Chapter 5 - THE PRICE OF A NAME
The next morning, Edmund Voss disappeared.
His phone was found beside the Hudson.
His car remained at home.
There was no note.
Margaux assumed he had been taken.
Lucian assumed nothing.
“People who disappear voluntarily often want you to assume the worst,” he said.
Mireille stood before the library windows.
“That’s a comforting philosophy.”
“It wasn’t intended to comfort you.”
“You should put that on the family crest.”
Lucian glanced at her.
“You think I have a family crest?”
“You own a mansion.”
“It came with the property.”
Despite everything, Mireille laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
Lucian looked at her for half a second too long.
Then his phone rang.
Whatever had softened disappeared.
He answered.
Listened.
His face hardened.
“Where?”
He ended the call.
“Victor Dane wants to meet.”
Mireille turned.
“With whom?”
“You.”
“No.”
Lucian looked surprised.
She clarified.
“No, you’re not going to tell me I can’t.”
“I was.”
“I know.”
“He specifically asked for you.”
“Then I’m specifically going.”
“Mireille.”
“Lucian.”
His eyes narrowed.
Margaux, sitting nearby, looked between them.
“This is strangely entertaining.”
Both turned toward her.
She raised her hands.
“Sorry.”
The meeting was arranged at an old private club in Manhattan.
Lucian arrived with Mireille and six security men.
Victor Dane sat alone.
He was sixty, silver-haired, elegant, and looked exactly as Mireille remembered from childhood Christmas dinners.
He smiled when he saw her.
“My God. Little Mimi.”
“Don’t call me that.”
The smile disappeared.
Lucian sat beside her.
Victor glanced at him.
“You’ve become possessive quickly.”
Lucian said nothing.
Victor turned to Mireille.
“Your father is alive.”
“Where?”
“Safe.”
“From whom?”
“You.”
She almost laughed.
Victor continued.
“You have something people want.”
“The key?”
His expression answered before his mouth did.
Mireille leaned back.
“What does it open?”
“A deposit box.”
“Where?”
Victor smiled.
“That information has a price.”
Lucian finally spoke.
“Everything has a price to you.”
Victor’s eyes hardened.
“Your father understood that.”
“My father understood you were stealing from him.”
Silence.
Victor smiled again.
“You still believe that story?”
Lucian’s hand remained motionless on the table.
Victor looked at Mireille.
“Ask him why his father was really at Building Seven.”
Mireille turned.
Lucian said nothing.
Victor enjoyed that.
“He hasn’t told you.”
“Tell me,” she said.
“Henri Solvay wasn’t investigating the warehouse. He was buying it.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened.
Victor continued.
“Your mother discovered what the building contained. Industrial solvents stored illegally. Chemicals worth millions if diverted through certain channels.”
Mireille remembered the smell.
Chemical.
Exact.
The same smell she had noticed on Lucian when he entered her father’s home.
She looked at him.
He understood.
“My company still handles industrial processing,” he said quietly. “That’s what you smelled on my coat.”
Victor smiled.
“How poetic.”
“Keep talking,” Mireille said.
Victor’s expression cooled.
“Celeste found records proving the chemicals were being sold through shell companies. Your father wanted out. Henri Solvay wanted control. Everyone was stealing from everyone.”
“Who started the fire?”
Victor leaned forward.
“Your mother.”
Mireille stopped breathing.
“No.”
“She intended to destroy the records before Solvay could take them.”
“Liar.”
“She brought you because she was leaving Edmund that night.”
Mireille stood so quickly her chair scraped backward.
Lucian rose too.
Victor remained seated.
“She locked the records inside a fireproof vault. Something went wrong. The chemicals ignited.”
Mireille remembered flames.
Her mother screaming.
A red door.
Then another memory surfaced.
A man.
Not her mother.
A man pouring something from a metal container.
She stared at Victor.
His silver hair was different now.
His face older.
But the eyes—
She remembered the eyes.
“You were there.”
Victor’s smile vanished.
Mireille stepped closer.
“You were wearing a blue shirt.”
Lucian watched her carefully.
Victor said, “Trauma creates unreliable memories.”
“You burned your hand.”
Victor’s left hand disappeared beneath the table.
Mireille saw it.
A scar crossed his wrist.
Everything became silent.
“You started it.”
Victor stood.
Lucian’s security moved instantly.
Victor raised both hands.
“Careful.”
He nodded toward the windows.
Across the street, Margaux was stepping from a taxi.
Mireille’s stomach dropped.
“She was supposed to stay home.”
Victor smiled.
“Yes.”
A black van stopped beside Margaux.
Two men emerged.
Lucian was already moving.
But Victor whispered something that stopped Mireille cold.
“The key for your sister.”
She looked at him.
“Give it to me,” Victor said, “or Margaux disappears.”
Lucian turned.
“No.”
Mireille reached into her coat.
She placed the brass key on the table.
Victor smiled.
Then Lucian did something unexpected.
He smiled too.
Victor’s expression faltered.
“What?”
Lucian looked toward the window.
The black van was surrounded by three unmarked SUVs.
His men dragged the kidnappers onto the pavement.
Margaux stood safely behind them.
Lucian picked up the key.
“A copy,” he said.
Victor went pale.
Mireille looked at Lucian.
“When did you—”
“The first night.”
“You copied my key?”
“Yes.”
“That is incredibly invasive.”
“Yes.”
Victor suddenly lunged.
A gun appeared in his hand.
Lucian shoved Mireille behind him.
The gunshot shattered the room.
Lucian staggered.
May you like
Mireille screamed his name.
And blood spread across his black shirt.
