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The seedier part of our business had always been under the watchful gazes of the authorities. Therefore, by nature, I was overly careful to never allow a kill to get traced back to me. I knew better. Yves trained me to bebetterfrom the first moment I picked up a gun at thirteen.
Now twenty-one years later, I was my father’s underboss—his second in command—and Benjamin was hiscapitaine—his third in command.
Armel Lancaster’s death was all over the news today. The elite society of Montardor was crying bitch tears over having lost a successful businessman. But the underworld players of Montardor recognized Armel for what he’d really been: a dirty pedophile.
The way I saw it, I did everyone a favour by blowing out his back. No pun intended.
Tension skyrocketed across the city in the span of twenty-four hours. The police were trying to find the killer and everyone was guilty until proven innocent.
Ben gulped his wine like it was water, dropping the glass with more force than necessary on the dining table. “This time feels different,papa.”
I cut into my steak and speared a bite into my mouth. “Rest easy, Ben—”
“Ça suffit, onmange maintenant! This is no time to discuss business,” Yves hissed. “This is family time.”
Céline De la Croix, certified gun moll and the other half to Yves’s crazy, ate her lasagna with all the mannerisms of a respected, mid-century trophy wife. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and poured herself another glass of wine from the decanter. “Agreed. Listen to yourpapa,mesamours,” she chastised us like we were teens.
François, our butler, stood at the edge of the dining table and cleared his throat to signal Évangéline’s arrival.
“Sorry I’m late.” My sixteen-year-old sister entered the room with a glide to her steps, like the young ballerina she was, and beelined it for our parents, whom she kissed on both cheeks. “Practice ran longer than usual.” Then she came over to hug Ben and me. “Happy Birthday, Zed.” She pecked my stubbled cheek with a mischievous smile before dropping a gift in my lap.
“Thanks, kiddo.” I ruffled her pale blond hair. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” she quipped, taking a seat next to Céline.
I carefully unwrapped the packaging, only to be faced with an atrocious scrapbook. It had glitters, gemstone stickers, and everything that made me uncomfortable. I tried not to cringe. However, seeing the heart-shaped, cut-out pictures of my family and me over the last twenty-one years hit my chest with a wave of nostalgia. “This is the best present I’ve ever gotten. Thank you, Éva.”
Éva was the prankster in the family and she couldn’t help her giggle. “You’re welcome.”
And that giggle right there was why I did what I did with no regrets.
Évangéline wasn’t like the rest of us, tainted by the truths of our twisted world.
She had no idea that her older brother killed a man in her honour.
Yes, she was aware of the family business, but knowing and participating in the De la Croix activities was not the same thing.
Innocent souls like Évangéline had no concept of the kind of monsters that lurked in the darkness. She’d have sleepless nights if she knew how many men her brothers and father had killed.
“Sit straight, Éva,” Céline said and removed the domed steel cover resting on her plate. “I had the chef prepare your favourite red sauce spaghetti. Make sure you eat all of it. You must replenish your energy,chérie. And, for the love of God, what is this ratty T-shirt you’re wearing? I laid out a perfect cocktail dress in your room.”
Éva’s response was rolling her eyes playfully and diving into her food with gusto.
Despite our morally grey characters, we still had rules to follow. From the minute I stepped foot into this household, Céline made it clear that the De la Croixes did everything in excess—parties, vacations, and even family dinners. You were always being watched, so it was in your best interest to dress to impress. God forbid I ever showed up in anything less than a stellar three-piece suit and ate with my posture slouched.
Even at fifty-four, Céline came to dinner dressed in a gown, hair-sprayed updo, and diamonds adorning her neck, while giving my father come-hither smiles behind the rim of her wineglass. And my father, a tall, mean, big-bellied giant, entertained her with his own lovesick puppy eyes and food-coma-induced grins.
They were still disgustingly in love after all these years and still a little deranged.
My first month living with the De la Croixes, I was thirteen and a business associate had groped my adoptive mother during dinner. So Yves tied him to a post in the stables and shot him four times in the dick while Céline simultaneously clapped, cackled, and swooned in the background.
“I’m ready for dessert.” Céline sighed, looking at Yves and running one coy finger along the stem of her glass.
I was willing to bet the churning dinner in my stomach that she wasn’t talking about my birthday cake.
My father grabbed her gloved knuckles and leaned forward, whispering gruffly, “So am I.”
Ben, Éva, and I all gagged at the same time.
