Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
I’m shaking with rage. “Why? Why the fuck?”
“Your mother and I,” she says in a tremulous voice, “we want the same thing.”
They both want Zoe gone.
I take her scrawny shoulders and shake her so hard her teeth clatter. “Where did you put it?”
“Just in the sugar,” she shouts. “I swear.”
“Like a big fucking metaphor for winning your war?” I spit out in disgust.
She sinks down onto her heels. “It wasn’t supposed to be some symbolic victory.” She meets my gaze. “I chose the sugar because Zoe is the only one who uses it. You use cubes. I’d never risk you, Max.” She grips my leg. “I love you.”
“You don’t love me.” I look at her with contempt. “If you did, you wouldn’t destroy the only thing that matters to me.”
Her face crumples. “You don’t mean that.”
Fury burns through my body. “Have you thought it through? What if Zoe decided to bake a cake? What if I took a sip of her tea?”
“I was going to go back and throw out the rest of the sugar as soon as—” Biting her lip, she looks away.
“As soon as she was dead?”
“Please, Max,” she says, looking back at me. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to give you a choice. You can either drink this,” I push the glass into her hand, “or you can let justice run its course and wait until my mother’s assassin catches up with you. I’m sure she’ll want a painful revenge for your betrayal.”
“No.” The denial falls in a barely audible sound from her mouth even as her expression shuts down, already accepting the inevitable.
“Your choice.” I take a step back. “Make it.”
Leaning her back against the wall, she looks at the glass in her hand, the fate she was going to deal my wife. I already know what she’s going to choose before she tips back her head and downs the content.
Chapter 20
Maxime
Suicide.
That’s what it’ll look like. I don’t wait for the end. I walk out of Fran’s house, pull off the gloves, and drive to my parents’ place.
My father’s Mercedes is parked in front of the house. I don’t give a fuck. I get out at the gates and pull my gun as the guards pull theirs. I don’t bother to ask them to announce my presence. The security cameras will. A moment later, my father exits the house dressed in his robe and slippers. In the middle of the afternoon. Which means the masseuse is here.
He holds up a hand. The guards lower their weapons.
“You’re not welcome here,” he says, walking down the driveway.
“Yeah.” I meet him at the gate. “I know. I don’t exist for you so my presence shouldn’t bother you.”
“Don’t make me shoot you,” he says with a scowl.
“This is about Maman, not you.”
He spits on the ground. “You’re dead to her too, both you and your wife.”
Ah. He knows we got married. He’s keeping tabs on my life like one does with an enemy. Unless Maman told him. “Literally dead, it seems, if Maman had her way.”
His face contorts with anger. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”
“I suggest we discuss this in private. It’s not something you want to talk about in the street.”
Nostrils flaring, he flicks a finger. The electronic gates open.
We walk in a strained silence to the house. Inside, he tells the housekeeper to send my mother to his study.
He takes the chair behind his desk while I take a position in front of the window. My mother breezes inside, dressed in Chanel with an apron tied around her waist and smelling of apples.
“Max?” She gives my father an uncertain look. “What is this? What is he doing here?”
“Why don’t you tell us, Maman?”
“What on earth, Max?” she says with a surprised smile.
My God. How have I been so blind? How have I never paid attention to the people who truly matter, the most dangerous ones? My mother is a more formidable enemy than my father, because she comes to you with smiles, smelling of apple pie and wrapped in sweet childhood memories.
Bitter loathing coats my tongue. “Where did you get the poison?”
She blanches.
“What have you done, Cecile?” my father asks.
Stubbornly, she tips her chin up.
“Fran confessed everything,” I say, “right before she died.”
The shock on my mother’s face fills me with perverse satisfaction.
My father pushes to his feet. “You better talk, woman.”
She turns on him with hatred blazing in her eyes. “The poison was meant for Zoe. She ruined everything. I only wanted my son back.”
My father wipes a hand over his face. “Dear God, Cecile. You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Do you know what it feels like to be powerless?” she asks with clenched hands. “Do you think I’m clueless and naïve?” She points a finger at my father. “Do you think I don’t know about your criminal dealings or your women? Who do you think is the backbone of this operation? You think it’s you?” She laughs. “You’re weak. Pathetic. Who do you think arranged the hit on the men who tried to take you out in front of your beloved club? Who do you think has been giving the orders to get rid of the traitors in your circles?” Turning back to me, she pushes a finger against her chest. “Me. I’ve carried this family for more than forty years. Zoe was messing with your head, Max, making you weak like your father. It had to be done.”