The Catacombs (Cult 2)

“You wouldn’t have brought me in unless you needed me, so stop acting like you don’t.” I slammed the door shut and strapped on my safety belt again.

“Just follow my lead, alright? And don’t shoot anybody.”

“I have half a mind to shoot you right now…”

He gave a smirk. “I’d shoot you right back, and we’d both be dead. Kinda sweet, isn’t it?”

We spent the next fifteen minutes in silence and approached an estate protected by an iron gate. The security guard let us pass through, and we pulled around the fountain to the front of the house. There was a statue lit up with floodlights, a soldier on a stallion.

We were met by the butler and entered the estate. Typical French architecture. Gold ceilings, textured mirrors, hints of rose gold in accent pieces, colorful rugs that looked like watercolor paintings.

We emerged in the sitting room, Kline sitting in an armchair with a glass of wine in his hand. A woman different from the one on his arm at the silent auction was propped on the armrest, her arm around his shoulders in a false display of affection.

Carlyle took one look at Bartholomew—and that set the tone for the night. He turned back to Kline, his eyes packed with an accusation of betrayal.

Kline looked away, too ashamed to meet that angry stare. “I was coerced—”

“And I’m insulted.” He set down his glass and rose to his feet. “To be in the same room as this swine is beneath me. Let him linger too long, and it’ll smell like a pigsty.”

I lowered my voice. “What the fuck did you do?”

Bartholomew moved in his way, keeping him from the foyer. “Surely, you must be over this by now—”

“Shut your fucking mouth before I turn you into crispy bacon on Christmas morning.”

The two men faced off, standing at the same height, but while Carlyle looked red and furious, Bartholomew looked like this confrontation was inconsequential.

If Bartholomew had brought me here to fix his mess, that wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t even sure what provoked the problem. Carlyle was a diplomat by day, but he had deep ties into the drug trade, could get things done above and underground. So, he wasn’t a smart person to piss off.

“Your personal vendetta is irrelevant to our business relationship—”

“You slept with my wife.”

I tried to keep a straight face, but the cringe came.

“There is no business relationship, Bartholomew. Not with you.” Carlyle stepped around him and headed for the foyer. “I made it very clear you’re no longer a partner in the game.” He continued past me and headed for the front door.

Bartholomew narrowed his eyes on my face then gave a nod in his direction.

My eyebrows furrowed.

He did it again—this time with more purpose.

I rolled my eyes and went after him. I stepped into the cool night air and watched him approach his Bentley. “Carlyle.”

He grabbed the door handle to his car and opened it. “I don’t have time for this.”

I shoved my palm hard against it. “I don’t either, but I always have time to make more money.” With my body against the car, he didn’t reach for the handle again. It was impossible—because I was the size of an ox. “Let’s do that together. Cut him out and work directly with me.”

His hands slid into his pockets, and he stepped away slightly. Every breath he exhaled came out as smoke in the foggy air. “Didn’t realize you were back in the game.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Why is that?”

“I’d rather be home with my family.”

“And that son of a bitch got you mixed up in this shit again?”

I gave a shrug. “He did me a favor. Now I’m paying him back.”

“Must have been a pretty big favor…”

“He saved my daughter’s life.”

He stilled at the announcement, his head cocked slightly.

“You don’t have to deal with Bartholomew. You can deal with me instead.”

He shook his head. “He’d still be benefiting.”

“So would you.”

He pulled a cigar out of his pocket, lit it, and then took a puff. When the smoke appeared, it immediately blended into the fog around us, the blanket of clouds that fell to the surface when the temperature dropped overnight. “I should kill him.”

“But you can’t—otherwise, you would have done it already.”

He took another puff, his eyes hostile now.

“Let’s not pretend that you don’t have a different mistress on your arm every time I see you. That you aren’t the first one in line at the whorehouses. Shit happens.”

“You don’t fuck your partner’s wife.”

“Doesn’t seem like your wife means much to you, so maybe he assumed you wouldn’t care.”

“Doesn’t matter—”

“It’s in the past now. I’ve given you an agreeable solution, so let’s move forward.”

He enjoyed his cigar for another moment before he tapped the ash off the tip. “You want my advice?”

“Didn’t ask for it.”

He stepped closer, as if Bartholomew were right behind him. “Kill him. Then take everything for yourself.”