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Prologue
Christophe Marchand stepped out of the car and into the lobby of the steel and glass skyscraper in the Financial District.
He missed Paris already.
Still, New York was better than Boston, where he’d spent a majority of his time over the past months while Nico and Farrell were preoccupied with other territories. Had there been any choice at all, he would have happily foisted the responsibility of the beleaguered city onto either of the other men, but alas, Vegas had taken longer than expected to get under control, and London was an increasingly complicated network of old-world criminal activity and modern revenue streams that involved everything from surveillance to cyber espionage for which the Syndicate was paid extraordinary sums by even companies deemed altruistic by society.
“Good evening, Mr. Marchand.”
Christophe looked up and nodded at the security guard seated behind the mirrored desk at one end of the lobby. The Syndicate had purchased the building after Raneiro Donati’s assassination, shortly after he and the other men had agreed to take over — and make over — the old infrastructure. It had been an enormous expense that had paid for itself many times over, both in property appreciation and in the privacy and security it provided by the opportunity to choose their tenants.
But the building still felt like an empty vessel, lacking the history and finery he cherished in the city’s older buildings, off-limits to the Syndicate according to Nico, who said historical buildings were the subject of too much curiosity to be viable as Syndicate headquarters.
Christophe stifled a sigh as he stepped into the elevator, his thoughts turning to Charlotte, as they always did when he missed home. He’d once believed home to be the apartment in Paris that had been in his family for generations, or perhaps their estate on the island of Corsica.
Now he knew the truth: home was Charlotte.
She was the find of the century, a gift from the heavens. That she’d come to him only through a dangerous and horrifying series of events that had included the death of his estranged brother was no matter.
She belonged with him. She always had. The years he’d spent hunting down the antiques and art that had been sold over the years to satisfy his father’s many divorce settlements seemed like an exercise in futility, an attempt to fill a hole shaped like Charlotte, like her beauty and kindness, like her gentle laugh and delicate hands.
He closed his eyes for a moment and saw her as she’d been when he’d left the house that morning, elegant even in fitted trousers and one of his old button-down shirts knotted at the waist, a sliver of porcelain skin showing when she lifted her arms to clean the top of a canvas she’d recently purchased at auction, a John William Waterhouse that had been in private collection for nearly fifty years.
He’d stood watching her, taking in the concentration on her beautiful face, her chiseled cheekbones and full lips, her amber eyes turning on him only after a full minute had passed.
She’d smiled, coming down from the stepladder to embrace him before he left for New York. Her body was soft in his arms, and he’d had to fight the urge to release her dark hair from the pins suspending it in a luxurious pile at the top of her head. She’d smelled of lavender and turpentine, of love and home.
He opened his eyes as the elevator dinged, announcing his arrival at the Syndicate’s executive offices on the tenth floor. It was well after six p.m., the receptionist’s desk empty. He passed through the quiet lobby and continued toward a pair of open doors at the end of a long hall.
“Jesus Christ,” Farrell Black said when Christophe stepped into the conference room. “Nice of you to fucking join us.”
Christophe ignored him and continued to the long mahogany table dominating the room. The air was laced with the scent of fresh coffee and he said a silent prayer of thanks to Vanessa, the New York receptionist, for remembering that while Luca rarely drank, Farrell tossed back whiskey like it was water, and Nico enjoyed Scotch, more often than not, Christophe preferred strong black coffee.
He set down his briefcase and nodded at Nico and Luca, already occupying chairs around the table, then crossed to the refreshment bar at one end of the room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a careful drink, then turned to face Farrell.
“Patience is a virtue.”
“Fuck you,” Farrell said.
Christophe smiled. “I can only assume your greeting means you’ve missed my company.”
“Wrong.” Farrell’s British accent was clipped, his voice lazy. He was a giant of a man, a man with a violent aura — and an angry scar that ran down one side of his face — that caused strangers to shrink away from him on the street. “It means I have better fucking things to do than sit here holding my dick while you take your sweet time.”
Christophe smiled. “With all apologies to your aforementioned appendage, we experienced a landing delay on arrival. It couldn’t be helped.”
Farrell grinned. “My ‘aforementioned appendage’ accepts your apology.”
Christophe smiled in spite of himself. Farrell had that affect on people, keeping them on their toes as he swung from temperamental asshole to genial brother-in-arms. Over the years Christophe had seen Farrell go toe to toe with everyone in the Syndicate, even Nico. The only person that seemed to hold any sway over him at all was his wife Jenna.
“Now that that’s settled, let’s get to it,” Nico said.
Christophe topped off his coffee and carried it to the table, taking a seat next to Luca, while Farrell sat with a fresh glass of whiskey at Nico’s right. Since Raneiro Donati’s death, they’d become equal partners in the Syndicate, but somehow they always turned to Nico for leadership.
It was more than the fact that the old Syndicate had died by Nico’s hand, a series of events that had been kicked off by Nico's obsession with Angel Rossi, the woman who was now his wife and the mother of his daughter, Stella. It was a brand of command unique to Nico Vitale, an iron fist in a velvet glove, the calm before the storm — and the storm itself, when you needed one.
“Isabel wanted me to say thank you for the painting,” Luca said to Christophe. “She’s going to send a note. Sofia loved it.”
“I’ll let Charlotte know,” Christophe said.
