Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Everything aches.
I’m twenty pounds too light, but I can’t gain weight anymore. My voice is raspy and quiet thanks to the way that Serbian fuck treated me. My second-in-command paid my ransom, which was a ludicrous sum, and now it’s like I must work twice as hard to earn the price on my head, as if I didn’t already work ten times harder than any man in France.
But I do what I must to put my organization back on solid footing after that mess in America.
I stare down at my gnarled, old body.
I remember running through the streets of Marseille, seabirds singing in the sky, full of life and promise. I remember building an empire. Men bowed at my feet. Women gave themselves over willingly.
And now I sit here in this chair, and I’m so damn old. The days come and they go, slipping away before I even realize they’re gone.
There are nights, sad nights, pathetic nights, where I wish I had done things differently. Where I wish I had taken better care of Julien and brought him into the fold. Where I wonder what he would have become had I not gone and made the choices I made. But those are weak thoughts, and I am not a weak man.
When I’m better, I’m going to hire the best killer in France, and I’m going to make sure Julien suffers.
But for now, I pull my tablet onto my lap, perch my glasses on my nose, and begin to sift through the day’s news. I make notes on people to call, politicians to shake down, moves to make. Losing the American branch was a blow, but it’s not the end of me. I’ve come back from worse.
There’s a noise. This house is old, far older than me. It creaks more than my own joints. And I know every loose floorboard, every crack of joists.
“Antoine,” I call out, assuming it’s my evening guard. “Bring me some wine.”
A figure appears in the door. He steps forward, pulling it shut behind him. I stare, uncomprehending.
I’m hallucinating. I’m having a stroke. There’s no other explanation. But he steps forward, and the floor makes the correct sounds, and when he raises the gun to aim at my chest, I’m sure it’s him.
“Julien,” I rasp, still refusing to believe. “How?”
“I grew up in this house, remember?” He stares at me, his eyes hard. A strong boy. A clever boy. I was so proud of him once, and I pushed him hard because I wanted him to succeed. I wanted him to be even better.
But he let me down so many times.
The fucking failure.
“All I have to do is yell and my guards will be here.” I lean forward, getting a good look at him, while also reaching for the gun I keep tucked into the cushions of this chair.
Paranoia has kept me alive for a long time. It’ll hold me a while yet.
“You got soft, old man. Your soldiers are lazy and drunk. I used to sneak in and out of here when I was a teenager, and it was much better guarded back then.”
“Where’s Antoine?”
“Downstairs. He’s unconscious. Maybe dead.” Julien shrugs as if he doesn’t care.
“You never should have come here.” The arrogance of this boy. It’s obscene, and it must be punished.
“That’s where you’re wrong. You hurt my wife. You threatened everything I built. Did you really think I was going to let you live? I used you as a bargaining chip, and now I’m going to give you what you deserve.”
“Foolish boy.” I can’t help but grin at him as excitement pumps into my veins. Yes, this is what I live for. Now the bastard boy will die.
There’s a loud noise.
The explosion of a gun going off.
I move my arm.
But my arm doesn’t respond.
There’s another loud noise, and another, and I look down at myself. Three neat red holes in my chest.
And my head goes light.
And my limbs won’t move.
Rage hits me. Julien should die. Julien has to die.
My arm won’t work.
I can’t raise the gun.
He lowers his weapon and turns away as my heart beats, beats, slows.
Julien
I watch Pascal bleed out. His body goes limp, and even in the end, he looks defiant. Like he really thought he’d be able to raise that fucking gun and kill me before I finished him off.
I thought I’d feel something. This is the end of an important time in my life. Pascal was a monster, but he did save me once. I did look up to him and love him.
Now he’s a dead old man, and his threat is neutralized.
I step to his window and shuffle my way out. There’s a drainpipe bolted in the wall on the left. I swing toward it and grab on with both hands, slowly lowering myself down. It groans, and I curse quietly to myself—the last time I did this, I was seventeen and weighed thirty pounds less.