Page 52 of A Mistake of Identity
The entire estate radiated the kind of old money that couldn’t be replicated—the patina of generations of careful maintenance, the absolute certainty that everything was exactly as it should be.
They found Maximilien by the pool, lounging on a canopied daybed with the casual arrogance that had defined him for decades. A crystal tumbler dangled from his fingers, ice clinking against glass as he watched their approach with faint amusement.
Behind him, the pool stretched like a liquid sapphire, its waters flowing seamlessly from the climate-controlled interior to the outdoor terrace through a massive wall of crystal-clear glass. The engineering marvel could seal the indoor section off completely during winter, but today, the barrier was raised, allowing the afternoon breeze to ripple across both surfaces.
A young woman in a crisp white uniform approached with practiced grace, carrying a fresh whiskey sour on a silver tray. She kept her eyes downcast as she exchanged Maximilien’s empty glass for the full one, then retreated with the silent efficiency expected of the household staff.
Gabriel noted how his father’s gaze followed her movements with predatory interest before returning to rest on his visitors, that familiar mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Father—”
“If you’re here about the Saint-Clair boy, I’m staying out of it.” Maximilien sipped his scotch. “Olivier call. It’s a family matter, you understand.”
Lucas lunged forward. Alain caught him, muscles straining. “Don’t,” he warned.
“And Ellis?” Gabriel asked, teeth grinding.
“Who?” Maximilien sipped his whiskey sour.
“Who… you know damn well who he is, you bastard!”
Maximilien laughed. “Il s’est envolé.”
“Not on his own, he didn’t.” Gabriel all but snarled.
“Why don’t you change? Join me by the pool. It’s a lovely day for it, and the view is fantastic.” Maximilien’s gaze slid back to where the female staff member was fluffing pillows on nearby daybeds and loungers, completely unnecessarily.
Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. Punching his father might feel cathartic, but it wouldn’t get him any answers. “Do you know where Henri is?” He asked through his teeth, the tension in his jaw aching its way into a migraine.
Maximilien made a show of checking his watch. “At this time of day, I assume the office.”
“He’s been working remotely, according to his PA.”
“Well, he isn’t here. Perhaps Marc’s penthouse?”
Getting any information out of his father was unlikely. The trio searched the house for Henri anyway, though none believed he was there. More than one of the servants had told them that Henri had all but been living at Marc’s penthouse for the past few months. Gabriel considered it odd, as Henri was fond of some of the horses in the stables, his old polo ponies, and was usually one to ride multiple times a week.
“Do we know where Marc’s penthouse is?” Gabriel asked as they exited the house after a fruitless search.
“I’ll have to look into it,” Alain said, sliding behind the wheel. The air in the Mercedes felt thick with unspent fury and mounting dread.
They drove back to Lafayette Square in tense silence, the earlier breakneck pace replaced by a measured control that seemed to cost Alain visible effort. Each traffic light felt like an eternity. Gabriel watched the familiar landmarks of Second Cat blur past his window, unable to shake the image of his father’s mocking smile.
Nika was waiting on the front steps when they arrived, his usual predatory grace somehow sharper in the late afternoon light. His perfectly tailored suit seemed incongruous against the lingering chemical smell of bleach, the marble steps still showing faint traces of hasty cleaning.
“Police have been handled,” Nika said as they approached. “All questions answered, all concerns addressed. They won’t trouble you further.” He adjusted his cuff links with precise movements. “Initial cleanup is complete. A more thorough crew arrives within the hour.” His gaze flicked to the front door. “Annabelle has taken refuge in the kitchen. The house already smells like a French patisserie.”
His expression softened fractionally. “Dr. Nguyen called. Jacob is out of surgery; transfer to St. Lucius will be approved once he’s stable. Peter...” A measured pause. “Peter’s injuries were more severe. Several more hours of surgery are ahead. Transfer won’t be possible for at least twenty-four hours, but I’m applying appropriate pressure to expedite matters. Did you learn anything at the estate?” Nika asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“I have contacts,” Nika said, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “People who owe me favors.”
Alain’s lip curled with familiar distaste. “Bet you do.” He murmured.
“I’ll reach out, see what can be found.” Nika’s smile was razor-sharp but held a hint of genuine concern. He tipped his head in farewell and stepped down to his sleek Cadillac Blackwing, the engine purring to life.
Gabriel pushed open the front door of his home, the familiar space suddenly alien. Industrial cleaners couldn’t mask what his mind insisted was still there—blood and gunpowder, violence poorly concealed beneath pine and bleach. His shoes struck each step with hollow sounds that echoed wrong through the silent halls.
