Le Français Pt. 13

====================================

Le Français is an original Law Enforcement series playing with the Cop/Not-a-Cop trope, mixed with some social power play, and (hopefully) realistic BDSM elements. The series will jump between categories based on the content of each part. This series is sponsored by the fantastic ThL!

In this chapter you can expect a confrontation from an unexpected place, going undercover again, and a dead body.

Marc takes a meeting with Victor that goes sideways.

====================================

Chapter 87

Marc's patience might have been an aggravation to the Detectives, who were texting him for updates on a daily basis, but he was very aware that he was dealing with a delicate situation.

Work, at least, was as it always was. It was still the quiet period for the year, and he often thought of February and March as the lull before the storm that was young, hungry Finance folks waking up like bears at the end of winter and wanting to gorge themselves on the fresh berries on the trees, salmon in the streams and wayward reckless campers and tourists. Soon enough he would be putting in extra hours to keep ahead of his hungry staff as they hunted down the work and brought it in for him to close.

Four days since the encounter he'd planned between Sinead and Felicity, and a week since he'd sat down with the Detectives at the coffee shop, was stretching things in terms of the Victor situation though. Marc was starting to consider options beyond his current thoughts and plans. Unfortunately, those options boiled down to him taking a risk and making his involvement in the eventual case more obvious or tapping into Astrid as a resource again.

Except Astrid had made it clear she wasn't interested, sogetting her interested would require what would likely be a very humbling and uncomfortable experience.

The risk sounded a lot better than handing Astrid the reins during a private encounter, even if it did mean reputational damage.

Thankfully, Marc was saved from those considerations by Jillian coming to his office door. The gorgeous woman was stone-faced and only knocked perfunctorily before striding in since his door was open.

"Marc, I'd really appreciate somewarning before that man comes in," she said.

That one threw Marc off a little. "I'm sorry, Jillian. Who is here?"

"Victor," she said, her voice dripping with distaste.

"Ah," Marc said, then frowned. "Ah. I wasn't expecting him, Jillian, or I would have. My apologies."

"I would be more than happy to let him know you are occupied and he should email you to request a meeting," Jillian said, a cool smirk on her lips.

"No, no," Marc sighed. "I'll come fetch him away from your desk and handle this now." He stood, expecting her to head towards the door, but she didn't, and he slowly buttoned his jacket. "Something else?"

"Why is he here, Marc?" his secretary asked. "Unscheduled, off the books. He's definitely not your friend just stopping in for a chat. Does he have anything to do with the Detective who's barged in here?"

Marc paid Jillian well to be good at her job, so it was entirely unsurprising that she was piecing together the strange occurrences of the past two months.

It was still a little frustrating, but unsurprising.

"Je te le dirais si je pouvais," Marc sighed. "But it's best if I don't. For the both of us."

Jillian narrowed her eyes, looking Marc up and down quickly as she made an obvious assessment of her boss. "Is it?" She challenged him. "Marc, if you're in some sort of trouble, you do know you could trust me to do what's best for you, right?"

Marc grunted softly and took a breath, looking his secretary in the eye and purposefullynot giving her the same assessing look. Jillian knew she was a beautiful woman, and she dressed to be chic and stylish and sometimes even distracting, knowing a very small part of her role in the office was to provide just a touch of classy eye candy. And she wasvery good at walking that line. Today, she was wearing a sleek black pantsuit made out of a shimmery material, the cut of it accenting her slim body while also emphasizing her bust under the white shirt and thin black tie. She wasn't showing anything, and yet the eye would inevitably be drawn to her charms.

And Marc was religious aboutnot undressing her in his mind's eye because he knew she was a lesbian in a committed relationship, and she appreciated a softer touch when someone was admiring her.

"I do, Jillian," he finally said. "If I haven't made it clear before now - if something happened here and I was leaving the firm, I wouldn'texpect you to follow me, but I would make certain that wherever I landed next would have an option for me to bring you over if you wanted. You'rethe most valuable member of this team, and I trust you to know everything."

"Except this," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"If you truly want to know, I'll tell you," Marc said sincerely. "I'm being truthful when I tell you, it is better if youdon't know this thing."

"You'll tell me anything I want to know?"

"I will," Marc nodded. Itcould be helpful to have Jillian in-the-know when it came to the dealings with the Detective - or at least the Victor-related elements. She could help with managing any future necessary mid-day outings if the Detectives required his presence for something.

"Are you going to ask Felicity to marry you?"

Of all the possible questions Marc had been ready to answer, he hadn't expectedthat. "Pardon?"

Jillian tilted her head and raised an eyebrow at him. "You heard me," she said. "You've been seeing Felicity for, what, four years now?"

"Over three," Marc said.

"Nearly four," Jillian said. "And she's brilliant, funny, beautiful, and loves you. So what are you doing? Are you going to ask her to marry you, or are you just stringing her along?"

Marc cleared his throat and turned, pacing toward the large window that looked out over Adelaide West and the Toronto financial district. It was another snowy, quiet day, but the city streets were packed anyway - only an actual storm could slow down traffic through a city like Toronto. He shook his head and turned back to Jillian, leaning against the windowsill. "Felicity and I have a clear understanding of our relationship," he told her.

"When was the last time youdiscussed that understanding?" Jillian asked. She must have seen something in his face. "Years?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Marc sighed.

"Years, then," Jillian nodded.

"Where is this coming from?" Marc asked. "I thought you wanted to know about Victor?"

"You say I don't, so I trust you that I don't," Jillian said, sitting down on the edge of his desk. "But Ido want to know about this. Because, besides me, Felicity is the best thing that's ever happened to you."

That brought a little smirk to Marc's lips as he chuckled and shook his head. "Would it help if I promised tohave a conversation with Felicity about this first?"

Jillian pursed her lips slightly, eyes narrowing again. "It would," she said. Then she sighed. "Honestly, Marc, ifyou don't lock that shit down, I might consider opening my relationship up for a third. Felicity isthat amazing. She's going to get tired of waiting at some point."

"I'll talk to her," Marc promised Jillian. He didn't mentionwhat he would talk to Felicity about - he would need to figure that out. How did you tell your regular escort that she was doing such a good job that people were expecting you to propose?

"Good enough," Jillian said. "For now."

"Any other deeply personal topics you'd like to ask me about before I get Victor out of the waiting area?"

"I'd ask what your bonus was last year, but I already know," she smirked. "Now, pleasedo come get that greaseball away from my desk for whatever clandestine bullshit you have going on."

Marc followed Jillian out of his office and down towards the elevators and her desk, and he couldn't help a quick glance down. Her ass wasjust as nice in those slacks and heels as ever.

Victor was sitting in the waiting area of the floor lobby, perched on the edge of one of the comfortable seats and looking down at his phone as he typed furiously with both thumbs. Marc cleared his throat as he approached, heading straight for him while Jillian moved back around her desk. When Victor looked up, Marc got the sense that the man was tired - perhaps more than a regular night out might make him. What have you been up to, Victor? He thought.

"Marc," Victor said, standing up and offering his hand.

"Victor," Marc nodded, accepting the handshake and adding a second hand to his end to project a warmth he wasn't feeling. "I'm surprised to see you. Please, come back to my office."

"No, no," Victor said. "I just need a minute. Is there-" he glanced at Jillian, then down the corridor towards where Marc's team were diligently working. "Maybe just in the stairwell?"

Marc frowned but nodded and gestured Victor towards the stairs around the side of the bank of elevators. The bare, utilitarian concrete of the inner stairwell was cold and the crash of the door shutting echoed up and down the boxy tunnel.

"What can I do for you, Victor?" Marc asked. "You don't look so good."

"Just a late night," Victor waved off his concern. "Look, Marc, I apologised once, but- What happened at the Poker night shouldn't have happened. Again, I'm sorry that my other guests brought someone who caused you trouble like that."

"It's in the past, Victor," Marc said. "I assure you, no permanent harm was done - to either party - and I hold no ill will towards you for the actions of a guest of a guest."

"OK," he sighed, relieved. "That's good to hear. In that case, Ido have an issue. Sort of in line with what we discussed before. Would you be able to meet tonight and go over some details?"

Marc raised an eyebrow, considering his options. "Are we speaking purelyfinancial details, or more... direct?"

"Maybe a bit of both," Victor grimaced.

"Where would you like to meet?"

Victor sighed and ran a hand through his greasy hair. "The warehouse where we had the Poker night would probably be best," he said. "Eight o'clock? If we get done early, I'll take you out for a drink."

"Eight works for me," Marc nodded, making a mental note that he would need to reschedule with Felicity. "Are you sure I can't do anything for you now? A refreshment? A coffee? You look worn out, my friend."

"I'm two espressos in already," Victor shook his head. "If I have any more coffee right now, I'll start vibrating. Just come see me tonight, yeah?"

"Of course," Marc said, offering his hand to the man and shaking again before leading him back out of the stairwell and to the elevators. "Have a good afternoon, Victor," Marc said as he thumbed the call button.

"Uh, yeah," Victor said as the elevator opened within moments. "You too. See you tonight."

The elevators closed behind the man, and Marc sighed softly before turning to meet Jillian's gaze.

"You know I can hear everything through that door," she said.

"I know," Marc nodded with a little smile. "And I trust you."

"Should I be ready to call the police if you don't check in by a certain time tonight? Send them to a certain location to check for your corpse?"

"No, my dear," Marc said. "I don't expect there to be any trouble likethat. Not tonight."

"Mhmm," Jillian hummed, her eyes making it clear she didnot agree with him.

"I'll be fine," Marc assured her. "And I'll bring- what do they say in those police shows? I'll bring back up."

Translations

"Je te le dirais si je pouvais," = "I would tell you if I could,"

Chapter 88

"You're sure you're ready for this?" Sinead asked.

Marc sighed, trying to project serene confidence to the Detective, but didn't have a chance to say anything.

"He's already been in there before," Jules said. "You said Victor looked tired and sounded worried about his internal business, right?"

"I did," Marc nodded. "He referenced a previous conversation where he was concerned about theft. I presume he's worried about employees skimming from his operation more than would be expected."

"Considering he's funding his lifestyle doing the same thing, that's a little rich," Jules murmured and shook her head. Then she focused on Sinead. "He'll be fine."

"I will be fine, Detective," Marc added.

"Jesus Christ, you two," Sinead scoffed. "I meant, is he ready to put on the actalone instead of with me beside him. Going undercover without a partner is harder than with."

Marc got the distinct impression that the look Detective Xu gave Detective Connors was communicating mild, sarcastic disbelief.

"Yes, Detective," Marc assured Sinead again. "I am ready to go. I will not really even be 'undercover' - I'm simply being myself. In an odd circumstance, certainly, but still myself."

"I'd still feel better if you were wearing a wire," Jules said.

"Except that the wire, besides being dangerous, would require me to testify if anyone found out about it," Marc reinforced his previous argument over wearing a mic, or even a button camera. "And, for our goals today, it is entirely unnecessary. Where the crates are moving, when they are moving, and how if possible, oui?"

"What and why would also be helpful," Sinead said.

"All the questions," Marc smirked a little. "Bon. Then it's time."

Sinead looked like she wanted to say something else but she quashed it, simply nodding instead.

"Be careful," Jules cautioned him. "We're only going to know you need help if there are gunshots or you let out a bloodcurdling scream in the yard."

Marc chuckled and shook his head. "If either of those things happens, I assume your help would be too late anyways." He turned and got into his car, getting himself settled as the Detectives got into their unmarked cruiser. There was a part of Marc that had wanted to reassure Sinead more - it was the role of a Dom to make sure that, unless a little bit of fear was intentionally part of the game and in measured amounts, the submissive should feel safe and trust in their Dom.

No matter what he or Detective Xu said, there was no making this meetingperfectly safe. Something could go wrong. Hell, Victor could be setting him up for an ambush if he had figured out that Marc was playing him, or that Sinead was a police officer. Or it could be even more simple than that and the Italians, despite the assurances of the men in charge that nothing would follow Marc, had decided that he needed to be taught a lesson. Marc had run through the particular scenarios several times and had come to the conclusion that none of them werelikely, but many were mildly possible.

But oftentimes, the most likely scenario was the most correct. Victor wanted to use Marc's particular set of skills, and that was all this was.

They had met about ten blocks away from the warehouse in a Tim Horton's parking lot, so Marc pulled onto the street and headed towards the lake. It was a clear evening, a little warmer than the last few weeks, and the snow on the streets was starting to melt away. That made the citydamp, unfortunately, and grimy with the dirt mixed into all the melting slush. It was his least-favourite time of year.

Marc took a weaving route, knowing that the Detectives were following him at a distance but wanting to come at the warehouse from the direction of Downtown and the financial district - it was the little things that mattered, after all. He pulled onto the correct street, and about halfway down he glanced into his rearview mirror and saw the Detectives pull into a parking spot on the side of the road.

The gate to the warehouse yard was open, so he pulled in and backed his car up to the building about ten feet from the door that had been used for entry during the Poker Night. There wasn't anyone around, working or lingering, so Marc locked his car and went to the door, giving it a pounding knock with his fist.

When he didn't get an answer in the first two minutes, he gave another knock with an even heavier hand, the sound of it booming from the metal door.

Still nothing.

Marc sighed and took out his phone, dialing Victor's number. It rang through to an answering machine with no message other than a beep, so he hung up.

By all rights, he probably should have left at that point. But Jillian's annoyance and the Detective's worry about leads slipping through her fingers made Marc reconsider needing to meet with Victor again.

Shaking his head at himself, he tried the door and it opened easily. Unlocked. Perhaps Victor is not so paranoid as I thought, Marc grimaced. That, or he is the kind of man who walks into his friends' houses without knocking and being invited in.

Stepping into the dark warehouse, the only light was coming from up in the loft area where the poker tournament was held, the golden glow coming through the covered windows that used to overlook the warehouse floor. Music was also playing up there, some sort of electronic dance music echoing out and down the stairs.

Marc sighed and looked to his right and left, finding a bank of light switches, and he flipped several of them. A moment later, the overhead lights of the main warehouse blinked on as they warmed up.

"Merde," Marc muttered.

The crates were gone. The warehouse was completely empty.

The question was how long ago they had been moved - was that why Victor had been so tired? Was he managing a late-night exchange?

If that were the case, the Detectives would have some catching up to do.

With another sigh, Marc went to the stairs and headed up to the lavish parlor above. The door to the lifted space was standing open, the hallway lit with the same golden light as the main parlor, but there was no slinkily dressed blonde to take his coat with a smile or offer him a drink. He headed through, noting cautiously that the doors beyond the main parlor doors were standing open - the coat room, the security room where they had stored the buy-in money during the games, and presumably some sort of office.

Marc knocked loudly on the doorway to the main parlour, since that was where the music was coming from, as he looked in. All the lights were on, no one was behind the bar, and two of the poker tables must have been packed up and put away because there was only one standing in the open space, and it had been joined by a billiards table. Where they had storedthat during the poker tournament, Marc couldn't guess.

Victor was sitting on a stool at the bar, hunched over something he was working on.

"Victor," Marc called, but the music was too loud. He could barely hearhimself.

Marc moved into the room, approaching Victor and looking around. The place was empty of anyone else. He stopped about halfway across the parlour.

Victor was pale. Deathly pale. Curled up over the bar, his face pressed to it firmly, a white powder smeared across the smooth, polished bar top, his cheek and lips, and under his nose.

"Huh," Marc grunted, a little startled.

Victor was dead.

"Cela complique les choses," Marc murmured to himself.

It wasn't the first time Marc had found a dead body - not that it was a regular occurance, and it had been several years since the last time, but he was not as shocked as that first time as a teenager finding his friend's older brother OD'd on the bathroom floor during a house party back in Paris. Or even the last time, diving off the coast of Malta, when a body carried by the waves smacked right into the side of the tour boat.

No, this time felt different.

Marc backed away from Victor's body, his mind quickly racing through what the appropriate response would be. If he were here for normal reasons, theproper response would be to call emergency services and begin performing CPR, hoping to get Victor's brain enough oxygen to remain viable for Narcan to take effect when it arrived.

This was not a normal circumstance, however, and the pale, lifeless body very much looked like he may have been down for longer than a few minutes already.

Looking around again, Marc did some quick re-calculations.

The doors were all open and unlocked. The front gate was also unlocked. No one else was in the building.

Had someone been in the building?

Had someone, perhaps, already discovered Victor and taken advantage of the opportunity to make off with whatever valuables they could snatch up?

Marc backed out of the parlour entirely and went to the doors further down the hallway outside. The coat room was empty except for the coat Victor had been wearing earlier, a pair of heels that Marc thought might have been worn by the blonde hostess during the Poker party, and a small umbrella stand with several umbrellas, billiards cues and a hockey stick propped up in the corner.

The security room was another matter. The three main features of the room were a safe, a desk, and a bank of boxy monitors that were all currently blank. A space on the desk where dust had accumulated and then gotten swiped spoke volumes to the lack of a computer - someone didn't want to chance the recordings being examined. The safe was hanging open, and Mark took out his driving gloves and put them on before using a finger to open it further. Empty.

He walked around the messy desk, tutting to himself lightly as he tried not to think about the body in the other room. Taking out his phone, he started taking pictures of anything that looked halfway important.

Victor thought someone was stealing from him, and now he was dead, and someone hadcertainly stolen from him. Whatever assets that the man had been hoarding here were long gone, and it was hard to know who might have taken advantage of the situation - the hostess? One of the security guards? Or one of his many criminal contacts?

Who would take over his business operations? Victor had been surprisingly adept at weaving together his network and even pulling that network together into social settings. Would his death have an impact on the criminal element of the city?

And what about his wife? His mistresses?

His assets were scattered across multiple accounts, hidden away so that no one person understood theamount he had on hand.

No one but Marc, who had so recently combed through Victor's entire list of assets.

That, for some reason, made him feel uncomfortable now.

Carefully putting everything back where he had found it, Marc quickly checked the desk drawers and took some more photos, then decided that now was the time to be thorough and checked under the desk.

There was a handgun taped under the desktop and a small USB even further back.

Deciding it was worth the risk, Marc pulled the USB from its place, wrapped the ends of the tape around it, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

With nothing else to note in the security office, Marc stood and brushed off the knees of his suit trousers and headed back out to the parlour.

Victor was still perched where Marc had left him, face-down in his own drugs. Marc whistled to himself, shaking his head, and approached the bar, but instead of going to Victor, he went around to the serving side and pulled down a bottle of the very nice Château Angelus bordeaux he'd spied the last time he had been sitting on the other side of the bar. Holding the bottle, Marc turned back to look at Victor. "Savais-tu seulement ce que tu avais ici, mon ami?" he asked the corpse. The Hommage à Elisabeth Bouchet vintage was not one ofthe most expensive of the Bordeaux wines, his favourite region to buy from, but it was up there and was only produced in particularly good years.

Marc set the bottle on the bar top and considered uncorking it then and there, since it was Victor's, but decided against it. Finally working himself up to the task, Marc peeled the glove off his right hand and reached across the bar, pressing the back of two fingers to Victor's neck to check for a pulse.

He was cold, and there was no pulse.

Marc grunted and withdrew his hand, putting his glove back on and turning away from the corpse as he pursed his lips. Spying a nice bottle of whiskey half-finished, Marc shrugged, unstoppered the bottle and brought it to his lips, taking a sip and feeling the pleasant burning of the alcohol wash over his tongue and down his throat. He set the bottle down on the bar top, bracing his other hand wide as he leaned on it and stared at the top of the dead man's head.

And that's how the Italians found him as they sauntered into the room.

Translations

"Cela complique les choses," = "This complicates things."

"Savais-tu seulement ce que tu avais ici, mon ami?" = "Did you even know what you had, my friend?"

Chapter 89

"This isn't good," Sinead muttered. "This isnot good."

"We don't know that," Jules hissed.

Sinead clenched a fist low out of Jules' sight and tried not to bounce her knee as well. Three cars, blacked out, all pulling into the warehouse yard at the same time? They hadn't heard anything from Marc for about ten minutes, which really wasn't that long if things were going well, but if they weren't, it could be too long already.

"We should try to get a look," Sinead said.

Jules grunted and rolled her eyes. "And do what? They're probably already inside. Or, if they left guards with the cars, then what? You get spotted and play the dumb bimbo who somehow got lost near the docks?"

"Fuck off," Sinead scoffed. By the look on Jules's face, she knew that Sinead knew she was right.

"Look, we just need to be patient," Jules sighed. "This is why you're so shitty at using Informants, by the way."

"What?" Sinead asked. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are," Jules said. "Usually, you pick people who need youway more than they can offer you to earn your help. And you get too invested, and then things go wrong. This is why you barely ever cultivate CIs to begin with."

"Fuck off," Sinead repeated herself, muttering as she looked back out the window. This was the problem with having a partner for so long and being best friends with her. She knew your weak spots and history. And what buttons to push.

"Have you slept with Marc yet?"

"No," Sinead said.

"Alright," Jules backpedalled a little.

They both watched the open warehouse yard gate, window rolled down partially despite the cool, damp weather, listening for gunshots or screams.

- - - - -

The problem with playing it cool in an uncomfortable situation is that, to make it work, youmust maintain that cool. Marc was a practiced hand at that in the corporate world. Playing cat and mouse, digging out truths and untruths, fishing for little details while pretending they meant nothing. Occasionally discovering heinous stuff - horrible business practices, hush money cover-ups, that sort of thing.

It was difficult to keep that facade when two Italian mobsters pulled Victor up from his slouched position and revealed two bloodsoaked holes in her chest.

"Well, that's interesting," Marc said in surprise.

Victor didn't just overdose; he was shot.

"You think this is interesting, huh?" the leader of the five Calabrian mafia goons asked. "He's fucking dead, and you think that's interesting?"

Marc shrugged a little despite the very large man currently looming over him at the end of the bar like an American Football linebacker waiting to rush and tackle him. "I assumed he had died of an overdose," Marc said truthfully. "Those wounds make this a very different sort of scene."

It was a bit of a standoff. Marc was, unfortunately, not face to face with the swarthy Italian-Canadian he'd played cards with several nights ago. Instead, the leader of these gangsters was the severe-faced, skinnier one with the big nose. A part of Marc still couldn't give over how much he looked like Jean, his friend from Nice. Not that the resemblance did any favours to Marc whatsoever.

And he wasn't the only problem.

"I'll get him talking," Liam said. The Irishman didn't look too bad after their scuffle during the Poker party, but then neither did Marc. He was, however, still walking with a bit of a limp, favouring the leg that Marc had kicked in the knee. "Just fucking let me have him. It'll take me two fucking minutes, Antony."

When they had first walked in, the hot headed Irishman had only been stopped from reaching Marc by skinny Antony getting the big one to hold Liam back.

Antony shook his head, grimacing as he looked over Victor. "I'm assuming you don't have a gun on you, Mr Fornier?"

"I don't," Marc said. "Unlike you fine gentlemen, my line of work does not require the occasional bullet or threat of one."

"How about cocaine?" he asked, looking from Victor's powder-smeared face to the powder on the bar top.

"My poison of choice is a good wine, I'm afraid," Marc said. "I haven't had a sniff of cocaine since onevery wild party my freshman year of University in Paris, and that was... well, long enough ago, now."

"He's obviously got something to do with it," Liam growled. "Look at him, just drinking fucking whiskey and staring at the body."

"What's obvious," Marc said dryly. "Is that the adults are talking."

Antony sighed heavily, grabbing Victor by the face and turning him to examine him for any other markings. There didn't seem to be any from Marc's point of view - no bruising or damage. He wasn't entirely sure how the timing of all of that could work since he wasn't a forensics or biology expert. How long after a man died could he still sustain a bruise?

"No exit wounds," Antony murmured. "So the bullets were small calibre and still in him. Have you looked around?"

"The safe in the office back there is hanging open," Marc said. "And I believe a computer has been effectively ripped from the security system."

Antonytsked and shook his head, giving off an air of accusing'Amateur.'

"If it would help anything, I would be happy to let you search my car. I clearly haven't stuffed his wads of cash down my pants," Marc said.

"Why are youhere then, Mr Fornier?" Antony asked.

"Originally, due to Victor here asking me to come and help him sort out a financial issue with his business. He hadn't given me the details yet, but I believe it had something to do with employees skimming too heavily for his liking," Marc said. There was no point in lying - Victor was dead, and they couldn't kill him any more if his side business was something they got mad over. "As for why I amstill here?" He gestured to the bottle of wine between him and the big man at the end of the bar. "As I said, my poison of choice. And Victor was hoarding quite a nice bottle. I thought it would be for the best not to let a fine vintage such as that end up in an evidence locker or disappear into a police officer's bag. And the whiskey - well, I thought it prudent to drink to a fallen friend's memory before I took my leave."

Antony picked up the bottle of wine and looked over the label. "Chateau Angelus?"

"A winery on the Right Bank of Bordeaux, near Saint-Emilion," Marc said. "Not so well known as others, but the Hommage cuvée there is a new vintage and consideredquite good."

"Huh," Antony grunted, frowning as he looked over the bottle, then back up at Marc. "How good are we talking?"

Marc sifted through his mind, considering. "Perhaps the third or fourth most expensive modern Bordeaux bottle? Around $1500 American retail."

"One bottle?" the big goon grunted in surprise.

"Oui, one bottle," Marc said. "Now, I would be thrilled to talk Bordeaux with you gentlemen another time, or even host a tasting if we had enough of a range available to make it worthwhile, but I do feel that there are pressing matters at hand." He gestured to Victor's dead body.

"Are youseriously buying this?" Liam growled from where he was pacing back and forth behind the billiards table.

Antony sighed, sucking on his teeth for a moment as he pursed his lips in thought. "What was your plan before we showed up?"

"My plan?" Marc chuckled. "I had no plan. I was going to put the bottle in my car and call the police to report finding Victor having suffered an overdose, unaware ofthis situation. I can still do that if you like, and you gentlemen were never here."

"No, no," Antony shook his head. He looked to the two men who had been manhandling Victor and nodded to them, then back out the door. "Check the office for what might be useful." They nodded and started to leave.

"Antony," Liam growled.

"Shut up, Liam," Antony spat, turning and glaring at the blond Irishman. "You got your chance to try and show Mr Fornier here how tough and mean you were, and you were unable to do so. Drop it."

Liam threw his hands up in the air and stormed out of the room.

Antony turned back to Marc. "You were doing financial work for Victor?" he asked.

"Looking into his investment portfolio as a favour," I said. "Not exactly my usual fare, but he was an interesting man to get to know."

"Mm," Antony grunted. "No, it isn't."

Marc felt a single bead of sweat crawling down his spine. He wasn't surprised that this man knew his last name after the events of the poker tournament, but they had apparently doneresearch.

Not good.

"We'll clean things up here, Mr Fornier," Antony said. "No need to call the police for an overdose, clearly. The way I see it, he got shot while sitting down, turned on his seat and decided he was better off going with his nose stuffed with cocaine and fentanyl than not. Easier not to bother the police with this one - we'll figure out who shot our mutual friend."

"I see," Marc said. "Well, I have a feeling your investigation and... justice... will be a bit more prompt than whatever the police could come up with."

"Mm," Antony smirked.

"Well, I leave you to it, then," Marc said, gesturing to the body and then to the bottle that Antony was still holding. "If you haven't tried it before, you keep that. I assure you that it will be worth breaking out for a romantic partner. And you, my big friend," Marc said, looking at the larger goon and then turning back to the wall of bottles. He scanned down the line quickly. "Ah, yes, this one," he said, picking one out. "Not quite as rare or fancy as theHommage a Elisabeth Bouchet, but a very fine bottle all the same. A cabernet franc from the Loire Valley." He handed the bottle to the hulking man, who looked down at it curiously and turned it over in his hands.

"Have a good afternoon, Mr Fornier," Antony said, smirking a little and making Marc think twice about comparing him to his friend from Nice because of the predator look in the man's eyes. "If anything comes up, you'll hear from us."

"Mm," Marc grunted, imitating the habit of the other man, and then hesitated. "Perhaps an escort down to my car? Young Liam headed towards the stairs, I believe."

Antony sent the big man with Marc, and they made their way out of the loft, down the rattling metal stairs and into the warehouse. Liam wasn't waiting for him there, so Marc opened the warehouse door and gestured for the goon to go first just in case the Irishman was planning an ambush. He wasn't - he was sitting in one of the cars, glaring out the windshield and smirking like a cat that ate the canary.

And Marc's driver side window was smashed in, and the mirror hanging by a loose cord.

"Ah," Marc said cooly, cocking an eyebrow and looking up at the big guy still holding the bottle of wine in one hand. "I think your friend might have had an accident out here."

====================================

Thanks so much for reading! Votes and Comments both go a long way to letting me AND the requester know that you are enjoying the story.

Reminder: Le Français will jump around in categories so make sure to give a follow to ensure you'll see the next instalments!

====================================