Page 8

S YLVAIN CHECKED HIS watch as he leaned against the marble pillar, the cold stone seeping through his jacket while he waited for Liana to change into the dress he had provided. The courthouse was nearly empty at this hour: a few cleaning staff, the night guard dozing at his post, and Judge Grimault waiting nervously in his chambers.

A part of him was still questioning his sanity. Was this truly what he wanted? A hastily-arranged wedding ceremony, expedited by the use of favors and bribes, and an empty government building for a venue, with its hallways perfumed by stale coffee and floor polish.

But when he thought of the other alternative, which was to simply let her walk out of his life...

Non.

And so he decided to make a call. If this marriage was for better or worse, then so be it.

One. Two. Three...

It was on the fifth ring that his call finally connected.

"This had better be important." The voice that answered was low and cultured, but edged with something dangerous. The voice of a man who made a living from killing both kings and traitors.

"Dauphin. I need a favor."

A pause, calculated rather than surprised. Calixte Romano—known in darker circles as Dauphin Tueur, the Prince of Killers—wasn't a man who received unexpected calls at four in the morning.

"It's late notice, Sylvain." The words were neutral, but the subtle emphasis on his name was a reminder that Calixte knew exactly who he was dealing with.

"For which I apologize." Sylvain kept his voice even. "But I need you to come up with a series of tests."

There was a soft sound in the background, the soft click of keys as Calixte started working on his laptop. Typical. The Prince of Killers was not one to waste time, even in conversation.

"What's the objective?"

"To determine my wife's loyalty. And if she's suitable...considering my line of work."

Another pause, longer this time. "One of Viktor Biancardi's secret half-sisters."

Sylvain wasn't surprised that Calixte knew of his blood debt to Biancardi. They had access to the same resources, and often crossed paths when working undercover, despite answering to different government authorities.

"Will that be a problem?" Even with his attention focused on their conversation, Sylvain noticed one of the janitors doing his best not to look his way, his mop passing over the same spot repeatedly. Sylvain made a mental note to have him checked. It was likely nothing, but one could never be too certain. It was why he had survived this long.

"Non, ce n'est pas le problème." There was a nuance in Calixte's voice that hadn't been there before. "Though marrying Biancardi's sister... an interesting choice."

"I don't need your approval, dauphin."

"You've never needed anyone's approval, Sylvain. That's what makes this call... intriguing."

Sylvain disliked the way Calixte's words were proving to be a puzzle to him. Marriage to Eden had clearly changed Calixte. The Prince of Killers had never been an open book, but now, he was just plain...unpredictable, dangerously so.

"Tell me," Calixte continued, the sound of a pen scratching against paper audible in the background, "what sort of tests are you envisioning?"

"Something comprehensive. Loyalty, intelligence, resilience under pressure."

"And what happens if she fails?"

"She will remain in my possession." On this part at least, Sylvain had no doubts. He only had to imagine Liana leaving him or being taken away by someone else, and he was ready to burn the entire world just to have her back.

"As what?"

"None of your business."

Silence stretched between them. A silence filled with unspoken judgment that Sylvain had not expected to find discomfiting.

"Comprendo." A shift to Italian, Calixte's way of signaling a change in his approach. "I'll have something for you by morning. But Sylvain..."

Sylvain had a feeling he would not like his friend's next words.

"Are you sure this is about her, and not about Annie?"

And he was right.

"Can I count on you with those tests, dauphin?"

Another pause.

"It will be as you will," Calixte said finally. "And I hope, for both of your sakes, it will work the way you expect."

****

T HE DEVIL HAD COME to torture him, and Sylvain was in agony, his mind replaying his phone call with the Prince of Killers even as he saw his wife start to sway in slow motion.

The gas filled Sylvain's lungs as he lunged toward Liana, but her body had already started to crumple. His movements felt sluggish, as if he were swimming through tar, each step requiring more effort than the last.

Something was wrong.

This was not supposed to happen.

His heart seized as he watched her fall, her dark hair fanning out around her like a halo of night. The look in her eyes as consciousness slipped away, confusion, shock, fear. But also...trust.

She trusted him.

Even when he didn't deserve it.

Je suis désolé. I'm sorry.

His vision began to dim at the edges, the persistent hiss of gas barely audible over the pounding of blood in his ears.

Three more steps. Just three more, and he could reach her.

But his legs were no longer his to command, his knee folding...before hitting the concrete with bruising force.

No, no, no.

Through the haze, Sylvain saw a figure emerge from the shadows.

Giancarlo Marchetti.

The Prince of Thieves. And the prince among thieves. A man whom people from both sides of the law respected. And under normal circumstances, Sylvain would not have thought it bad to see him.

But not now.

Not when Marchetti had once been Viktor Biancardi's best friend...until Liana's half-brother tried to murder him.

This...this was not right.

Had Calixte betrayed him? Or had Marchetti betrayed Calixte? Could Marchetti have intercepted either or both of them without him and the Prince of Killers knowing? It was unlikely...but possible. The Marchettis were not only New England's most powerful famiglia. They had connections built on decades of blood sacrifices. Connections that no amount of money could buy or betray.

Sylvain fought off unconsciousness as Marchetti knelt gracefully beside his wife's unconscious form. The man was dressed like he had simply stepped out of a ball to take care of business, his perfectly tailored suit without a crease, and the faint gleam of silver at his temples lending him a distinguished air.

One hand brushed Liana's hair from her face with impersonal care, but it still triggered something primal and violent in Sylvain's chest.

No. No. NO.

The Marchettis were supposed to be honorable, not vengeful. They had even supposedly sworn off violence, having found redemption in God. Truthfully, Sylvain had no bloody idea what that meant. And he had never cared to find out.

Until now.

Until he realized...it was possible that he had misjudged the Marchettis, the way he had misjudged the girl he once loved, an entire lifetime ago.

Sylvain tried to speak, to demand, to threaten. But his tongue felt like lead in his mouth, and he could not remember feeling this terrified, this impotent, as he watched the other man lift Liana in his arms as if she weighed nothing.

Ma faute. Mea culpa. All of this...my fault.

Marchetti started to walk away, and the pain that tore through his chest had nothing to do with the gas burning down his lungs and destroying his consciousness.

I'm sorry, Liana. I'm so bloody sorry.

Marchetti suddenly turned to face him, his gaze meeting Sylvain's across the warehouse floor. There was no cruelty there, no triumph. Only a quiet, professional assessment. The look of a man completing a task with the utmost efficiency—exactly the way Sylvain himself would have looked, once upon a time.