Page 35 of Into the Woods

Then again, the owner was Pierre Dupree, a guy on our radar for being a depraved sadist with a penchant for less-than-willing sexual partners. If it had been up to me, I’d have put a bullet in his head as soon as we’d landed in Paris. But killing a cockroach like Dupree would have lasting repercussions, and we owed it to his victims to make sure they were safe before they ended up as collateral damage.

This was the part we all hated. Playing the long game to make sure shit was handled right.

And that meant sitting on my ass, watching the security feeds from Aubergine that Ash had hacked.

I arched my back, feeling the vertebrae pop back into place. I’d been sitting on my ass for far too long, because this sure as fuck wasn’t typical security. Most restaurant security systems didn’t have hidden microphones seamlessly blended into the tables and booths, or military-grade cameras hovering above patrons. No, Dupree had set up the restaurant perfectly to spy on his wealthy patrons.

Ninety percent of the customers weren’t up to anything nefarious. They were like the couple in the back corner who had just gotten engaged over a six-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne. Or the sleazy businessmen toasting another company they’d recently liquidated.

We were here for the other ten percent. The ones who ate wagyu beef and lobster while casually plotting murder. Or, in the case of the douchey dinner, an illegal sex-trafficking ring and the upcoming auction scheduled to take place in a week at some unknown spot in Paris for which we needed the location.

Which was why Rook and I were holed up in a hotel room with takeout containers from a local Chinese joint, eating wontons with our fingers while Bishop snored on the couch across from us.

Our hotel was a block away, but even through the screen of the laptop, I could see that the lavish, decadent restaurant was all glitz and glamor. Massive gold-and-crystal chandeliers provided warm lighting. The tables and booths, set discreetly apart to give the illusion of privacy, were made of the richest woods and leathers. Hell, there was a fucking mural of angels and demons painted on the ceiling like the Sistine Chapel. Asking for a burger was probably sacrilegious or some shit.

Waves of disgust and unease rolled off Rook. His shoulders were knotted with tension. It was like he was allergic to the upper class. He’d been like this for the past hour, watching this group of four assholes, each one smarmier than the next, hit on anything with tits that came near their table.

One leaned forward, his beady eyes magnified behind massive black glasses. “Five grand says I’ll fuck her tonight.”

Number Two tipped back his head and laughed, the sound like a dying donkey. “You’re on. No way she says yes.”

Two snorted and picked up his single malt. “Who said she has to say yes?”

That brought out a grunt from Number Three, who’d mostly been quiet. Then again, he was stoned as fuck and barely seemed to be sitting upright.

But, like a true pervert, he rallied when the threat of violence and sex loomed. “I could use a pick-me-up after this week.”

Clearly I’d be following the waitress home tonight.

From the chair beside mine, Rook shot me a disgusted look. “I’m going to need to bathe in bleach.”

I arched a brow. “Before or after you break some knees?”

My brother grinned, his look a little unhinged. “After, obviously.”

A smirk hooked up the corners of my mouth. “I’ll help you bury the bodies.”

“Fuck that. Dipshits don't deserve the effort a hole in the ground would take. We’ll burn ‘em.”

“Alive?”

He shot me an annoyed look. “Obviously. No point in killing an asshole if they don’t suffer horrifically first.”

A dark chuckle rumbled through my chest, and I turned my attention to the monitor to see Douche Number Four return to the table from the bathroom.

“Jesus, Henry,” One sneered, looking at the red-faced, disheveled man who’d been on the receiving end of their shit all night, “can you at least try to look like you aren’t a dickless sack of shit?”

The other two laughed, and Four turned beet-red. I wasn’t sure of the history here, beyond knowing they’d all gone to the same bullshit prep school and university. Their families had been friends and business partners since before they were born.

“It’s a family thing,” Three laughed, snapping out of his drug-induced stupor and shaking his head. “Beatrice sweats like a whore in church when she’s on her knees for me. It’s fucking nasty.”

Two made a low, hooting sound. “You’ve been fucking Henry’s sister?”

Three looked genuinely disgusted. “Fuck no. But she’s always down to suck my fat cock.” He reached under the table to cup his junk. “After the week I’ve had, dealing with all that family shit, she’s probably swallowed a gallon of my cum.”

Henry looked like he wanted to say something but opted to keep his head down.

One leaned back in his chair, his toothy smile eerily like a shark’s as he watched Henry. “You teach her how to do that, Henry? Teach her how to get on her knees and please a man?”

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