Page 98 of A Mistake of Worth
It made Michael think about Henri with a clarity that was almost physically painful. How much damage had been doneover decades of systematic abuse? How many layers of trauma would need to be carefully, slowly unwound?
Michael had started researching therapists in London. Specialists in complex PTSD, long-term captivity, systematic abuse. People who could help Henri remember what it felt like to exist without fear.
He’d bookmarked articles about trauma bonding, about learned helplessness, about the way prolonged abuse rewired the brain’s stress response.
Henri’s automatic flinch when someone moved too quickly. The way he apologized for taking up space. The practiced submission was so ingrained that it looked like a personality trait rather than conditioning.
How much of the real Henri was left underneath all that damage? How long would it take him to remember that he was allowed to want things, to say no, to exist for his own sake rather than someone else’s pleasure?
Because when Michael got Henri out of PDC, not if but when, Henri was never coming back to this city. Never coming back to the place where his childhood had been traded away and his adulthood stolen piece by piece. Michael would ensure Henri had the time, space, and help he needed to remember who he was supposed to be.
The sharp clack of Nika’s keyboard cut through Michael’s thoughts, dragging him back to the present. But the parallel remained. Ellis had Gabriel, had time, had safety to fall apart and rebuild. Henri had none of those things.
“Michael,” Nika said, his voice carrying the flat precision of someone who’d been staring at financial records for too many hours. “Your instincts about Crescent City were right. It looks completely legitimate on paper. Proper documentation, regular contracts, and all the right permits. But the payment patternsare too clean. Always the same amount, always the same date. Real businesses have variation, fluctuation. This is artificial.”
Michael leaned forward to study Nika’s screen, where spreadsheets full of transaction data painted a picture of careful money laundering. “What kind of amounts are we talking about?”
“Quarter million monthly, like clockwork. Twelve payments a year for the past three years.” Nika’s fingers moved across the keyboard, bringing up a web of connected accounts. “Nocturne’s decryption revealed the real scope of it. Internal emails, payment authorizations, shipping manifests that tell a very different story than the public paperwork. The money disappears into a network of personal accounts. I followed the trail.” He pulled up another window showing international wire transfers. “Some end up in the Caymans, others in Panama, a few in Switzerland. Classic banking havens. Could be payroll, could be bribes, likely both.” He highlighted several connection points. “But here’s the interesting part. It’s all tied to Olivier’s network. Not Marc’s. At least not directly.”
Michael felt his jaw tighten with familiar frustration. “How convenient.”
“Every connection we find leads back to the father, never the son,” Gabriel said, rubbing his temples. “Marc’s footprint is so clean it’s suspicious, but suspicion isn’t evidence.”
Alain pushed off from the wall, setting his wine glass down with deliberate care. “Speaking of Olivier’s network,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of information gathered from sources Michael didn’t want to think about too closely. “Word from the Second Cat is that one of the Bosnian slumlord’s boys has been bragging. Apparently, he had a ‘special guest’ he got to take his time with.”
Ice spread through Michael’s chest.
Alain’s eyes met Michael’s briefly before looking away. “I’ll spare you the details. Trust me, you don’t want them.”
But Michael’s imagination was already filling in the blanks.
“That kid’s father runs drugs and weapons through the ports for Olivier,” Alain continued, his voice carefully neutral. “Same network that’s been trafficking people for years. Marc doesn’t have to touch it directly to benefit from it. Just like he’s never had to dirty his hands with Henri.”
“So we’re back to the same problem,” Michael said, forcing his voice to stay level despite the rage building in his chest. “Nothing we can tie directly to Marc.”
“Not yet,” Nika said, his fingers already pulling up new files. “But if we burn Olivier’s network, Marc’s protection and resources go with it. Might back him into a corner enough to make him cut his losses.”
“Cut his losses?” Michael’s voice sharpened. “Henri isn’t a fucking stock portfolio.”
“That’s not what I meant...”
“Wait.” Gabriel’s voice cut through the exchange, something sharp entering his tone. He leaned forward in his chair, studying Nika’s screen with new intensity. “What if we’re thinking about this completely wrong?”
Jean shifted in Lucas’s lap, his voice quiet but certain. “You are.”
All eyes turned to him. Jean’s theatrical mask had fallen away entirely, replaced by something harder, more knowing.
“Marc’s been planning this for years,” Jean said, his tone flat. “Father’s downfall, I mean. I used to hear him on phone calls when I was younger, documenting things. Taking pictures of documents. He has files on everyone.”
Alain set down his wine glass with deliberate care. “Elaborate.”
“Marc doesn’t react,” Jean continued, his voice growing stronger. “He orchestrates. Always has.” His fingers twisted in his lap. “Alexandre told me about when Marc was five and wanted a new puppy for his birthday. Mother said we already had a dog. Buster. Alexandre caught Marc looking online, asking strangers questions about what made animals sick. Then Buster got ill, and Marc spent weeks practicing being devastated, crying to Mother about how much he’d miss the dog.” Jean’s hands clenched in his lap. “Alexandre said Marc rehearsed it all.”
The room went deadly quiet.
“Alexandre and Marc are Irish twins, tu sais. Barely eleven months apart. Should have been inseparable.” Jean’s voice hardened. “Alexandre told me that this was his first memory. Watching Marc kill the elderly family dog so he could get a puppy.”
The room went deadly quiet.
