#versaillesopening

The night had been strange and unexpectedly bitter.

Earlier fights with those that mattered most still raged in her ears as loudly as if they’d followed her.

Alessia had found herself praying for some distance from the ballroom almost as soon as she’d arrived. Between the pained, conflicted looks of Joey and Dante, and the unabashed disappointment of her own sister, she held no desire to remain there any longer than was required.

“I’ll be fine, Elena,” she’d assured upon her departure; smile slight, but as confident as it needed to be. The woman was one of the few that did not judge. One of the few Alessia would hold dear, regardless of what her future offered. “Enjoy what’s left of the party. I just need some fresh air.”

Fresh air cured all.

Alessia sat, gazing out toward the fountain of the smaller outside pool, taking in the foreign night air of a city she had already grown to despise. Time had been lost somewhere along the way. Perhaps it had been when she was musing the future of her beloved daughter. Maybe, when wondering about returning home to him... She couldn’t remember. Didn’t want to. She was fixated on the view before her; something utterly breathtaking about the way the moonlight danced across the water’s ripples.

For all the money St. Clair had proudly spent on her hotel’s lavish interior, it could not, for even a moment, compare to the beauty of God’s own handiwork. Alessia respected Aurélie for knowing that as much as herself.

She reached for her mother’s crucifix and brushed her fingers across it gently.

Alessia had made moves towards redemption, but it was too late to save a soul as ruined as hers. Punishment was exactly what she had earned.

Did she even deserve His ear?

“Did nobody tell you that the pool is off limits tonight, Ms. Auditore?”

A voice cut through the air so suddenly, the Italian felt her heart skip a beat. People rarely caught her at her most vulnerable. Tonight was clearly exceptional on all fronts.

Alessia slowly lifted herself to her feet, folding her arms across her chest in response to the chill that followed. It appeared the woman in question was emerging from the shadows near the other end of the pool. The lighting—pretty, though poor—did little to aid her in identifying the stranger. But she didn’t speak. Instead, she walked toward the dark figure without fear until she was stricken with the bitter realization of familiarity.

Her body relaxed in defeat before she could even stop it. Yet another disappointment.

“You,” Alessia said coldly.

The woman, who had now stepped out into the light, was grinning from ear to ear.

“Me.”

Any thoughts of leaving life with some remnants of her dignity intact—and she had been contemplating them frequently, as of late—had disappeared somewhere behind her cold, dead eyes.

Even Alessia hadn’t imagined herself deserving of going out like this.

“If you know who I am, then you know why I’m here.”

The sudden weight of her predicament seemed to push all of the air out of her lungs. There was no sense finding false hope in the idea of fighting her, because she wouldn’t be here unless she thought she could finish the job. So she would finish it.

Many thoughts fought desperately for her final moments of her attention. The most poignant of all, however, was that the time spent with her grandchildren hadn’t nearly been enough.

“Get down on your knees.”

The woman’s thick accent sounded far more French than she remembered.

Alessia simply stared back at her, too stubborn to let her steely gaze falter. Threats had never dictated how she chose to conduct herself. That was not about to change tonight. “No.”

The gun had come into view for the first time as it painfully collided with her face, but still, she refused to offer the satisfaction of a reaction.

“You don’t deserve to go out fighting, so you will go out on your knees. I won’t ask again.”

The Italian inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. She sought His strength when she had none to be found.

Was she worth saving?

“I fall to my knees for nobody but God...”

“Well tonight I am your God!” How someone so slight could be so domineering was as impressive as it was distressing. Her voice betrayed the exact opposite of what she claimed, however; she was the Devil himself, if ever he dared take human form. “I am your judge, and your jury. I am the decider of your fate.”

This time, she was forced into compliance.

Alessia hadn’t even realized that somebody had been standing behind her until she felt the excruciating, white-hot sting of what she could only assume to be a blade. So numbed was she by emotion and failure that she wondered if it had spared her some agony, in the end. One final, back-handed show of mercy.

There was no fighting it. With a pitiful shove, Alessia Auditore was on her knees, and barely that.

“Stabbed in the back. Poetic.”

It seemed as though the knife was being twisted, and she felt every millimeter of its movement as vividly as though it was a mile. No matter how hard she fought for pride, she couldn’t hold back the strangled choke of pain that followed. The attacker didn’t pull it out and hit her again. It simply remained.

“You should have known better than to align yourself with The Organization, Alessia. It’s high time we removed the head of the inferior snake.”

Alessia fought through her blurred vision to see her approaching. She stayed silent.

“I can’t watch you suffer as we harm your loved ones.” The woman inched closer, crouching down in front of her with cool elegance. “But I can make sure your dying thought is realizing you will no longer be around to protect them.”

The tear that followed would be the first. It would also be the last.

“Say hello to the devil for me. He waits for us both...” The woman whispered just short of her ear.

And as if it was a cue for the man behind her, with one impossibly strong drag of his knife, it was over.

There was no chance for her to respond.

No chance to spare a thought for the family she was leaving behind in ways beyond how she was failing them.

Alessia Auditore was gone.

“Remove the head, sever the spinal cord...semantics.”

An eerie silence followed.

The woman looked at the Italian face down at her feet with utter disdain. At least they were finally being reminded of their true place in the hierarchy. Taking a dainty step around the body to avoid the blood that had gathered, she glanced over her shoulder to the man who still wielded the knife.

“Did you congratulate her yet, François?” his mother asked in French, as they were standing in the ballroom, Adrienne’s delicate hand resting on her son’s arm.

“Come on, maman, she’s probably exhausted from everyone trying to talk to her, I’ll see her when the guests leave,” Fran responded in French, with a bright smile on his face.

His gaze caught a glimpse of Aurélie and his eyes lit up with pride. There she was, daughter of her mother, beautiful, young, strong, successful and happy. If only she could see you know, he thought to himself. As if Aurélie felt her uncle’s gaze, she looked in his direction from across the ballroom. Fran smiled warmly and lifted the glass of champagne, Aur responded with a bright smile in return and a slight shrug of her delicate shoulders. For a second, she had that innocent, childish smile she used to have as a little kid.

His phone buzzed.

“I’ll step outside for a second and be right back,” Fran informed his mother, “I have to take this call.”

One of his trustful commandants from Launceston was calling. They wouldn’t be unless it was an emergency, Fran knew that and a feeling of unease washed over him. 

The conversation was brief, directions were given. As he was making his way to back to the ballroom, he heard screams.

A cold shiver ran down his spine.

He was running now. 

The first thing he saw was the look of horror on Julien’s face. Then Faye, kneeling down.

...and then his mind shut off. The feeling that engulfed him wasn’t fear, grief, anger, sadness or anything similar.

It was pure exhaustion. In a matter of seconds his body was drained of energy, thoughts, senses and everything human. His eyes were open, but his vision was blurry, his brain couldn’t register what was unfolding in front of him. All the noise died out, he could see people screaming, shots fired, but he couldn’t hear anything, he was watching a silent movie. He couldn’t feel his body, or the ground beneath him.

Nothing. Emptiness. Exhaustion.

“Fran, what are you doing, man? Get cover!” Someone who ran past him, shouted. The meaning of the words was lost on Fran. He just stood there. 

It was a miracle that the bullet didn’t reach him. Fran was watching everything from the distance - how his family was escorted out of the building, how they put Aurélie in the ambulance, how Faye and his mother were crying. 

Fran was witnessing everything as if it was somebody else’s distant memory and by some magic, he was transported in a different time and place, in an alternate universe. 

He wasn’t really there.

“You do realize that flirting with me won’t earn you any kind of drink perks, right, St. Pierre?”

“Can you honestly blame a guy for trying?”

Laurent’s attempts at charming her with a smile were rebuffed with such ease, it was as though she’d been practicing. Probably a handy talent to have in a place like this, now he thought about it...

“Yes. You drank half of my damn bar before I got here.”

“And I’ll gladly reimburse you with my wit, good looks, and a date of your choosing, Jessica.”

It was her turn to offer a smile this time, and it paved the way for the kind of cutting retort that had kept him at her bar, instead of wandering the rest of Pavilion in search of an easy conquest. “Aw. At least you tried.”

“Oh, I’m incredibly trying.”

There was barely enough bar staff to handle the queues the excitement of a new nightclub had encouraged, and yet there she was, still stood, catering to him in spite of herself. The thought entertained him to no end. If he couldn’t find a way to bed the actress by the end of the night, then he knew he’d wind up back here, waiting for her, instead.

“Let me guess, our best bottle of Rémy?”

“Sure. It’s an open bar, why not?”

“Okay, firstly? Not for you it isn’t. Secondly? It’s never an open bar on the stuff you drink.” The pretty brunette leaned forward and whispered exaggeratedly, just loudly enough to be heard over the music roaring outside. “That’ll be seventeen thousand dollars.”

“Wait, what? Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“No. And I’m going to say the exact same thing to you if you buy it, you raging fucking psychopath.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to talk to customers like that, but all right...” After an aggravated sigh, he conceded. “Fine. I’ll take your second best.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all night.” There was an eye roll. “That’ll be twelve hundred, s'il vous plaît.”

“Sweet baby Jesus. Is she making you charge extortionately for my favourite drink on purpose?”

“What, you really want to stoop to the third? You could always pay by the glass if you’re struggling.”

Now she was just mocking him.

“No, no. Christ. Just give me that one.” Laurent begrudgingly handed over his card. “It’s a good job I’m already dead inside...”

This time her smile had been genuine. The kind that reached her eyes, and had him mirroring it without thought.

And then it was gone again as quickly as it’d come.

Rémy in hand, she’d turned back to look at the Frenchman before her. In a split second their exchange had gone from jovial to absurd as the valuable bottle of liquor smashed to the floor. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Like she was trying to say his name... Whilst his brow had creased in annoyance and confusion at her carelessness, as the woman next to her started screaming, the reason for her strange turn became painfully apparent.

It was the cold metal of a gun pressing into the back of his head.

Not exactly what he’d been expecting...

The people who had noticed the scene unfolding began to panic; their terrified screams washed away in a sea of drunk chanting, singing, and the music of the best DJ money could buy. Or so he’d been told. But as those privy to the gun’s presence tried to rush for the door, something—or someone—was stopping them. Laurent dared not move his head to try and see what. The last thing Pavilion’s terrible décor needed was his brains all over the wall.

“Quite the party we’ve got going on here,” the stranger that held Laurent’s life in his hands mused. “Now turn around slowly.”

Though the voice wasn’t familiar, the accent was.

Italian.

Who the flying fuck had he pissed off now? And, more importantly, why in God’s name did they think that Versailles was even a remotely appropriate setting in which to settle it? Anybody attempting to start shit would have their asses handed to them in a heartbeat, tonight. The French had worked so hard on making sure security was airtight, the fact that this was even happening blew his fucking mind.

“Now how did you get a gun in here?”

Jessica was still rooted to the spot, but her reaching for a second bottle of liquor hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Stop talking and turn around,” the Italian demanded.

The bartender had inched the bottle towards him so subtly, the gunman hadn’t caught on to what she was doing. It was the kind of shitty whisky Laurent wouldn’t even use to clean a wound, but the bottle was stout enough to do some damage. In the right hands.

Jess was giving him a weapon. Now all he needed was a distraction.

With a wink and a reassuring smile in an attempt to calm her, he let her know that he’d absolutely gotten the hint. ‘Get down,’ he’d mouthed subtly. When he was sure she’d understood him, ‘On three. One, two...’

Laurent knew he was rolling the dice with his life. As Jessica screamed at the top of her lungs and dropped to the floor behind the bar—thankfully out of sight—the gunman could have easily pulled the trigger accidentally. Thankfully, however, it had panned out exactly as Laurent had hoped. The startling shriek had distracted just enough attention from his trigger finger that Laurent could swing around, whisky bottle in hand, both swiping the gun away from his head and smashing the bottle of liquor across the Italian’s ugly fucking face in one swift motion.

The gun went off. Two shots right into the top shelf. Probably taking out more of the fucking Rémy. Bastards.

Everyone situated inside of the club had heard the terrifying sound split the music.

It soon became clear that he was going to have to wrestle the gun out of the prick’s hand; perhaps there had been no brain inside of his Neanderthal skull to disorientate with the bottle. The Italian was strong, but Laurent was a fighter. People started to scatter. Two more shots went off as the well matched men struggled for the gun. There was no fucking way he was going out like this, in their own damn hotel, to a guinea scumbag.

Fuck that.

The surge of adrenaline was something he knew well. So was fighting in a life-or-death situation.

In the end, it gave him the edge. After being dragged to the floor and hit in the face with the butt of the gun a couple of times for good measure, Laurent finally managed to shift his bulky frame over the man and pin him to the floor.

“Does someone want to fucking help me, or?!”

But almost as soon as the words had left his mouth, the explosive sound of automatic gunfire sounded from across the other side of the room. Even the guests who had been partying outside—once confused by the apparent commotion within the club—had heard that.

I guess that explained what had been blocking the exit...

Two of the doormen that had been admitting guests to the club all night had since pulled out rifles.

It didn’t take long to realize that they weren’t aiming at anyone in particular.

They were aiming at everyone.

The club was so close to full capacity that hitting targets required next to no skill. Point, shoot, and it was likely that someone was being mowed down. They scrambled over each other with no thoughts of anything but survival. They jumped into the pool, threw themselves behind the bar in an attempt to find cover... One brave idiot tried to wrestle the gun out of one of the attacker’s hands.

Laurent had seen some pretty fucked up things in his life, but seeing a man being quite literally shredded was definitely up there.

Heart pounding in his ears, the realization that he had to get the fucking gun hit hard. Overpowering the asshole was no longer enough. He needed to take out the two by the door before they turned on him.

Laurent punched the writhing man beneath him so hard in the head, he was sure he’d broken a finger. Finally, the lapse in consciousness seemed to be enough to pry the pistol from his hand. There couldn’t be many left in the mag after how many had been emptied into the God damn liquor shelf, and conserving the ammo would prove difficult for a man who hadn’t fired his weapon in years.

It took two to pick off the first one.

Laurent didn’t get a chance to go for the second.

Rambo’s buddy had turned on him in a heartbeat and fired so many shots in the direction of the Frenchman, Laurent didn’t really understand why he’d still been alive when he hit the floor.

Well fuck.

As he stared up at the ceiling, he at least found some solace in the fact now that he was down, it sounded like the remaining gunman was finished with his assault.

Didn’t really feel like that many people around him were moving. He wondered how many of them were dead, and how many were just pretending in an attempt to seem a less appealing target.

“Laurent?” Jessica’s voice finally rang out from the other side of the bar.

He was glad it did. He’d almost slipped for a minute, there...

It was hard to muster the strength to look down at his body, and by fuck, when he did he wished he hadn’t. Was it possible that it hadn’t started to hurt until he’d seen it?

Well, there was no way in Hell he was making it out of this one, then...

“Laurent, are you there? Are you okay?” Jessica poked her head up above the bar and scanned the room. Seeing the look on her face as she registered the aftermath of the massacre was something he was glad he wouldn’t have to relive. Then she saw him. That was worse. “Oh God. No. Hang on. Don’t move!”

He wished he could have rolled his eyes.

“What else am I go—“ It was all he could manage before a wave of crippling agony choked him off.

It was in that moment that he’d decided there couldn’t possibly be a pain worse than this.

“Don’t talk,” she said, dropping down to her knees beside him. “Cell phone. Where’s your cell phone?”

They didn’t need to call anyone, but logic had no doubt flow out of the window for more than just her in this situation. There was no way in fuck that the shitshow that’d just unfolded had gone unheard. He felt for her, though. Couldn’t string together a sentence himself.

Laurent lifted his hand. It weighed like lead. In fact, if he hadn’t been so desperate to reach what was inside his breast pocket, then he might have given up trying. Jess watched on eagerly—almost ready to help, until she recoiled in fear of hurting him—ready to snatch the phone out of his hands and dial for help as soon as he fished it out. Only his hand didn’t return with a phone.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Jess shook the cigarette packet he was desperately clinging to out of his frail grasp, dropping them beside his head. Laurent could only grunt in utter disapproval, his eyes all but rolling back into his skull.

Was she serious?

Weren’t good people supposed to give a dying man his last wish?

Laurent turned his head slightly so he could see the box beside his head. He barely had it in him to reach for them again. Keeping his eyes open was becoming more of a struggle as each shallow breath passed. As his fingertips edged towards his cigarettes, his eyes drifted shut.

If it hadn’t been for the swift slap she’d dealt him, maybe they wouldn’t have opened again.

This wasn’t even close to how he’d imagined his evening going.

Playing nice with the French was, rather notoriously, one of his least favorite pastimes. So, being crammed into a room of people who had been violently stealing chunks of the Forza family’s business since establishing themselves on the East Coast would have ended up very differently if it hadn’t been for her. Alessia Auditore wanted civility. And what she wanted, she got. No exceptions.

This might have been pushing ‘civility’ a little further than she’d meant, however.

The tension during their last conversation had been palpable, but the idea of ending up in a hotel room with Odile St. Pierre, instead of playing nice with the French figures his boss had in mind, still seemed a little absurd. 

Not that he was complaining.

One of the many perks of opening night was the complimentary suites. It seemed members of staff were traversing the entire building, handing out key cards to random party guests so they could try out the hotel rooms for free. For a moment, he’d considered handing his off to his brother; if only to save himself from the looks he and Lucrezia had been giving each other all night. But then his eyes had found her in the crowd, and that thought flew out of the window about as fast as his self-restraint.

It didn’t surprise him in the slightest that she was practically surrounded by her very own fan club. Dante had almost felt sorry for her date until he remembered that the dickhead was probably French, and that made the idea of enticing her away even more satisfying.

He made sure she was looking. He held up the card with a look far too innocent for his intentions.

The rest was a highly entertaining blur.

In fact, they’d barely made it through the door before he’d relieved her of her dress.

With her lips against his neck, and hands expertly working to remove his tie, he’d been so utterly distracted that he’d neglected to hear his phone ringing in his breast pocket. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the woman in his arms. Dante couldn’t help but grunt in impatience as she pulled away from him and fished it out in curiosity. He didn’t stop her.

“What do we have here?” Odile cooed, still notably short of breath. She failed to halt a laugh. “Oooh, Luisa.”

Of course it fucking was.

A conscious effort was required to suppress a frustrated sigh. Was it possible for a name to kill the mood?

Somewhere between the relentless grip of the legs at his waist, and the pressure of his body pinning her against the wall, he’d managed to free a hand just long enough to take back the phone she’d turned in his direction. Satan’s own caller ID greeted him. Dante was fairly certain that if he’d hit ‘end call’ any faster, he’d have broken the damn screen.

Without a hesitation, he tossed it in the general direction of the bed.

Luisa would wait. He couldn’t.

“I’m sure it was incredibly important,” the man began, words weighing heavy with sarcasm. If he hadn’t been so distracted by the hands now unbuttoning his shirt, he might have attempted wit. “But unfortunately, I’m otherwise occupied.”

“That’s too bad...”

As her lips found his once more—thoughts of his ex-wife cast aside soon after—he couldn’t help but hope that it was the last coherent thing either of them said for a while.

He hadn’t been disappointed.

They’d spent more time out of the bed than in it, but when they’d finally settled down amongst the sheets—intent on making the most of the champagne that came included—the buzzing of his phone against the floor finally proved itself too much of an annoyance to ignore.

“I’m half expecting her to burst in here any minute if you don’t answer that.”

Dante let his head fall back against the pillow, running a hand over his face in exasperation as Odile crawled over him, and out of the bed.

“Take the phone call, Romeo,” she mocked, rolling her eyes. “I’ll be in the next room when you’re done. We’d be doing the hotel test drive a terrible disservice if we didn’t try out the shower, too...”

He’d almost stopped searching for the phone there and then.

“Do you plan on leaving this room at some point, or?”

“Eventually,” she’d called back over her bare shoulder, smirking to herself. “Aurélie might have me killed, otherwise.”

Dante didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it, but God had clearly fucking blessed him tonight.

It wasn’t until her slender form had finally sauntered out of view that he’d located the object he was about ready to launch out of the window if it buzzed one more time.

The missed calls from Luisa were to be expected.

Her text reading: ‘I’m at Pavilion. We need to talk. Please let me apologize.’ slightly less so.

Eight missed calls from Joey, on the other hand? That was more than enough to stir some concern. In a fraction of a second, Dante’s mind had reverted to work mode, and an unsettling feeling found a home in the pit of his stomach. Joey had seen him disappear with Odile in the first place. The only reason he’d have even thought about interrupting his friend is if something was wrong.

And then the feeling materialized in the worst possible way.

A sound in the distance pierced his thoughts.

For a moment, he wondered whether Odile had dropped something in the shower. But it continued. Sporadic. Increasingly loud. It was something so akin to gunfire, he was sure his heart had stopped at the realization.

“What on earth is that noise?”

When she’d appeared in the doorway, Odile’s expression screamed a thousand words, and not one of them was good.

“I don’t know...” But he suspected. Making his way across the room, he pulled open the door to the balcony. Terrified screams flooded in with the brisk night air, and as the gunshots started up once more, he noted that they were so loud, they may as well have been right outside of the window.

Maybe they were...

As quickly as he’d opened it, it was slammed shut, and the Italian began to redress.

“You stay here,” he said, tone frighteningly calm. “The bathroom has no windows. It’ll be safer in there.”

“Wait, wha—” she stuttered, gripping her towel so hard he could see the whites of her knuckles from across the room. She started toward her dress, shaking her head defiantly. “Are you kidding? That’s my family down there. I need to go. I’m coming with you.”

“To do what?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not staying here!”

As he gathered the last of his belongings, he could sense the Frenchwoman about to protest again. Before she could muster up the words, however, he’d place a hand either side of her face, and silenced her with a final kiss. The action itself was almost apologetic. Dante didn’t like to abandon people amidst possibly dangerous confusion—regardless of who they were—but he had witnessed more than enough moments like these in Launceston to realize it was probably safer to leave her behind.

“Call someone you trust. Find out what’s going on, and leave when you know it’s safe,” he said softly, finally letting her go. “Please stay here until then.”  

Dante didn’t wait for a response.

Perhaps, had he not been in such a rush to get to the elevator, he would have noticed the company in the corridor. The very same woman who had handed out the hotel keys was now holding a gun, watching as her entourage began systematically sweeping through the rooms they’d filled with unsuspecting guests...

This time, when his phone screen lit up, it surprised him to see Lucrezia’s name, instead.

“What’s going on? Who’s shooting?”

“Why the fuck haven’t you been answering, Dante? Where are you?!” The Italian had shouted so loudly, he’d almost had to move the phone away from his ear.

“I’m on the way down to the lobby now. Where are you?”

“The ballroom. Security got a couple of shots off on a mad man who took to St. Clair with a knife,” she began, “but that’s not why I’m calling you.” Because she hated them as much as he did. “They’re rounding people up. Are you with Alessia? We don’t know where she is.”

They were six words that could induce a heart attack.

“What do you mean, ‘we don’t know where she is?’” For the first time since hearing the initial gunshots, his steely exterior faltered. It wasn’t with fear or guilt. It was anger. There had been more than enough of them to keep an eye on their damn boss, and somehow they’d manage to lose one of the most important people in the building? “How the fuck did you lose your sister?”

“Watch your mou—”

To Hell with her fucking scolding at a time like this. He interrupted without a second thought. “The shots I heard weren’t a few fired from security, Lucrezia. This was like an army of AKs.”

“What? Where? What are you talking about?!” Now it was Lucrezia’s voice that was wavering.

Something was very fucking wrong, here.

“Are you tired? What about the jellybeans? Nobody here is going to hold it against you if you need to leave a little early, mush.”

Natalia Carmichael was, perhaps, Aurélie St. Clair’s oldest friend in the world. They had attended the same Connecticut boarding school as children, and had been inseparable, much to the distaste of her family, ever since. The fact she had traveled all the way from their once shared home of Launceston meant a great deal to Aurélie. Especially on a night like this.

“And miss out on this party you flew across the country for? I don’t think so...”

The two ladies were situated within Versailles’ main ballroom, and had been since she’d given her lacking, but sincere speech at the beginning of the festivities. The room was as close to a perfect replica of the Hall of Mirrors as was humanly achievable; right down to the spectacular chandeliers that gave life to the one part of this project she had utterly slaved over since arriving in Porto Velho. The one thing she could call her own.

She could have easily leaned back and stared at the beautiful ceiling all night. Unfortunately for her, however, tonight, everybody wanted a minute of her time.

Aurélie wasn’t so sure she had many left to give.

“Honestly, you look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

“How could I possibly sleep when you talk this much?”

“...valid point.”

The blonde let out a tired sigh, before shaking her head at her own laziness. This was her night, and she was supposed to be out there mingling with her guests. She needed to stand up. Walk around. Do something to inspire just enough energy to carry her through the rest of this evening.

“Come and get drinks with me. Nothing could possibly make this night any better than seeing your drunken ass rolling all over my marble floor.”

“No! I mean yes, we’ll get drinks and I’ll make as big a dick of myself as you’d like, but you sit there. I can get your drinks. What do you want? Do you need anything to eat?”

“Tali, for crying out loud... I’m pregnant not dyin—“

“Ms. St. Clair?”

Before she could continue to protest her best friend’s unnecessary, continued fawning, two rather timid looking men had interrupted her. It had already happened so many times since taking her seat—people desperate to get a word in before she disappeared—that she’d long ago given up on being frustrated by it. It wasn’t meant rudely...or so she told herself, for the sake of her own sanity.

Tali excused herself with a mouthed ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ before disappearing into the crowds.

“Indeed I am,” Aurélie beamed, taking the hand of the man who had already extended it in greeting. “How are you enjoying your evening so far, gentlemen?”

“This place absolutely beautiful,” he gushed, English notably broken. His excitement was contagious and Aurélie couldn’t help but feel herself swell with pride, and gratitude, and everything in between. “Both big fans.”

“Where have you come from? Are you based in Porto Velho?” Aurélie asked, turning her attention to the silent man beside him in an attempt to elicit some kind of input. He looked so thrilled to even be in her presence, it was almost unnerving.

“No, we from Launceston. North Anderson.”

As if Launceston hadn’t stirred enough unease within her, the mention of North Anderson certainly did. Perhaps that explained the language difficulties. They were Korean.

“Could we possibly take picture?” The man turned to his friend and gestured toward the impressive looking camera in his hands.

“Together?”

Aurélie attempted to clarify, but it was at this point, she’d noted from the corner of her eye, that two of her bodyguards had now risen to their feet with the apparent intent to intervene.

“Please. We work for magazine in the city. The people miss you. Much more class than the Russians. Is not the same without such big St. Clair presence.”

It appeared that the Korean had also noticed her personal security approaching because he immediately looked so apologetic, she somehow felt guilty about it. He raised his hands as though he was about to be arrested for the crime of starting a friendly conversation.

“We did not mean to cause offense, Ms. St. Clair...”

“No, no—“ Aurélie quickly cut in. Even though they appeared frustrated by her defiance, there was little her guards could do when she waved a hand to halt their approach. How would it make her look if she appeared so precious she couldn’t even take a picture with a couple of guests? The security in place tonight was so robust, even if they had wanted to try anything worth being escorted out for, they’d be out on their asses before they could manage it... Where was the harm? “It’s okay. You’re fine. Of course, we can take a picture. Which magazine is it you work for?”

“A magazine in the city,” he replied unhelpfully, before hurrying to stand beside her.

“Right...”

The man gearing up to get in the frame muttered something in what she could only assume to be Korean to his friend with the camera, who nodded his head so hard it could have fallen off. It was at this point the mouth of the operation reached out an arm to rest against her back. Julien, who had been watching from his own table, had now gotten to his feet. This seemed to inspire a wave of similar responses of the surrounding commandants.

Oliver appeared to have the ear of one of her bodyguards.

Was this really going to turn into a scene?

Aurélie grinned in the direction of the camera, determined to prove to not only her entourage that everything was all right, but that they didn’t need to treat all Koreans with distrust.

But maybe the people of Anderson Island had treated them that way for a reason.

Because they couldn’t be trusted.

It would have been absolutely impossible for anyone who wasn’t a member of the Organization or the security she’d hired to carry any kind of weapon on the premises of Versailles that evening. It did not, however, stop someone with a murderous mind from using the hotel’s many other tools to his advantage.

The clever placement of his hand behind her back had obscured from view the hotel hallmarked steak knife that had been carefully hidden—quite literally—up his sleeve.

They had all rushed at her so fast, she was sure they’d seen the attack before she felt it.

Two quick plunges of the knife. Right into her back. Just below her shoulder blade.

Everything seemed to slow down in that fraction of a second. It didn’t matter how quickly her security surged towards her, because the maniac who now had her in a death grip with his other hand was too fast. Two more stabs. This time they targeted her front. He was so close that she could see the look of pure hatred in his eyes. The look of wrath. Disgust. A sick and twisted sense of enjoyment... The third stab took to her shoulder, and the fourth, less than an inch to the right of her throat—both came as quick as heartbeats.

There was no time to scream.

The white hot flashes of pain were gone as swiftly as they arrived.

Was it the shock? Did her brain simply not have the capability of processing the situation?

Thank God her reactions finally caught up with her. The blonde raised her hands in a reflexive attempt to protect herself as he drew back to come at her one more time. Security grabbed the psychopath just as he was about to go for her face. Instead, she’d taken the tip of the blade through the palm of her hand shielding it.

The room was filled with the shouting of the men who had since pinned him to the floor.

The cameraman, making the most of the explosive commotion, had started swiping at any Frenchman he could get his hands on. Julien’s shirt seemed to be bathed in red. Was Oliver there, too?

Christ.

“I’m okay,” she murmured. Aurélie didn’t even know why she’d said it.

“Aur!” The terrified voice belonged to her aunt, Faye, who had rushed over to her almost as soon as the lunatics were clear. “Hey, Aur, look at me!”

God, she felt so dizzy. She couldn’t focus. Even if she’d wanted to see what was happening, she could barely gather herself enough to make sure she was still breathing.

“I’m okay,” she repeated, as Faye’s hand clasped against the wound on her neck.

Rather clearly, she wasn’t.

“Yeah, you’re okay,” came the voice of another, but Aurélie couldn’t manage to work out whom.

“Someone get me that table cloth!” Faye screamed.

There was already a shawl at her back in an attempt to stem the bleeding. For a moment, she could have sworn the woman hovering was her mother...

Aurélie looked down at her hand. Then she touched her shoulder.

“No, stop it.” Faye scolded. “Just stay still.”

It went unheard.

So great was the volume of blood that she didn’t know whether she was supposed to panic or vomit.