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“No. I pilfered all of Doctor Pierce’s files.” He reaches down into his desk and pulls out a folder, which he tosses toward me. “Here’s the one on your father, in case you’d like to read it.”

Glancing down at the folder, I don’t bother to take it. “I have something you want.”

There are few things you can offer a man who doesn’t love, but sometimes, if you look hard enough, you hit the fucking jackpot. The mother of all bargaining chips.

“My list, I presume. And you will hand it over to me.” Reaching across his desk toward me, he flicks his fingers.

When I first found the chip, I thought it was nothing but a list of cult members. A sex trafficking ring. I’ve since come to understand the nature of it. Not only was it every cult member who partook in the rape and murder of so many, it was also a collection of signatures, per se. A Faustian bargain between Julio and his unsuspecting victims. Not just the ones who burned back at the Charpentier Estate, but hundreds of them, from all over the world. Predators from all walks of life—teachers, lawyers, government officials. All believers in this Goatman prophesy that they would be granted success and riches for their loyal faith. He negotiated favors in exchange for powerful allies, and even I unwittingly participated in some of these favors, as a hitman.

“You will grant Céleste and I freedom.”

Groaning, he waves his hand in dismissal. “So overrated, freedom. Freedom to do what? Pretend to live a life of hedonism? Such a thing is forbidden.” Rolling his eyes, he jabs his fingers skyward.

“Why do you need the chip so bad? The names should be recorded in some black book of yours somewhere. Are they not?”

The light humor on his face fades to something more serious, more conniving. Months ago, it might’ve given me an unsettling feeling, but as of late, I no longer give a shit.

“It was stolen from you, wasn’t it? Destroyed. If so, that would mean the only record you have of the bargains you’ve made is on that chip. And how easily that, too, can be destroyed.”

Running his finger over the rim of his glass, he sits contemplative for a moment. “It’s a matter of accountability. What’s owed. Took hours to get Castellano to confess where it was. And it took years to track that culero down. You could say I’ve earned back the rights to it. Now, hand it over.”

“As far as I’m concerned, every man and woman on that list can burn for the crimes they’ve committed. But I want my freedom. And Céleste’s. You’re going to grant me this, or I give the word to have it destroyed.”

Shrewd eyes narrow on mine. “You can’t outwit the devil, you know. This will come back to bite you in the ass.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

“Such dangerous games you play, Thierry.” Swirling his glass on the desk, he sits quietly for a moment. The silent contemplation makes this feel like a high stakes card game, while I wait on the other player to make a move. “I’ll be honest with you. My heart was never really into finding the chip, at all. I offered to track it down as a favor to some very powerful people. People whose lives will be ruined, if they were ever affiliated with the darker pleasures.”

“Pleasures? It’s a fucking cult. One that trafficks kids and mutilates innocent people.”

“Innocent is a tricky word. No one is entirely innocent. We’ve all got a bit of the devil inside of us. Don’t we?”

Old instincts kick in. I don’t dare flinch, nor divert my gaze. I hardly blink, keeping my stare fixed on his. Challenging him. “Let me walk. You grant me this, and I’ll tell you where to find the chip. You don’t? I’ve left instructions with trusted individuals to pass that information on to those who might find it useful.”

“You know, I’d love to take credit for your conniving ways, but I firmly believe it was in you all along. Hell, it’s what brought you to my attention in the first place.” With a sniff, he tips his head, tapping his finger against the desk. Idling. “I’ll tell you what. You help me clean up some loose ends? I’ll reluctantly grant you this request.”

“What loose ends?”

Still wearing his smile, he pulls a piece of paper from the pocket of his shirt and slides it toward me. “These are the individuals on that list most likely to give me a fucking headache. Eliminate them? And I’ll grant you freedom.”

Hesitating for a moment, I stare down at the paper, trying to imagine the consequences of just saying no and walking away. Julio would send his men after us. I’ll kill them, of course, but he’ll send more, until it becomes an exhausting fucking game of survival. I unfold the paper to find only twelve names scrawled in a list. “And what if the other names on that chip happen to fall into the hands of the authorities?”

“What is it you say in Valir?” He shrugs, entwining his fingers. “C’est la vie.”

“I do this, you don’t contact me again. Don’t send anyone after me, because I will kill them, and their blood will be on your hands.” Not that he’s a man who gives a shit about someone else’s blood on his hands. It’s the insult that matters. The idea that he could have the whole fucking cartel come after me, and not a single one of them would kill with as much passion on his behalf, as I would to keep Céleste safe. “We have a deal?”

Smile stretching his lips, he leans forward, offering me his hand that I reluctantly shake. “We have a deal. But I’ll caution … live carefully, mi amigo. And I’d stay away from gambling, if I were you.”

* * *

Céleste slides her hand into mine, as we stand alongside the pearl rose, steel casket in which my sister rests. After a miserable overnight stay in the hospital, where I had my wounds tended, I returned to Jude’s car to find Frannie stuffed in there, wrapped in a blanket with her favorite teddy bear. At the very least, Jude didn’t discard her like a ragdoll.

It was in that moment that I realized just how much of a bastard I really was. That it took her senseless death to bring me to the understanding of how important she was to me throughout the years. While I became increasingly numb to the world around me, Frannie kept me grounded. She gave me just enough humanity to keep me going. To keep hoping for an end—whether by bullet, or my own free will.

It was because of my sister, a product of hate and violence, that I could learn to love and be gentle.

The priest recites a prayer, blessing the gravesite, and I curl my fingers around Céleste’s hand in mine. In my mind, I recall the letter I wrote. The one I lay in the casket beside her, along with the picture of her and our mother.