4

The bar closed and the police came. They asked Bastien a couple of questions, but it seemed like they already knew him because they didn’t ask who he was. In fact, they treated him like a superior.

I stepped outside into the cold, the air wet from a drizzle that had just passed through. The pavement was wet from the recent rainfall, and a few people were on the street because no one ever slept in this city.

Bastien came outside a moment later and looked me over. “You alright?”

“A little frazzled, but I’m fine.”

He continued to stare me down with those piercing blue eyes. “It’s okay not to be fine.”

My eyes flicked away, touched by the softness he was showing when he had been so ruthless a moment ago. “I know it is.”

“Where’s your apartment?”

I normally wouldn’t give out my address to a stranger, but he somehow felt like anything but a stranger even though I only knew his first name. “Rue Coquilliere. By the Louvre.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“I’m okay⁠—”

“Come on.” He took the lead, stepping into the empty street under the bright lampposts, moving past a building that had stood the test of time and survived the Second World War. “We have a conversation to finish.”

We walked down the wet pavement together, side by side, but nothing was really said. He seemed to be a long-term resident of the city because he knew exactly where he was going, knew exactly what street to take without looking at his phone for guidance.

“How long have you lived in Paris?”

“All my life. You?”

“Same.”

That was the extent of our conversation. We passed Loup on the corner and walked down the path where the restaurants were located beneath my apartment. There was a small road for cars, but only taxis pulled up to the area. Right now, it was deserted, all the restaurants closed except for Au Pied de Cochon.

He seemed to know it was one of the few restaurants open all hours of the day because he checked in with the host and asked for a table outside. The second we sat down, he lit up a cigar and blew the smoke into the air. We were the only ones outside because it was either too cold or too late.

He offered me a cigar.

“No thanks.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I lit up and felt the hit of nicotine the second the smoke hit my lungs.

He gave a subtle smile before he held his cigar between his fingertips. “You don’t strike me as a smoker.”

“I quit a couple years ago.”

“But carry a pack wherever you go.” He returned the cigar to his mouth and pulled in a puff before he let it out from his nostrils.

My eyes narrowed but in a playful way. “You are an asshole.”

His smirk widened.

“I started up again once I moved out.”

The playfulness evaporated, and he gave a slight nod in understanding.

“It’s always been my vice.”

“Everyone has their poison. No shame in that.”

“Yes, but I want to live to see middle age at least.”

He looked at the street as people passed, only a person every now and then, coming from the mall far down the way.

“You don’t worry about that?”

He let the smoke leave his mouth before he answered. “No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t expect to live long—nor do I desire it.” When he spotted the waitress in the window, he waved her over. “I’ll take a scotch on the rocks. And whatever she’s having.”

I ordered my drink, and she left.

The last thing he said hadn’t left my mind. “Why do you feel that way?”

He looked as he let the cigar rest between his fingertips, and the strength of his stare seemed to be his answer—or lack thereof.

I didn’t press the question again, remembering we’d met just a few hours ago and I wasn’t entitled to such personal information. “Are you a cop?”

A smile that lit up all his features hit his face, and when he chuckled, it came from deep in his chest. “No.”

“It seemed like they knew you.”

“Oh, they know me.”

“But you aren’t a cop.”

He gave a slight shake of his head. “There are more than cops and bandits. The food web is a lot bigger than most people realize.”

“And where do you fit in this food web?”

He took another puff of his cigar. The waitress came out and brought our drinks before she returned to the warmth inside the restaurant. He glanced out at the darkness and the sycamore trees that lined the sidewalk before he looked at me again. “At the top.”

I didn’t consider my husband to be a criminal because he didn’t kill people, but he made his money in less than notable ways. He and his guys stole famous pieces of art and replaced them with fakes because they sold the originals on the black market for a pretty penny. There were men out there with real van Goghs, da Vincis, and Michelangelos in their bathrooms—while the museums had counterfeits. Now I suspected Bastien was on a whole different—and dangerous—level. “The less I know, the better.”

“Smart girl.” He released the smoke from his mouth and let it float on the cool air. “And you’ve got a steely spine too. I like that.”

“How so?”

“Most women would just put up with a man’s infidelity so they could live in a big house and drive a nice car. But not you. You’re an idealist, a woman of great moral character, who knows she’s worth more than a man’s bullshit. That’s hot.”

I held his stare but felt the warmth in my cheeks. Everyone I knew had told me to take Adrien back, that it was a one-time mistake and I should fight for the marriage. While there were times I considered it, letting it go didn’t sit right with me.

“And you held your ground with that asshole. Didn’t scream or cry.”

“Make no mistake, I was fucking scared.”

“But you didn’t show it.” He lowered the cigar and gave me a harder stare than he had before, full of authority and command. “And that’s what matters. You reached for that wine bottle with every intention to kill—and you swung.” He took a drink, wiped a drop from the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and then smiled. “And that’s fucking hot.”