Page 13 of The Butcher

He waved off the comment and smashed the cigar into the glass ashtray.

“Don’t worry,” I said with a smirk. “I’m not a snitch.”

“The chief of police says a couple more girls have been taken.” He stared me down as if this was entirely my fault, as if I was the one who had kidnapped them and shoved them in the trunk of a car.

“I’m working on it.”

“Are you? Because I hear you’re convicting a couple kids who tried to rob a bar.”

“That was a personal matter.”

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Bastien, we’ve got to put a stop to this. Cafés and restaurants are hurting because women aren’t going out late anymore, and people are already pissed about the change in the pension system. Tourism is down because women are afraid to travel here?—”

“You think I give a shit about any of that?” I snapped. “Tourism can be damned. I hate Americans as it is.”

Raphael was a middle-aged man with short hair sprinkled with gray. He was thin and in shape, looking like an American businessman in his blue suit. He served the president of France and ran the Senate and the National Assembly—as well as the French Emperors—a secret society within the Senate that did all the dirty work so no one else had to. We weren’t a group of vigilantes who wanted to punish crime. We wanted to run it—by our rules. We maintained crime, kept it healthy, and protected the innocent. Without us, the French Republic wouldn’t have the most romantic city in the world.

“I’ll handle it, Raphael.”

“You said that six months ago.”

I gave him a cold stare. “You want me to keep every criminal in this city in line. And you want me to capture the largest trafficker France has ever known at the same time. I know everyone worthknowing, and no one is saying shit about Godric. That says something…or the lack thereof does.”

Raphael had just put out his cigar, but he grabbed another from his drawer and lit up right in his office, in the place where royalty had once sat. “Figure it out, Bastien.”

I arrived at the private estate outside of Paris, armed guards behind the gate like they always expected trouble. I checked in with the guy in charge, and they radioed in my presence to the man of the house—Fender.

I sat in the car for a while as I waited for an answer, unsure if he would agree to see me without warning when we barely knew each other. It was at least ten minutes before the gates opened and they allowed me through.

I’d never waited for anything, but I waited for Fender because he was the best lead that I had.

The valet took my car, and the butler escorted me into the study, a place that smelled like cigar smoke because the scent had been absorbed by every piece of furniture and the curtains for decades.

I sat there, a copy ofThe Count of Monte Cristoon the coffee table next to a small vase of pink roses. The house was quiet like no one was there, but the place was three stories and probably full of staff.

A moment later, Fender walked inside in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, his pissed-off expression reserved for me. He was a man in his forties, on the precipice of fifty, but he was still builtlike a brick shithouse, a man who lifted every morning without exception, who let his hair sprinkle with a hint of gray because he didn’t give a damn to cover it.

He faced me on the other side of the coffee table, sizing me up with those coffee-colored eyes. “If this isn’t important, I’ll shoot you between the eyes.”

He was deadly serious, and I liked that. “Fair enough.”

He dropped onto the couch, arms on his knees, his palms together.

I sat across from him, the doors to his study open but the house quiet. “I spoke to Magnus the other day, but that was a dead end.”

“He is a dead end.” He was still dead serious.

“I’m sure you’ve heard women have been disappearing from Paris.”

“I don’t watch the news because I don’t give a shit about anything outside my world. I keep tabs on my wife and children, and the rest can burn for all I care.” His hostile eyes stared me down like bullets from a gun. “You wasted your time coming here.”

“You operated the most expansive trafficking scheme in Paris fifteen years ago.”

“Yes—fifteen years ago. And if the Butcher thinks he’s gonna carve my flesh off the bone, I’d like to see him try.” His hostility burned even hotter, like he’d jump across the table and strangle me right there on the couch.

“Statute of limitations,” I said. “You’re pardoned.”

He still looked pissed off as hell. “I have nothing to offer you, Bastien.”

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