Chapter 42: Burning man
LUCIAN
Vivianne didn’t know. But shortly after we had parted ways, I had followed her right back.
I now stood in the hallway outside Vivianne’s door and listened to the sound of her crying through the wood. The sobs came muffled and broken, the kind that shook a person’s entire body. Women always cried like that when reality finally caught up with their delusions.
My jaw tightened. This was exactly why I despised their kind. Too weak. Too emotional. They let feelings cloud judgment and turned simple decisions into prolonged suffering. A man would have processed the night’s events, accepted the necessary sacrifices, and moved forward. But no. Vivianne had to fall apart behind closed doors like she hadn’t known this moment was coming for years.
Women were always bargaining chips in a war. Cold or hot.
I turned away from her door when I got sick of hearing her bitch cry, and I headed toward the guest wing. My footsteps echoed against marble floors that had been polished to a shine by Omegas who knew better than to leave a single smudge. The estate was quiet now that the chaos of the wedding had settled. Most of the staff had retreated to their quarters. The sentinels patrolled outside. Everyone else had learned to make themselves scarce when important family matters concluded.
Still, I didn’t worry too much about Vivianne’s breakdown. She was obedient. That quality had been beaten into her through years of careful conditioning. She knew better than to fight me or question my decisions beyond a certain point. Tomorrow she would compose herself, put on whatever mask the situation required, and do exactly what I told her to do with Bastien. She always did.
I entered my room and took a quick look around . The bed was made. The curtains were drawn to block out the moonlight. Everything was in its place.
I stripped off my jacket and tossed it across the chair near the window. My tie followed. Then my shirt. The fabric whispered against my skin as I worked the buttons free and let the material fall to the floor. I’d pick it up later. Right now I wanted a shower hot enough to burn away the stench of the evening.
The bathroom was made from white tile and chrome fixtures. I reached for the shower handle and turned it until water began to spray against the glass enclosure. Steam started to rise immediately.
But her mentioning that boy... it bothered me.
My hand froze on the handle. I straightened slowly and stared at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. The question had been innocent enough. Margaux’s request filtered through Vivianne’s guilt-ridden conscience.
Did you keep your promise to her? Did you save him?
No. I’d said it easily because the answer was simple. I hadn’t saved the Étienne boy. Why would I? He’d been nothing but a loose end that needed tying up. A rogue with no pack and no protections who’d probably witnessed things he shouldn’t have seen or heard thanks to his body father. Selling him to the trafficking ring had solved multiple problems at once. It had been kind too. The kindest thing I had ever done of I was being frank.
It had gotten the job done though.
It had removed a potential threat, and generated a tidy profit.
It had been the perfect solution.
Except now the question sat in my mind like a splinter working its way deeper under skin. When was the last time I’d checked on that particular investment? The trafficking operation had been reliable for years. A steady stream of rogues and undesirables flowing through their system. I’d referred several individuals their way over time and collected appropriate finder’s fees. Good business.
But I hadn’t heard from them in months. Maybe longer. Nor had I cared about that.
I turned away from the shower after turning it off and walked back into the bedroom. My phone sat on the nightstand where I’d left it. I picked it up and scrolled through my contacts until I found the number saved under "R.V."
The call connected but went straight to an automated message. I hung up before it could finish and tried again. Only to get the same result. The third attempt yielded identical silence.
My fingers tightened around the phone. The trafficking boss always answered. That had been the arrangement. Twenty-four-hour availability for clients who paid well and referred quality merchandise. I’d never had trouble reaching him before.
And it didn’t even matter if it had been years since we last spoke.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the phone’s screen. The lack of response bothered me more than it should have. Business contacts went dark sometimes. People died or got arrested or decided to retire from criminal enterprises. It happened.
But timing mattered. And the timing of this particular silence felt wrong in ways I couldn’t quite articulate.
I scrolled further through my contacts until I found another number. This one saved simply as "Lackey." I’d never bothered learning the man’s real name. He was the right-hand man to the trafficking boss. The one who handled logistics and enforcement and all the messy details that kept the operation running smoothly. Useful enough to keep around but not important enough to warrant memorization.
The business of trafficking was built on mutual distrust. Everyone understood that. You played both sides, kept multiple contacts, and never relied solely on one person’s word. When the boss wasn’t accessible, you went to the lieutenants. When the lieutenants got difficult, you reminded them who held leverage. Simple economics applied to mortal misery.
I’d cozied up to several of the right-hand men over the years for exactly this reason. Insurance policies disguised as friendly relationships.
The call connected after two rings.
"Hello?"
The voice came out cautious. Careful in a way that immediately set my nerves on edge. This wasn’t the usual greeting. Usually the lackey answered with professionalism. A name or acknowledgment that told me he recognized the number. This sounded like someone answering a call from a stranger.
"It’s Lucian."
The silence stretched for three seconds too long.
"Okay, Lucian, why are you calling me?"
It sounded almost like he was... "Are you... What are you sounding me out for?"
The question did make no sense. But that was the feeling that I got.
"Sounding you out? Is there a reason you feel that way?"
I frowned at my reflection in the darkened window across from the bed. "I don’t know what you mean not do I care. I’m trying to reach your boss and he’s not answering."
"Well... I will tell you what. I don’t know a Lucian." The man’s voice had gone flat. "If you think you can use your new victim to smoke me out, you serial killer, then you’re dead wrong."
My frown deepened. Serial killer? What the fuck was he talking about?
"I have no idea what you’re going on about." I kept my voice level despite the irritation building in my chest. "I’ve been trying to reach your boss about business matters. Standard follow-up. Why isn’t he answering?"
There was another pause. This one felt different. Like the man on the other end was genuinely considering whether I was telling the truth.
"Ah. You really don’t know?"
"What am I supposed to know?"
"What happened..."
What the fuck could have happened? Fuck this.
"Why would I?" The irritation bled into my tone now. "I’m calling for information about a previous transaction. That’s it."
"So you really don’t have a gun to your head right now while being prompted to find out where I am?"
The question should have been absurd. It should have made me laugh at the paranoia dripping from every syllable. But something in the way he said it made my stomach clench.
"What is happening to your ring? Is someone trying to kill you all?"
A sigh came through the speaker. Long and heavy like the sound of a man who’d been running for too long and had finally accepted he might not make it much further.
"The boss is dead."
The words landed with unexpected weight. I stood up from the bed and began pacing across the carpet. "Dead how?"
"Burned to death." The lackey’s voice had gone quiet. "Our spot was razed to the ground during a peak night. Full house. A lot of people inside died screaming."