He’s given me next to nothing, aside from the fact he was an acquaintance of my parents, and I’m willing to bet he’s this controlled in every situation—threat or none.
“No. Not just a student. And from what I’ve been told, these plans you have—”
“Don’t include you.” The burn in my temple from the brute force of the gun lets me know interrupting him isn’t a mistake I should make twice. Blood pours freely from my temple as I stare straight ahead at my captor, saving my wrath for the motherfucker behind me for a later date.
“So, you believe there’s room for all of us, do you?”
“I’m not that ambitious.”
“I think we both know that’s a lie.”
“La France n’est pas le pays où mes projets se réaliseront.” France is not the country where my plans will be carried out. I consider my next declaration and decide I have nothing to lose with the truth. “The man who murdered them owns the town, the police. He is the reason I’m in France, to enlist my family for help.”
“You have no family left here.”
“I know that, now.”
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the silk-lined pocket of his suit jacket, lights one up, and blows the smoke toward me. Blood glides down my neck as I maintain eye contact.
“You still haven’t asked who I am.” He cocks his head. “I feel you are more Abijah than Celine’s son.”
I don’t bother replying but briefly wonder if it’s true.
“You’re going to need to let me in on your plans if you want my help.”
“I don’t want your help. This is a family matter.”
“Everyone wants my help,” he muses and glances at the man at my back as if he’s made his decision about me, but I can’t read it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My thoughts drift to Dom and how aggressive he will be in coming after me, to Paris, to seek the truth about why I disappeared by inserting himself into this same situation. Will we all die out this way? At the hands of powerful men who decide our fates—or can we become the same type of men, change our fate, flip the script?
“As I said, I’m not interested in your help, but I would love the name of your tailor.”
“Slow down,” Claude begs as I cut a hand through the air to silence him. After our conversation and ample warning, I was freed solely because I’m Celine’s son. When the man tired of me, I was again hooded and set free two blocks from the Eiffel Tower. Dawn breaking, I ran the six miles back to my apartment to wake my roommate Claude and demand his car. He insisted on coming with me, and instead of wasting time, I allowed him in the passenger seat as I hauled ass back to the alley I was abducted from just hours before. Once there, I made him take the wheel and closed my eyes, demanding his silence, starting the slow tap of my fingers just as he hit the gas.
“Droite. Deux lampadaires. Gauche.” Right. Two lights. Left.
“Où allons-nous ? Que s’est-il passé?” Where are we going? What happened?
Ignoring the onslaught of questions, I concentrate on my task.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Droite.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Tourne à droite ici!” Take a right here!
He speeds down the narrow road as I open my eyes and search for any sign, praying I didn’t miss a turn. Claude’s remarks seem distant as I sift through the path that led us here, step by step.
“Tu es complètement taré. Tu le sais?” You’re fucking crazy, you know that?