Chapter 13 - Ghosts in the Fog
The small coastal town of Saint-Pierre-du-Lac sat perched on the edge of the Saint Lawrence River, perpetually shrouded in gray morning mist. It was a place where nobody asked questions, where fishermen tended their nets in silence, and where wealth could hide easily behind weathered cedar shingles and private docks.
Two weeks had passed since Montreal. Julian walked with a pronounced limp, his right arm resting in an orthopedic sling, the heavy tattoos on his neck partially hidden beneath the high collar of a dark woolen sweater. He stood at the edge of the private wooden dock behind a secluded cottage, watching the river current carry patches of foam toward the Atlantic.
Behind him, gravel crunched under soft footsteps. Elena walked up beside him, holding two steaming mugs of black coffee. She wore an oversized cream-colored knit sweater and jeans, her blonde hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck. For the first time since she had burst into that mahogany boardroom in New York, the terror had completely vanished from her eyes, replaced by a quiet, watchful serenity.
She handed him a mug, which he took with his left hand.
“Leo is playing with Marcus in the garden,” she said, taking a sip of the hot liquid. “Marcus bought him a wooden sword. He thinks he’s an ancient knight guarding the perimeter.”
Julian smiled faintly, the tight lines around his eyes softening. “Marcus is a killer. He has no business babysitting an eight-year-old.”
“Marcus would die for that boy,” Elena countered gently. “And so would you. Which is why we need to talk about what comes next, Julian.”
The cold river breeze rustled the evergreen trees lining the bank. Julian looked out over the gray water. “The FBI thinks I’m dead. Marcus placed dental records from one of Vance’s enforcers in the burned-out ruins of the chapel. The syndicate is dismantled. My family name is an obituary in the archives.”
“Names don't die that easily,” Elena said, turning to face him fully, her eyes searching his. “You have millions hidden in overseas trusts, Julian. You have men like Marcus who still look at you like an emperor. If you stay in the shadows, waiting, the hunger will come back. You’ll want the city again.”
Julian set his mug down on the wooden piling and turned to her. He reached out with his good hand, his scarred fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw, feeling the warmth of her pulse beneath the skin.
“You think I bled in that chapel for a city?” Julian asked softly, his gaze piercing hers with absolute certainty. “I took that throne because without power, men like Vance kill people like me before we can grow up. I fought for the crown because I thought it was armor. But the moment I saw you running into that boardroom in that torn dress, bleeding and begging for our son... I knew the crown was just a target on your back.”
He stepped closer, his thumb sweeping across her lower lip. “I don't want the empire, Elena. I want the silence. I want you.”
Elena looked into his dark eyes, searching for any trace of the ruthless predator who had once ruled the night. She found only the man who had taken four bullets to keep their child breathing. She leaned into his touch, her hand covering his.
“Then prove it,” she whispered.
May you like
Julian leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of sea salt, morning frost, and hard-won survival.
Suddenly, from the top of the ridge near the gravel driveway, a single, sharp acoustic chirp echoed from the cottage’s perimeter alert system.
