Page 74 of City of Love

When we’ve all set up—gotten the tables and the food ready—we open. It’s not until about thirty minutes after that that people really start showing up, and I’m grateful for the distraction of being constantly on the move.

That gratitude, however, vanishes when a man I recognize walks through the front door of the bar.

Comtois towers over almost everyone here. It’s crowded, but my eyes never lose him as he moves, weaving through the crowd. His eyes dart around, and I know instinctively that he’s looking for me. It feels like the past I’m trying to leave behind is suddenly knocking at my door, taunting me.

When Comtois’s eyes find me, my suspicions are confirmed. His face goes from neutral to some combination of menacing and cunning. It’s not an expression I care to see on a man of his size and loyalties, but it’s hard to miss as he threads through the crowd and toward me.

“Comtois,” I say with a jerky nod once he’s directly in front of me. I’m under no illusions here; he holds the power in this meeting. The Saints are a propergang. They dabble in any number of things I wouldn’t touch—drugs being the biggest, but I’ve heard talk of things like money laundering as well. They don’t shy away from violence; they’re not afraid to get their hands dirty.

Me? I led a little group of pickpockets. My motives were never self-serving, and I absolutely forbade my men from resorting to violence. So standing tall in front of this man is the only thing I can really do. I’m not going to get an edge anywhere else.

“Marchand,” Comtois says. He sounds bored, unaffected, but his eyes are keen, taking everything in. “Let’s talk.”

I grit my teeth, a sick feeling coiling in the pit of my stomach. I know what’s going on here, and I don’t like it.

I jerk my chin toward the back of the bar, turning on my heel and walking. Though it’s too loud in here to hear anything like footsteps, I know Comtois is following me. When we round the corner and find ourselves in the hallway that leads to the kitchen and the bathrooms, I stop.

“Talk,” I say.

Comtois, to his credit, doesn’t bother with posturing or unnecessary threats. “We’ve got one last job for you, and we’ll consider your debt paid.”

“I’m going straight,” I say carefully. “As are my men.”

Well, Ihopethey’re going straight.

“I don’t care,” Comtois says with an ugly sneer. “Tell them it’s time to go crooked again.”

“What’s the job?” I say, thinking.

“Residential grab.”

“And if I refuse?”

Comtois shrugs. “Then we find someone else. Approach some of your other men, maybe. Could be dangerous for them, though.” His eyes glint maliciously, and I hold in the stream of swears that is begging to be let loose.

Because I hear the things he’s very carefullynotsaying. If I refuse, my men will pay the price. And if I accept…

If I accept, I’ll be betraying Lydia.

My heart sinks, and the sickness swirling within me intensifies. I hate it, but Lydia’s happiness doesn’t trump the safety of my men. I’d rather her be upset than have bodily harm come to someone because of me.

Thinking of Lydia brings another sickening wave of nausea. Because what if she’d been with me when Comtois showed up? What would have happened? How am I possibly supposed to protect her from my past when it could come calling at any time?

I can’t. And if this proves anything, it’s that my past will show up. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but my past will always be there, and it will always have the ability to affect my present and my future. It was only a matter of time before Lydia realized that. And when she did, she would want out. Because I know exactly how she feels about my criminal past; she wasn’t exactly shy about it that night at the cemetery. She doesn’t want anything to do with lawbreaking.

I swallow hard, an icy sort of acceptance trickling through me. This is bound to be my lot in life. Who was I to try to bring Lydia into this? What right do I have to darken her perception of the world? What right do I have to promise her a future I can’t guarantee?

I look at Comtois, who’s been waiting patiently in front of me. I take a deep breath and then speak.

“We accept. But after that, I’m done with this life. I’m going straight.”

Chapter 23

Lydia

When I hear a knock at the door, I go to look through the peephole only to realize there isn’t one.

France is strange.

---