Page 91 of Playing with Fire

"You loved him," I said, the words falling between us like stones.

Maxime's back stiffened, but he didn't turn around. "Thirty-two years," he said, voice cracking despite his obvious effort to control it. "Thirty-two years I stood beside him. Through everything. The expansion of his empire. The search for you and your siblings. The constant dance with authorities and rivals. Thirty-two years of unwavering loyalty."

He turned then, eyes bright with unshed tears and something darker, something that looked dangerously like hatred. "And what did I get in return? A pat on the head. A 'good job, Maxime.' The occasional dinner or private conversation where I could pretend, just for a moment, that I was more than just his glorified secretary."

The bitterness in his voice was palpable, filling the room like smoke. I remained silent, recognizing that anything I said would be inadequate against the tide of his grief.

"Did you know your father was born in a trailer park outside Kansas City?" Maxime asked suddenly, moving back to the bottle and pouring another drink. "His father was a small-time fence for stolen goods. His mother cleaned motel rooms. The great Algerone Caisse-Etremont spent his childhood wondering if they'd have electricity that month."

He didn't wait for my response, continuing as if unspooling a story he'd kept tightly wound for decades. "He got his first taste of real money running numbers for a local bookmaker when he was fourteen. By seventeen, he'd figured out how to skim just enough to start his own small loan operation without getting caught. By twenty, he owned three pawn shops and a bar."

Maxime's eyes took on a faraway look, seeing a past I'd never known, a version of Algerone I couldn't reconcile with the immaculate, refined man I'd come to know.

"I met him when he was twenty-three. I was fresh out of business school, arrogant and ambitious. He offered me three times what any legitimate company would pay, just to keep his books organized." A bitter smile twisted his lips. "I thought I was slumming it, working for this American with his rough edges and ambitious plans. Three months later, I would have followed him into hell without a second thought."

He paused, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "There was a job in Singapore. Early two thousands. Everything went wrong. Our contact was compromised, the merchandise was seized, and two of our people never made it out." His voice dropped, becoming almost tender. "When we got back to the hotel, he was drunk. More than I'd ever seen him. Distraught over losing those men."

Maxime's expression softened with the memory, his usual sharp edges blurring. "I held his head in my lap all night. Caressed his hair while he broke down. He looked up at me with those eyes—those fucking eyes—and we almost..." He shook his head, the moment clearly as vivid now as it had been decades ago. "We were a breath away from crossing that line. I could feel it. He could feel it."

"What happened?" I asked, drawn into the story despite myself.

"I stopped it," Maxime replied simply. "I knew Algerone wouldn't be at his best if he were distracted by something as mundane as love. His potential was limitless, but only if nothing held him back. Not even me." His laugh was hollow. "Especially not me."

"Do you know what it's like?" he demanded, stalking closer, anger radiating from him in almost visible waves. "To love someone who will never see you that way? To give everything, every moment, every thought, every ounce of devotion, knowing it will never be enough? That you will never be enough?"

I thought of Leo, of the years he'd spent silently loving me while believing I could never return his feelings in the way he wanted. Of the careful distance he'd maintained, never pushing, never demanding, always grateful for whatever scraps of attention I was willing to give. The comparison was uncomfortable, a mirror I wasn't ready to look into too deeply.

Maxime took another drink, his composure cracking further. "I suppose you should know the truth. It's my fault you and your siblings grew up without Algerone in your lives."

“What are you talking about?"

"Your mother, Imogen," he said, voice tight with old resentment. "She was an aspiring actress when she met Algerone at that charity function in Los Angeles. He was completely captivated from the first moment he saw her." Maxime's lip curled with disdain. "I could see right through her. The way she laughed too loudly at his jokes. How her eyes calculated his worth with every glance at his watch, his cufflinks, his shoes. She wasn't the first gold-digger to target him, but she was certainly the most effective."

"You kept us from him," I said, the realization crystallizing with painful clarity.

"I protected him," Maxime corrected, his jaw tight. "When she disappeared, I thought we'd seen the last of her. Then she returned nine months later with triplets in tow, demanding money." He shook his head. "I handled it quietly. Substantial payments in exchange for her discretion."

"You mean Algerone never knew about us?" The question felt hollow in my chest. Years of resentment toward my biological father suddenly redirected.

"If I'd told him, he would have married her immediately," Maxime replied, contempt dripping from every word. "Can you imagine? Algerone Caisse-Etremont tied to a B-list actress with delusions of grandeur? She would have destroyed everything we'd built."

"So you lied to him. For years."

"I did what was necessary," Maxime snapped, refilling his glass with unsteady hands. "Your mother complicated matters by developing paranoia. She began giving interviews about government conspiracies, claiming powerful people were monitoring her. Most dismissed it as the ravings of a fading starlet, but it risked drawing unwanted attention. I attempted to reason with her. Suggested that if she continued, certain government entities might take an interest in silencing her themselves. I meant it as a warning. She interpreted it as a threat."

"And that's when she contacted Annie," I concluded, pieces falling into place.

"Your mother hid you three with that vigilante woman," Maxime confirmed. "A clever move, I'll admit. When she died shortly afterward, I assumed you were gone as well. I told myself it was for the best."

"She died because you frightened her into paranoia," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "Because you manipulated the situation to keep Algerone for yourself."

Maxime didn't deny it. His eyes gleamed with something that looked almost like satisfaction at my growing anger. "I did what I had to do. Your mother was a distraction. You would have been a distraction. Algerone needed to focus on building his empire."

Each word was carefully chosen, deliberately provocative. I could feel him baiting me, pushing me toward violence.

"You stole us from him," I said, hands clenching into fists at my sides. "You robbed him of his children. Robbed us of a father."

"Yes," Maxime agreed, no hint of remorse in his voice. "And I'd do it again. Anything to ensure Algerone's success." He stepped closer, deliberately invading my space. "You want to hit me, don't you? Go ahead. I can see it in your eyes."

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