“Napoléon,” he says as though he has a bad taste in his mouth.
“Another greedy man, and so on and so forth. I think you get my point. We all do what we have to do at the end of the day, don’t we? Because even if I’m willing to fucking share what I earn, it won’t be enough. Greed doesn’t understand the concept of enough. But these unspeakable acts we take part in are all necessary because we made up our minds on what lengths we would go to the minute we decided to play this game. I can be a virtuous man all fucking day, but I couldn’t have gotten to where I am if I refused to fight the residue beneath the surface. And that’s business.”
I bend so we’re eye level. “But this is my personal life you’ve been ordered to fuck with, and in doing what you had to do, you just lost your future. Rest assured, no matter what hole you skitter back to in France—the American-made me is fucking coming for you. At least then, you’ll have a good reason to hate it. But I will grant you this, when I find you, you’ll die at the hands of a fellow Frenchman.”
Everything inside me wants to end him now, but if I do, my message won’t be delivered.
At this point, I’m prepared to face Antoine’s army, and I’ll be damned if I let that fucking thug steal any more of my peace of mind. This charade has gone on long enough. If it’s war he wants, I’ll do what I have to do to win it. Even as I dread the idea, there’s a side of me that hungers to get back into action.
“Tu veux mourir? Et laisse-moi être clair, si tu hausses les épaules encore une fois, tu le seras.” Do you want to die? And let me be clear, if you shrug one more time, you will.
“Je t’ai dit tout ce que je sais.” I have told you all I know.
This I know to be the truth. The texts are too vague for this asshole to be Antoine’s most trusted.
“Tu n’es rien de plus qu’un putain de chien de garde, et tu n’es même pas bon à ?a.” You are no more than a watch dog, and you’re not even good at that.
His eyes flare with anger, but he remains mute, swallowing his temper. And because I’m the bastard I am, I want more. “It’s a waste of your skills if you ask me. You should have demanded more for yourself.” Rolling my eyes down his frame with clear disgust, I bait him for any excuse to strike.
“Tu n’es même pas digne d’être fran?ais.” You’re not worthy to be a Frenchman.
His answering sneer is barely perceptible, but it’s all the ammo I need. Gripping my Glock, I toss the table aside and hover above him, pressing it to his forehead. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. Gripping him by the throat, I dig my fingers into his Adam’s apple and bend so we’re eye to eye. “Dis-lui que le temps ici est parfait.” Tell him the weather here is perfect. I lean in as he struggles for breath, eyes darting toward the motel door, “Et que l’eau est prête.” And the water is ready.
Resisting the urge to crush his skull with my Glock, I storm out, lifting my chin to Oz, who’s waiting outside, “Put him on the plane.”
Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours until Tyler sends his finest—until we’ve got the protection of the Secret Service alongside my birds. It’s just enough time. And in that time, I have to come clean about every detail, starting with my history with Antoine. I have ten of those hours until Julien gets to France, and after that, the real clock will start ticking. I have zero doubts it will be another fight with Cecelia, but I also know it won’t break us to the point we can’t recover. Even with that protection on its way, I’m unsure of what’s coming. That alone has me hastening toward her, intent on keeping us as close as possible. Not only could my confession drive a fresh wedge between us, but the fact that I’ll refuse her any personal space from here on out is going to be just as fucking nightmarish. She wants my trust, but when it comes to the unpredictable, I can’t give it, and on this, I won’t budge. Pulling up to the café, I don’t see her Audi and frown before shooting off a text.