I think about the promise I made to myself at my mother’s funeral. By then, I knew the truth about it all, and I vowed to avenge both my parents’ deaths.
I wander over to the bookcase, pulling out one large but thin volume. It’s a children’s book, filled with vivid photographs of the deadliest predator of the ocean: the shark. My father bought it for me when I’d expressed a paralyzing fear of the creature after watching some film; one of the awful Jaws sequels, laughable in retrospect. After giving me a good talking to about watching movies I wasn’t old enough to appreciate, he bought me this book to help ease my phobia.
“Knowledge is power, Magnus.”
David Reinhardt was a man of action, but he knew the most powerful ammunition was information. Both are what eventually got him killed.
Little did he know when he bought that eight-year-old boy this book, I would eventually use it as an instruction manual, not a lesson on overcoming that which I feared. I became obsessed with the creatures from the moment I opened the pages and learned more about them, admiring their uncomplicated focus on survival at all costs.
And when the time came to use what I’d learned from them, I was ready.
I turn to the section on the shortfin mako shark. Even now, just looking at the picture sends a chill through me. Dead, black eyes. Long, streamlined body. Jagged teeth, continuously on display. I set the open book on my desk and stare down at it, breathing out the smoke I just inhaled from my cigar.
Fabian is dead.
Sloane Alexander is here in Monte Carlo.
Coincidence?
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Either way, I’m not taking any chances.
I pick up my phone to make a call. When I’m done, I smile down at the picture of the mako again.
By tonight, I’ll have Sloane Alexander right where I want her. And I’ll be there, swimming just below her, waiting to strike in one of two ways.
Will it be business…or pleasure?
I take a puff of my cigar as I consider that question, wondering which I’d prefer.
Chapter Eight Sloane
Nothing.
There is no connection between Magnus Reinhardt and anyone by the name of Fabian. At least according to Google.
I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s well known he’s a private man, hardly ever giving interviews unless he can somehow use it to his business advantage.
I fall back in my chair and stare at my laptop, feeling just as clueless now as I did when I first saw the message from his phone.
A knock on my door startles me out of my thoughts. I frown, wondering who it could be. I haven’t ordered room service. In fact, I haven’t even bothered to unpack beyond pulling out a new dress to wear, being that the other was still stained.
I’m halfway to the door when I remember my reason for being here. There are very few people who know I’m in Monte Carlo, and half of them are certainly not people I want to run into just now.
Especially that man from New York.
A shudder of revulsion and fear runs through me, and I stop in my tracks. I still remember the cold, dead, light blue eyes that stared through me, not at me as he told me my options in that monotone South African accent of his. Get him what he wanted or else. He didn’t need to explain what “else” meant.
“Who is it?” I call out a safe distance away from the door.
“Madame Alexander? I am Andrés Brodeur, the manager of the hotel. May I please speak with you for a moment?”
I frown. Why would the manager of the hotel want to speak with me?
“What is this about?”
“S’il vous plaît, it would perhaps be easier if I spoke with you face to face. I regret to inform you that there may be a problem with your room.”
“What sort of problem?” I ask, getting annoyed as I realize this may be nothing more than some simple administrative screw-up. I really don’t have time for it.
There’s a pause on the other end before he speaks again. “Madame, I understand you may have hesitations. Please, call the front desk, and they will confirm this visit.”
It’s a wise move, one I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t think of myself.
“One moment,” I say, as authoritatively as I can.
I call the front desk, then the concierge just for good measure. Both assure me that this is a legit visit from the hotel manager.
I open the door. The man that greets me has the perfect, regular blend of looks that demands respect from staff while earning the approval of guests of the hotel. The Papillon is not cheap—I’m not sure there’s a hotel in this city that is—but it doesn’t have the bank-breaking room rate that some of the places here seem to have.
“Bonjour, madame,” he says, actually bowing slightly as he presents an apologetic smile.
“What is this about my room?”
“Oui, oui,” he says, nodding as though just remembering why he’s here. “It seems that there is a slight problem.”
“Bed bugs?” I ask in alarm. Living in New York has placed that very fear high on my list of concerns.
His eyes widen, expressing even more panic than I’m feeling. “Bed bugs? Oh no, Madame. It is just that…as it turns out, this room is not available.”
“Even though I’m already here?” I say in a dry tone, feeling my irritation set back in.
“Not to worry, we have you in a much, much nicer suite…in another hotel.”
“What?”
He winces ever so slightly. “I am truly sorry, Madame. It was an unfortunate oversight on our part, but the room, I am afraid it is no longer available.”
“Why?”
He gives one quick nod as if this is the exact question he expected. “We have a large group who originally
