Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
The execution of my entire family…except me.
I’ve been on the run from The Oath, assassins that vow to finish every contract they receive. Every few years they find me again, and then I’m on the run once more. I’m working as a sommelier at Septime in Paris when they find me again, and they try to ambush me after work late one night.
I run for the street and hop into the first car I find. “Drive!” To my surprise, he asks no questions and speeds away through the streets of Paris and shakes them off my tail. He tells me his name.
Luca Fournier.
I have nowhere to go, so he lets me stay with him for protection…for a price.
Me.
I quickly learn that the man I’m bedding is one of the French Emperors, a secret society that’s part of the senate, and it’s his job to separate the criminals from the innocents. I could have jumped into any car, but I jumped into his.
Is it luck?
Or is it fate?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
ALIÉNOR
It was midnight when I finished my shift as a sommelier at Septime. The bottles were wiped down and returned to the case, and the wine glasses were dried by hand before being hung on the rack. It was a small restaurant with only a handful of tables, but the cramped atmosphere added to the charm.
I put on my long black coat and threw the rose-colored scarf around my neck before I stepped into the cold. The restaurant was on a narrow one-way street, and most of the other businesses were already closed. There were normally pedestrians on the sidewalks at all hours of the night, but it was quiet in the city in late winter. Spring was in the distance, close enough to see but not close enough to touch.
I headed down the street toward my apartment, my heels making a distinct tap against the cold stone of the sidewalk. With my bag drawn close, I glanced at my phone to check the time before I stowed it in my pocket once again.
My chin lifted, and I noticed a man across the street, smoking a cigar, dressed in all black with a black beanie, looking at me like he knew who I was.
I quickly looked ahead and pretended I hadn’t noticed his silent aggression.
I walked everywhere in Paris. Taxis and ride-hailing services were way too expensive for a bottom-feeder like me. I was a sommelier because I’d grown up privileged—but that was a long time ago.
I’d been poor so long I forgot what it was like to be rich.
Another set of footsteps accompanied mine, and I knew he was following me. I noticed the way the sound changed when he left the sidewalk and stepped onto the cobblestones. His legs were so much longer than mine, his stride would quickly catch up to me.
“Shit,” I said under my breath.
I kept my head down, kept a low profile, did everything I could to be a nobody.
But he’d kept his word and sought me out—even years later. Hell-bent on revenge that shouldn’t be my debt to pay, determined to add my head to one of the spikes outside his castle, desperate to fill his glass with the last drops of my family’s blood.
I finally reached the end of the narrow street, the sidewalk opening to other shops under the lampposts, all closed early in the off-season. A couple cars passed on the street, but it was mostly empty.
There was only a single car, a blacked-out Range Rover with midnight-black rims and blacked-out tinted windows. A muscular man stepped away from one of the shops and headed toward the Range Rover. The side-view mirrors immediately popped open at his approach like it was his vehicle, and he hit the button on the key fob before he came into my sight.
I didn’t have time to think.
Just before he opened the driver’s door, I sprinted down the stone pathway next to the trees and the park bench, aware that my assailant was in pursuit even though I couldn’t hear his boots in my hustle.
I threw open the passenger door and jumped inside. “Fucking drive!” I slammed the passenger door shut and hit the lock button—like that would stop a bullet from shattering the window. I turned to the driver and expected to have to yell or explain, but he hit the gas and took off down the empty road, his powerful engine making us accelerate with the speed of the wind.
I turned back to stare at the man who had pursued me and then heard shots fired, hitting the back window of the Range Rover. Two little cracks appeared in the glass, but it somehow didn’t break. “Fuck.” I faced forward again and glanced at the driver.
He was calm, almost indifferent.
The light at the intersection was red, but he turned left on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine like it was just a normal day. He dropped his speed, like he believed the gunman would never be able to track us on foot.
Once the immediate danger had passed, I looked at the driver of my getaway car.
Dark hair and dark eyes, his muscular arms stretching the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt, he was the definition of calm and collected. An Omega watch was on his wrist, the kind worth over one hundred thousand euros, and the only reason I knew that was because my father used to have one very similar. A shadow was along his jawline, like he had to shave every morning to keep a clean look, but the darkness was back by midnight.
One hand remained on the wheel while he relaxed in the seat, eyes on the road. “Where to?”
In shock, I stared for a solid three seconds. “That’s it? No questions?”
“Your business is your business.”
“You aren’t going to demand that I pay for your back window?”