Page 75 of Hero Worship

I clenched my jaw, but he was right. This whole plan hinged on my ability to make Roche believe I was like them. That I saw beauty as something to be captured, preserved, owned completely.

"The key," Xavier continued, "is to present it as appreciation rather than obsession. You're not some desperate collector. You're a connoisseur. Someone who understands the artistry involved."

"The artistry of murder," I said flatly.

"The artistry of preservation." Xavier's correction was precise as a scalpel. "That's how Roche sees it. Not as killing, but as transforming beauty into something eternal."

Xander made a soft sound against my chest. I ran my fingers through his hair, trying to ground us both. "And you think they'll believe that coming from me?"

Xavier turned his laptop so we could see the screen. "I told you I'd provide proof. Look."

A string of purchases flowed across the display. Private art sales focusing on preserved specimens. Taxidermy collectionsfeaturing rare and beautiful creatures. Museum donations specifically earmarked for preservation research. All carefully backdated and layered into financial records that would withstand scrutiny.

"Jesus," Xander breathed. "You did all that since last night?"

Xavier shrugged. “With Leo’s help. I didn’t give him details, though, so don’t worry. He was more than happy to help.”

I studied the records with a growing appreciation for Xavier's attention to detail. Every transaction told a story. Built a picture of someone with the wealth and inclination to appreciate Roche's particular brand of art.

"We already have our way in," Xavier said, pulling up news coverage of last night's chaos. Viktor's death was already being spun exactly as he'd predicted, portraying Roche as the victim of Russian mob violence. "You were there. You witnessed everything. It's the perfect excuse to reach out directly."

"A concerned patron," I mused, understanding where he was going with this. "Someone who was captivated by their private collection before all hell broke loose."

"Exactly." Xavier's fingers flew across keys. "The wealthy novelist, reaching out to express both concern and... deeper interests. After all, you had a front-row seat to their masterpiece in progress."

The casual way he referred to Misha made my gut turn. But he was right. I would need to see Viktor's death the way Roche did. Not as a father's desperate attempt to save his child, but as performance art. As beauty captured in the moment of transformation.

"The timing is perfect," Xavier continued, pulling up what looked like security camera feeds. "Roche is at their private residence now, playing grieving guardian for the press. They'll be expecting concerned calls from last night's guests. The question is..." His eyes met mine with clinical precision. "Canyou make them believe you saw something more than tragedy in that moment?"

Xander's fingers dug into my thigh. "You mean can he convince them he got off on watching Viktor die?"

"No." I wrapped my arm around him, needing the contact as much as he did. "That I saw the artistry in it. The composition. The way blood on white marble created patterns like a Kandinsky brought to life." The words felt like poison in my mouth, but I made myself continue. Made myself think like the monster I needed to become. "The contrast of violence and beauty. The perfect framing of father and child reunited in that final moment."

"Jesus Christ." Xander's voice cracked.

"Yes," he said softly. "That's exactly how you need to present it. Not as someone aroused by death, but as someone who recognizes the artistic vision behind it. Who appreciates the careful cultivation of perfect moments."

My phone felt heavy as lead when I picked it up. The number Xavier had provided would connect me directly to Roche's private line. One call to set everything in motion. To present myself as the kind of man who saw beauty in blood on marble floors.

"Remember," Xavier said, as I pulled up the contact. "You're not just expressing concern. You're laying groundwork for later discussions about commissioning your own pieces. About understanding their vision in ways others cannot."

Understanding their vision. Understanding why they turned living beauty into preserved art. Why they stole the light from Misha's eyes and replaced it with chemical obedience. The rage that thought triggered must have shown on my face, because Xavier leaned forward.

"Channel it," he said quietly. "Use that experience. Let them see the monster in you and believe it's the same as theirs."

My finger hovered over the call button as I let that slippery, dark feeling fill me like smoke, like shadow, like everything my father had tried to make me become. In my arms, Xander trembled slightly.

"I'm right here," he whispered, lips brushing my neck. "We both are. Whatever you become to make this work, we'll bring you back afterward."

The promise in his voice steadied me. Grounded me even as I prepared to let my careful control slip.

I hit call.

The line rang twice before a cultured voice answered in French. “Roche residence. This is Amanda. How may I direct your call?”

“Bonjour,” I answered and stuck to my best French. “My name is Asher Verity. I was wondering if I might speak to Mx. Roche? It’s about last night?”

“I apologize, Monsieur Verity, but Mx. Roche is very busy and—” There were suddenly voices in the background and Amanda paused, muttering “Oi,” twice before coming back on the line. “Ah, what luck! It appears Mx. Roche has just concluded his business. Let me transfer you to his personal phone. One moment, s'il vous plaît.”

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