked at me, open and vulnerable, completely transparent.
“How—how many people have you killed?”
He continued his stare.
“You don’t have to answer that question if you don’t want to.”
He considered the question in heavy silence, the seconds ticking by. “I can’t give you a hard number because if I kill someone, then they mean nothing to me, and I don’t remember people I never cared for. But it must be close to a hundred if I had to guess.”
I swallowed at his body count—his actual body count.