Page 8 of The Carver

He must have taken my silence as affirmation because he said, “That’s the most hypocritical bullshit I’ve ever heard. You were in far more danger with him than you ever would be with me.”

“He steals art. He doesn’t deal drugs or move weapons.”

He scoffed. “The wealthy appreciate wine and art more than anybody else. Whether you earn your money pushing heroin or selling rifles to criminals, it doesn’t change that fact. And they aren’t happy that your ex is taking Monets, Picassos, and da Vincis from the people and putting them in rich assholes’ shitters. He’s pissed off a lot of people, and once they figure out it’s him, he’s dead.”

I breathed quietly, but I felt my adrenaline spike.

“Another thing that he hid from you.”

That whole time, I’d thought I was perfectly safe, but now, I realized my husband had had a target on his back while he slept right beside me.

There was a long stretch of silence between us. Bastien seemed to be giving me a moment to process everything he’d said. He stared at me all the while, his usual intensity gone and his eyes dark. “I’ve said my piece. Now you can go.”

I stayed in the chair, feeling the threat of his words press against my throat like a knife.

He looked over his shoulder. “Lorenzo.”

The man who had escorted me here came around the corner and approached the table.

“Take her home.”

“Of course.” He nodded then stepped aside, giving us a moment to say goodbye.

Bastien looked at me again, waiting for me to leave.

“I’ll stay?—”

“I want you to leave.”

It felt like someone had struck me with a baseball bat from behind. It broke my ribs and bruised my lungs. I felt the blood flow in places it shouldn’t. The damage was irreversible—exactly like the relationship I’d just destroyed.

Bastien didn’t blink. Stared me down like I was one of the people dumb enough to cross him. “Leave.”

I had no words. Had no fight. I finally rose to my feet, grabbed my coat, and walked away from his table. Before we rounded the corner to the elevator, I turned back to look at him.

He had angled his head slightly to look out the window. His expression was visible in the reflection—and he looked mad as hell.

Chapter 2

Bastien

The SUV pulled into the warehouse, and I left the back seat and entered the rear of the building. The double doors were open to the next room, the processing facility where we organized all the taxes paid by the dealers in the city.

Cash was everywhere, stacked on tables, workers dropping piles into automatic machines that counted the bills digitally, while guards paced the room with rifles in case anyone slipped a bill into their pocket.

When I entered the room, everyone paused what they were doing to sneak a glance.

I pretended not to notice.

I headed into the next room, where Luca sat with some of the guys, his laptop open on the table. Poker chips were in the center, and it looked like they were playing a hand rather than getting shit done.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked when I walked in. “You know taxes are due on the first.”

Luca looked away from his cards. “I can’t do shit until they’re done. You know that.”

“They should have been finished hours ago.”

“Well, some of the payments were behind.”

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