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I’d arrived at a dead-end and my bachelor days were numbered.
And nothing was worth risking my empire.
Nothing.
“I don’tneeda wife.” The car rolled to a stop in front ofDiavoloand I turned to face Yves with another glare. “But this is my throne and you will not take that away from me.”
“Then it’s settled. Draft your proposal tomorrow and see that Diane Hill’s daughter has your ring on her finger in a week.”
I couldn’t believe I was actually agreeing to this.
“What if she says no?” She wouldn’t, but I mused regardless.
Yves smiled like a Cheshire cat and gave me a once-over. “Mon bourreau favori, I have no doubt you’ll make Diane Hill see reason.”
If I played my cards right, not only would I become the new seigneur, butmon angewouldn’t have to be a mystery much longer.
As my wife, she’d be within my grasp, and I could finally feed my sickening obsession with her.
Every king needed a queen and Darla Hill would be mine.
CHAPTER 8
Bargain with the Devil
Zeno
Tucked in South Side’s gated community, Hill residence was blanketed with a coldness that had nothing to do with the crisp autumn weather. The air was bleak and the milieu utterly gloomy. Even the weeping willows rooted in the courtyard like a centrepiece emphasized the desolate queendom in which the Hill women resided. With its white-pillared entrance and limestone fountain depicting Medusa, the property screamed moneyed class.
No one could deny that the Hills were headstrong, educated women who’d worked hard for every penny to their name.
In exactly ten minutes, I would have the absolute dishonour of meeting their matriarch.
Despite running in the same circles, Diane and I went above and beyond to avoid each other. Her, because she thought I was disgusting for having once fucked a married woman. Me, because I didn’t care about an old hag’s opinion on my character.
Especially one who’d lived a sheltered life and didn’t know the kind of hardships people in the tax bracket below hers suffered. I’d been dirt poor growing up and for all her promises of making this city a better place, she’d done fuck all in her tenure as a mayor.
When I stepped out of my Lamborghini, their butler, Alberto, gave me a mild glare. Bodyguards flanked the property and watched me wearily. Nobody made a move to stop me from ascending the long slabs of white marble porch steps.
“Monsieur De laCroix.” I was greeted by Alberto, who had his hands behind his back. Contempt was an undertone in his masked expression. “Bienvenue.”
“Enchanté.” I extended my hand.
Reluctantly, Alberto grasped it, a bare whisper of contact. “Mrs. Hill is expecting you. Please, follow me.”
The mansion was grandiose in the way most Greek Revival homes were, but there was nothing warm about it. The same aura from the exterior bled inside and it barely felt lived in. There was something even clinical about it with its white upholstery, black staircase, and brass accents.
We crossed a long hallway and reached Diane Hill’s office. Alberto knocked on the closed door and a faint, “Come in,” resonated.
He twisted open the doorknob and I crossed the threshold.
The door shut behind me with a loud bang.
A silent stare down ensued between myself and the most influential woman in the city.
Diane Hill rose from her seat with purpose, placing her hands delicately along the edge of her desk. She went for indifferent, but her posture buzzed with a hint of apprehension. I was, after all, the man whom she and her little soldiers were trying to pin as Armel Lancaster’s murderer.
They’d never find proof.
