Page 50 of Unleash Hades
I leaned back in my chair, feeling it tilt back against my weight.
“No, I don’t, which is why…” He let out a long, aggrieved sigh. “Can I pay you not to do the story?”
“Bellamy,” I drawled. “You might have a name as old as Great Britain, but the Laurents are far richer than you. There’s nothing you could give me that—”
“Hugo Martin,” he said the name, silencing me mid-sentence. “Originally, Christian Saint-Martin, of Amiens. His family traveled to Marseilles, after which his father got involved with some criminals, and was killed. His wife disappeared after getting involved with a known smuggler, and is also presumed dead. Then our dear Legionnaire became a Legionnaire. It seems he may have witnessed something, and needed to disappear.” He took the second shot, then refilled it with the flask. “Did you know all that?”
My heart thumped in my chest.
“I don’t know who you mean.”
“Don’t be daft, Cali!” he knocked his fist down on my desk, and I jumped. “Christ.”
His outburst hadn’t been loud, but it had been shocking. He was serious, his face grave. His voice had… changed. It was deeper, and not as flippant. The affectation had disappeared.
He pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb.
He took another shot, refilled it, and leaned back in his seat.
“I don’t want to do this, Cali.” His eyes were faded, un-focused. Like his mind was elsewhere. “You’ll do a great job exposing the seedy underbelly of the Underground Circuit. Truly. I believe that. You’re a good investigative journalist.”
The compliments slapped me in the face. It was so out of character.
“It’s hard keeping up with you, even with all my advantages,” he looked to the side, staring at my wall where several trophies stood. “And now, I’m coming to you with my arse hanging out, so-to-speak. Youcannotdo a story on the Underground Circuit.”
He was always a talker. But he never spoke this directly.
“Why?” I asked, cautiously, looking at the drinks on the desk.
“The people who run it are…” He smiled, looking to the side. “Far too dangerous.”
His face didn’t match his words. It was as if he wasfondof the people who were in charge of it.
“I’ve done stories on terrorists and criminals…” I began, coming to my feet ready to assert myself, but he waved me back down.
“And they were separated from you, from us,” he gestured between the two of us. “These people they… they live in our houses, in our homes. They work with us, day to day. And they know more than we do. Do you understand?”
Maybe he was drunk after all.
“No. I don’t.”
Then he burst out laughing and clapped his hands.
“Oh, this is rich,” he said, placing his hand on his belly, as he leaned back, making himself far too comfortable in my space. “You had no idea that Hugo had a different name, did you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I clenched my jaw. “But if I did, I would know that he’s not from Marseilles or Amiens. He’s from Paris.”
Bellamy smirked. “Did he ever tell you that, outright? Or did you assume?”
I narrowed my eyes, the faintest bit of doubt niggling like a parasite in my brain.
No, he was definitely from Paris. He had told me so, hadn’t he? His voice. His accent. They werevery muchfrom Paris.
“Imagine, the world’s best investigative journalist never investigated her own lover.” He leaned back and chuckled, looking at me with those reptilian, blank eyes. He was drunk. I was almost sure of it. Had he been drinking all through the night? “Ironic, no?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I denied, again, feeling like Peter denying the savior.
Though there was a kernel of truth in my statement. He wasn’t my lover. He was so much more. He was my great hope. My comfort.
