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There’s a short knock at the door. Connor lifts his hand to open it, and I can’t help myself when I mumble, “I’ll show you how I can misbehave. Tonight.”
He ignores me blatantly, instead inviting Philippe, the cop—which is the only thing I know about this guy—inside like a navy blue-suited whirlwind. “I’m sorry I’m late…” He starts in an English that’s remarkably easy to understand, despite the heavy French accent. “I was held up.” He gives Connor a hug and a kiss on his cheek and then it hits me.
“What the fuck?” I snap.
Two identical brown eyes and auburn-haired men eye me warily.
“Austin—” Connor begins, but I cut him off.
“Sothisis your informant? Who is he, yourdad?” I look away, forcing my temper to cool down. I don’t even know why the hell I’m so pissed. Or maybe I do. I feel like he’s taken me for a fool. A pretty dumbass he can just put on standby whenever he’s on a mission. Well, I’m not having it. “You went to see him this morning? What about the condition that we worktogether,meaning attending meetings,together? Involving each other in what we’re doing?”
Philippe tentatively offers his hand and I decide to stop being a dick for a second and accept his greeting. Although, when he introduces himself with his full name—PhilippeLaforêt—I can’t help but watch Connor incredulously. “Dude, you could have just told me.”
Despite the fact that he does look uncomfortable, he completely ignores my little outburst. Instead, he motions Philippe to follow him to the couch, where he rolls the office chair next to it. And that’s it, they’re off. Talking about the case as if my presence doesn’t interest them in the slightest. I make a show of flopping onto the couch next to Philippe, but much to my annoyance, neither of them even look up. When Connor speaks about The Void as if I’m not even in the fucking room, I’m about to burst. When Philippe asks Connor a question that makes him blush, I perk up with renewed interest and repeat the question, just to mess around.
“You’re asking if The Void’s a family-run business?” Oh yeah,thatquestion. My gaze goes from Philippe to Connor who looks down at his notes. “I’m sorry, but how do you know how The Void is structured?”
“I—” His gaze flickers up to mine and that innocent look in his eyes has never looked sweeter. His teeth tug at his lower lip before he sucks it in. “I asked Mia to check with Victoria.”
“When you could have simply askedme?” I eye Philippe and raise my brow in fake indignation. The cop clears his throat but doesn’t reply. Instead, he opens his briefcase and takes out a notebook and a thick file. He shows me an organizational chart and all playfulness dissolves, replaced by a feeling of trepidation.
“Is this the cult that’s targeting us?” I ask, eyeing the pyramid-shaped chart.
“Yes. So, cults follow one charismatic leader, right? Someone who creates a sense of unity and belonging. Afamily. We can roughly identify three different types of cults:a mystically-oriented illumination type; an instrumental type, and a service-oriented type, which is focused on aiding others.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, then continues, “The Lost Brothers, as you’d call them in English, operate as afamily—theirInitiatorpreys on vulnerable, young men and he claims to replace their loneliness with a sense of meaning and purpose. It’s the sort of cannon fodder many cult leaders use and he’s no exception. As I explained, Connor, this particular cult sells sex to high-end customers during mind-altering experiences. They’re highly exclusive, and you can only get in with an invitation.”
“We don’t have official numbers, but certain media sources reveal that France has over five hundred sects—a number that has increased since the pandemic. According to our intel, this group has existed for about three years.”
“How many members do they have?” I ask.
Philippe flashes his eyes at Connor. “You asked me the same question this morning. We’re not sure.”
Before I can ask anything, he opens his folder and my eyes drop automatically to the horrific photo on display. A young, dark-haired man is hanging from a fire escape of an apartment building in what looks like a narrow alley. His face slumped forward, neck embraced by a taut noose like some sickening collar. He’s dressed in only a loose pair of sweatpants, his chest showing defined muscles.
“God, he looks no more than twenty-five,” Connor breathes.
Philippe nods. “None of them are.” He points at the wordTrésoron his chart. “In medieval times, hanging was considered one of the most brutal forms of punishment andgiven to those found guilty of high treason.There were various ways of doing it, but the short-term hanging, commonly used until the 1850s, was particularly cruel as it took up to twenty minutes for the victim to die.” He takes out more photos, each and every one of them showing a similar picture—a young, dark-haired man hanging on ropes. “The standard drop and long drop are considered more dignified ways of murdering a person, simply because they get to die more quickly. Autopsy determined that it took somewhere between fifteen and twenty minutes for these victims to die, meaning that these guys used the short drop method to take them out. The victims,” he points at the hanging corpses and I wince, somehow dreading his next words, “didn’t provide according to the family values and needed to suffer.”
“Fuck, that’s cruel,” I spit, the rare feeling of compassion leaving me nauseous. “How many victims are there so far?”
“Four that we know off, thanks to our informant, though officially our hands are empty since we’re lacking proof. Which brings me to this.” He takes out more documentation from his folder. “I had a rather fruitful meeting today, one that makes me believe that I’ve found their motive as to why they’re targeting you.”
He rummages through his paperwork and finds what he’s looking for. “Meet Joshua Kibert, son of the CEO of Accitan Consultancy.” He jabs a finger on the photo that’s attached to a report. “They’re a French company with an American office, led by this guy, the son. He was found hanged in his office in Philadelphia. Official cause of death: suicide.” He takes out another similar-looking report with a photo attached to it, then continues, “Eric Voltain, owner of a French Creperie in Boston. His four children were also active in the business. This is his eldest son, Maxime. Official cause of death: suicide.”
“That wasthem? Those bastards,” I hiss.
“Or copycats—their words, not ours. We were never able to prove the involvement ofLes frères perdusand the American police didn’t want us in on their investigation. When this was given to me today, it created two additional questions: why do they want to expand to the States, and how do they infiltrate these organizations?”
“Money,” I answer without hesitation. “They’d make shit loads of money selling sex.”
“They already do. Why take the risk?” Connor counters. “Nah, we’re missing something here.” His nose is scrunched up from thinking, and he lifts his glasses further before he continues. “They’re a cult, so their rules are symbolic. That makes them very different from an organization like ours. We’re both led by family ties though, which is our common ground. Plus, we both work in the sex and drugs industry. It’s a very clever move. By taking over the reins of our organizations they’d automatically become an undeniable power in New York.”
“So why bother taking out the smaller profiles and not just wipe out the big fish?”
“Takingusout, you mean? Oh, they will. One step at a time,” Connor muses, giving me instant goosebumps.
“Say what?”
“Time,’ Philippe hums. “They’ll be coming for you. They’re working on it.”
