Page 3 of Whispered Desire

I could never truly harm myself.

And my life isn't all bad. I'm going to Paris. My first international trip. I've got things to live for.

Or the hope that there will be more to live for, eventually, since everything will be the same once I return home.

After turning up the volume in the hopes that the movie will drown out my pessimistic thoughts, I peel off the stained tissue, see I've stopped bleeding, and resume packing.

Maybe the City of Lights will change my life.

And maybe that's just another fairytale that won't come true.

CHAPTER TWO

MATHIAS

“Dites-leur de nous envoyer les contrats signés avant la fin des activités, sinon l'accord est annulé.” The command barely leaves my lips before I end the phone call with my lawyers. Petit Enterprises’s attempts to fuck me over cement my decision to rip the company to shreds once it’s under my ownership.

Of course, that was always the plan, but now I’m even more determined to see it through.

CEO Louis Petit is a narcissistic asshole who has left leather-heeled imprints across Europe in his quest to dominate the legal and blackmarket trade of pharmaceuticals.

He’s also my father.

“Qu'allez-vous faire s'ils ne se conforment pas?” Luca asks. We’ve been best friends for over twenty years, ever since we arrived at Blackchapel Manor as two angry youths itching to break free from our tethers. So, he knows how much is riding on this deal.

I answer in French as we navigate through the building lobby. “Nothing. Because they’ll sign the contracts. There’s no other option for Petit with creditors breathing down his neck—specifically theCosa Nostra. Unless he wants to take a permanent dive into the Seine, he’ll stop fucking around andagree to the deal. It means a massive payout for him and The Syndicate.”

Not that Petit will truly get to enjoy the influx of cash. He’ll be dead long before then, but not by the Sicilian mob.

By me.

The bastard son he abandoned.

Hugo's father, Conrad Steele, raised us at Blackchapel Manor. Trained us in the art of murder and manipulation to one day bring down The Syndicate, an underground network that controls the blackmarket and facets of world governments. The majority of The Syndicate’s leaders also happen to be our fathers.

Conrad had once been part of the organization before they blackballed him. We never learned the reason why he was ousted; only that he sought revenge through the sons of its leaders.

Unfortunately for him, none of us took kindly to being raised as mercenaries from such tender ages—stolen from our mothers in some cases—which is why we refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing his life's work come to fruition.

He died a bitter old man.

A small consolation prize for the torture we endured.

Luca and I step outside where a gray blanket of rain covers Paris. Hiking up the collar of my longcoat, I imagine the café crème and warm almond croissant awaiting me in the town car parked on the street. Those two items are always available when I visit my father's country or else it’d be someone’s head.

At least that’s what my employees fear.

To be fair, I’ve never decapitated a man for forgetting my mid-morning pick-me-up, though I suppose there’s a first time for everything.

“I’m over these games,” Luca grumbles from beside me, a grimace painting his tan face. “When we return home, I’m—”

Squealing tires pierce the air as a white van whips around the corner. A flurry of car horns erupts at the haphazard driving, but it’s the sliding open of the side door that draws my attention. A masked man hangs onto a handle above the opening while his other arm holds an automatic rifle—its barrel pointed straight at me.

Bullets explode from the weapon in one continuous sweep as the van speeds by, but before I have time to take cover, something slams into my side, dragging me down to the sidewalk as car windows shatter from above.

Screams and sirens form a distant bubble. Like my ears are stuffed with cotton, muffling the sounds. Raindrops sting my eyes as I stare up at the sky, and I lick away the wetness seeping between my lips.

Despite the ice running through my veins—from being targeted and the February chill—warmth envelops my limbs. Warmth that’s emanating from whoever pushed me out of harm’s way and now lays motionless over my body.

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