Page 90 of Playing with Fire

Thenextmorning,Istood outside Maxime's door, trying to find the right words, the right approach. How did you tell someone that the center of their universe was gone? That their carefully ordered world had collapsed into rubble and rebar and blood?

Three times I'd raised my hand to knock, and three times I'd lowered it again, the weight of responsibility unsettling me in ways I wasn't accustomed to. I was comfortable with violence, with hunting, with extracting information through pain. But this delicate dance of grief and acknowledgment was unfamiliar territory.

Leo had offered to come with me. His gentle presence would have smoothed the jagged edges of this conversation, would have provided a buffer against the raw emotion waiting on the other side of that door. But this was my responsibility. My burden to carry. Algerone had entrusted me with his final words, with the access codes to his empire. The least I could do was deliver both with the dignity they deserved.

I finally knocked, the sound too loud in the silent corridor. No response. I tried again, concern threading through my irritation at the delay.

"Maxime," I called, loud enough to penetrate the door but not enough to alert the entire wing. "It's Xavier. We need to talk."

Still nothing. I was about to try a third time when the door swung open so suddenly I almost stumbled forward.

Maxime stood before me, but not the perfectly composed assistant I'd come to expect. This Maxime was disheveled, his usual impeccable appearance in ruins. His shirt was wrinkled, top buttons undone, and his eyes were bloodshot from what I could only assume had been a night of sleepless grief. An open bottle of bourbon sat on the table behind him, and the strong smell of alcohol hung in the air.

"Monsieur Laskin," he greeted me, voice hoarse but still clinging to the formality that defined him. "To what do I owe this... pleasure?"

The last word was acid-etched, bitterness transforming the mundane greeting into something almost hostile. His accent was thicker this morning, the careful modulation that usually disguised the Québécois cadence slipping in his emotional state.

"Are you drunk?" I asked bluntly.

Maxime gave a laugh that sounded more like breaking glass. "Not nearly enough." He stepped aside, gesturing with exaggerated formality for me to enter. "Union Horse Reserve. Straight bourbon whiskey from Kansas City." He gestured to the bottle. "I always keep a bottle for the hard days. To remind him of where he came from."

"May I come in?" I asked, my voice carefully neutral. "There are things we need to discuss. About last night. About Algerone."

The name seemed to physically impact him, his body flinching as if I'd struck him. A muscle in his jaw worked, but he stepped aside, allowing me entry with a gesture that managed to be both gracious and aggressive simultaneously.

The suite beyond was spacious, tastefully decorated in the same understated luxury that defined the Sentinel. But signs of disturbance were everywhere. A crystal decanter lying on its side, amber liquid staining the carpet beneath. A laptop was open on the desk, its screen shattered as if something had been thrown at it. Books pulled from shelves, papers scattered.

In the center of this controlled chaos, a single framed photograph lay on the coffee table. From my position at the door, I couldn't see who was in it, but I could guess. Maxime saw me looking and moved quickly to turn it face down, the gesture oddly protective.

"What is it you wish to discuss?" he asked, not offering me a seat, not pretending this was a social call. The remnants of his professional mask were still in place, but fractures showed in every tense line of his posture. "I am quite busy coordinating the interim leadership structure of Lucky Losers in Monsieur Etremont's absence."

Absence. Not death. Not loss. Absence. As if Algerone had simply stepped out temporarily.

"That's part of what I wanted to discuss," I said, deciding to start with the business aspect. Easier territory, fewer emotional landmines. "Algerone gave me full access codes to Lucky Losers before... before I left him."

Maxime's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "The master access codes? He gave them to you directly?"

"Yes." I reached into my pocket and withdrew the tactical pad containing the information. "RoyalFlush1947Ace. Full access to everything. Resources, personnel, intelligence. All of it."

Maxime stared at the device in my hand as if it might suddenly sprout fangs. "And you've come to what? Take command? Inform me of my termination? What exactly is your purpose here, Monsieur Laskin?"

The edge in his voice was unmistakable now, the veneer of professionalism wearing dangerously thin. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension.

"To tell you I have no intention of using these codes without your input," I replied, setting the pad down on the nearest table. "Reid suggested, and I agreed, that your experience and knowledge of the organization is invaluable. I'm not here to replace you, Maxime. I'm here to collaborate."

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of surprise quickly masked by renewed suspicion. "Why would you do that? You've made your feelings about Monsieur Etremont quite clear over the years. Why would you suddenly care about his organization? About his..." he seemed to struggle for the right word before settling on, "legacy?"

The raw emotion behind the question caught me off guard. This wasn't just Algerone's assistant inquiring about business continuity. This was something deeper, something personal.

"Because finding Phoenix is more important than old grudges," I said honestly. "And because Algerone saved my life. I owe him that much."

Maxime made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, turning away to pace toward the windows. "Saved your life," he repeated, the words bitter on his tongue. "Of course he did. Always the hero for his precious children, isn't he? Never mind who else might need him. Never mind who else might be left behind."

The venom in his voice was startling, especially from someone who'd always maintained such rigid control. I watched as he pressed his palms flat against the windowsill, head bowed as if under an immense weight.

"It should have been me there," he said, so quietly I almost missed it. "I should have been the one at his side. Not you."

The pieces fell into place with sudden clarity. The depth of Maxime's grief wasn't just that of a loyal employee losing a respected employer. This was personal. Intimate. The devastation of someone who had lost someone dear.

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