I listened to her without flinching, arms crossed, leaning against the railing. Jeanne spoke with that voice she adopted when she dropped the masks. Sincere. Raw. And strangely luminous.
When she turned back to me, her eyes searched mine.
— What do you think, Natsa? Could your past have taken a similar course to mine?
I remained silent. Not because I was really thinking, no... but because it was the kind of question that didn't require an immediate answer. Maybe not even an answer at all.
Finally, I shook my head.
— No.
My voice sounded calm. Too calm, perhaps.
— However, I'm sorry for what happened to you. Luckily, you met Claremont…
She smiled. A real smile, not one of those she throws to mask her anger or frustration. A sweet smile. Almost sad.
— It's like I died, you know? And that I had the opportunity to be reborn. To live at my best.
I looked at her. Her blond hair floated in the wind, for a moment suspended in the air like a frozen echo of the past. I don't know why, but I closed my eyes for a moment. And I smiled.
— You're not entirely wrong.
Then, without really thinking about it, I let the words slip out:
— Now... do you think you are worthy enough for this life?
She didn't flinch. Not even for a moment.
— I've been with him for seventeen years. When we met, he was younger than today too. I'm one of his oldest members, you know? And for that, I'm also one of the most powerful.
She paused, gaze fixed.
— Not to shine. But to help. To be useful... to him, and to all those who have lived what I have lived. Those who never had their second chance.
I don't know why, I slowly applauded. It wasn't ironic... or maybe a little. Maybe I was just trying not to let myself be affected.
— I see. Not bad.
She had that strange smile. The one that says: I'm going to roast you.
— You wouldn't be making fun of me, by any chance?
— No. Not that I know of.
She stepped forward. Her steps were light, but determined. She stood in front of me, very close. Too close. Her gaze shone with a playful glint.
— Your look, it's the kind that says: "Yeah, she bores me."
I stepped back, without losing my composure.
— That's you saying it. Not me.
She sighed, like an actress stepping out of her role for a second.
— Tell me instead... What really pushes you to serve Claremont? You haven't been here long, and yet you're already high-ranking. You're not going to make me believe it's just for the money.
I looked up at the sky. It was covered with clouds, the stars still absent. What can I tell her? That I'm here just to waste time?
Well... whatever.
— If I'm here, it's just because he knew how to find the right words to convince me to follow him.
She looked at me with surprise mixed with mischief.
— Wow. Where did he dig you up, this poet?
— Downtown Marlha.
She blinked. Then, a laugh burst out, light, frank.
— Seriously? Like, in the middle of pigeons and hawkers?
— I was on a bench. He approached. He spoke to me. That's all.
— Just like that?
— Just like that.
A silence returned, but it was different this time. Less heavy. Softer. Like a conversation that doesn't need to end.
The wind continued to blow. And for the first time in a long time, it didn't chill me.
Jeanne remained silent for a moment. She was still staring at me, chin slightly raised, as if she was trying to decipher something. I just contented myself with observing her expression, without getting too involved. It was a habit of mine: always staying one step behind.
— You're a hard guy to figure out, you know?
She said that while crossing her arms, falsely annoyed.
— Maybe you lack finesse, I retorted, shrugging.
— Hey! I'm very intuitive!
— Mmh… That's what we say when we often screw up.
She opened her mouth, falsely shocked, before pointing a finger at me.
— Okay, okay! Mr. Mysterious has a comeback. We'll say you win this round.
A small silence settled in, but it had nothing heavy this time. I even felt a strange form of warmth in the air. Not the one from the climate. The one that is born between two people when neither seeks to dominate the other anymore.
Jeanne stretched a little, then turned towards the door.
— Well... I think I'll leave you. If I stay, I'll end up interviewing you all night, and you'll accuse me of psychological torture.
I nodded at her.
— Thanks for your concern.
— It's not concern, it's curiosity.
She raised her hand as she left, then stopped at the door, giving me a last knowing smile.
— Good night, Natsa.
— Good night, Jeanne.
And she left.
I stayed there for a few minutes, alone with the wind. Then I closed my eyes, swallowed a sigh, and returned to my room. Sleep didn't take long to come.
The next day, the atmosphere had changed. Everything was more... precise. More tense.
I had gotten up early, like everyone else. Jeanne, already dressed in a long, fitted black coat and leather gloves, was adjusting a strap on her shoulder. She said nothing, but her gaze spoke enough: concentration, control, no room for doubts.
Claremont, himself, was like a block of marble in a tailored suit. He didn't need words to impose his presence. His aura was enough. The one of a man you couldn't look at for long without feeling a weight on your heart.
Jonas, in an anthracite three-piece suit, laughed softly with Malik, a colossus with a hard look, jaw carved in stone. Even he wore a tie. That's saying how serious the event was.
And then there was Torres. Silent. Stiff. Hair pulled back, gaze as sharp as a blade. He never joked, even in the middle of chaos.
As for me... a long, black coat. Simple, sober. As always. I didn't like attracting attention, but I knew that with them, silence was sometimes more telling than all the speeches.
The convoy had left the complex early. Three armored SUVs, not a word exchanged more than necessary. Jeanne looked at the landscape, I sank into the engine noises. No one was sleeping. The atmosphere didn't allow it.
Direction: a city in Mexico. Reputed. Not for its gastronomy or its beaches... but for its dangerousness. One of those cities where laws exist mainly for those who write them, not for those who live in them.
As we approached, the air seemed heavier. The streets narrower. The looks, more weighty. Even the walls seemed to have seen too much.
Finally, the cars stopped at the foot of a huge skyscraper. Black, angular, without frills. It stood in the center of a guarded district, like a glass tooth grown in the middle of the concrete.
I put on my mask and got out first. I looked at the building.
— We've arrived, I said, without being asked.
Behind me, the others followed.
And without another word, we walked towards the doors.
The corridor that led to the meeting room was long and poorly lit, with yellowish neon lights flickering intermittently, as if the building itself hesitated to reveal to us what it housed.
And what it housed... was not reassuring.
Men leaning against the walls, all as unsavory as each other. Sneers, piercing looks, weapons that no one even bothered to hide anymore. Faces marked by life or by crimes. Gang members, killers, mafia lackeys. Here, the hierarchy was not based on morality, but on the number of corpses you could claim.
But we, we passed. As if we weren't made of the same material. As if our simple walk was enough to carve an invisible line that no one dared to cross.
Claremont was in front, impassive. Jeanne at his side. Malik and Jonas followed, then Torres. And me, behind. Like a shadow among others, but with well-sharpened fangs.
Then... he appeared.
Long hair, red as the blood of an ancient king. Red gaze, but not bestial — not quite. A discreet tattoo snaked on his neck, like a living mark. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, black gloves, and shiny shoes. He had nothing of a hysterical gang leader or a caricatural godfather.
And yet, as soon as he entered our field of vision, Claremont had stopped, as if an invisible weight had just landed on his shoulders.
— I salute you, Ilya.
The man slowly turned his head. His gaze brushed over Claremont.
And that's when something vibrated in me.
He didn't look at us like the other mobsters. No contempt, no condescension. Not that haughty look that all these underworld kings like to display as a trophy. No. He... he looked like a normal man. Like someone who knew dust before touching marble.
Human.
It was almost disturbing.
— Well... Claremont.
His voice was calm, composed, almost sweet. He held out a gloved hand.
— Delighted to see you here. Normally, I wouldn't have bothered. But... I learned what you did to mine.
I felt Jeanne's gaze slide towards Claremont. The latter had swallowed, almost imperceptibly, before saying:
— Jeanne, Jonas, Malik, Torres. Go wait for me in the meeting room. Keep my place well.
They nodded without arguing. I was about to follow them, by reflex, but I had not received the order. So I stayed. Silent. Present.
Ilya only gave me a brief glance, before setting his gaze back on Claremont.
— Indeed, Claremont said, we will talk about it today. Once and for all, we will nail this affair.
— The masked guy behind... is that the little guard who was with you that day? The famous…
— No, Claremont cut him off immediately. It's not him. This one is new. The other one was killed during the shooting at my daughter's birthday.
Ilya gently tilted his head, as if he felt sincere compassion.
— Sorry... We'll meet in the room, then.
— Very well.
He started walking again, and that's when I saw her.
Just behind him, almost melted into the shadow, walked a girl dressed in a green coat. Long black hair floated around her. She hadn't even looked at me.
But me... I had frozen.
There was something about her. Something familiar.
I didn't know from where. Nor why.
But as she passed near me, I widened my eyes. My heart skipped a beat.
I know her... I'm sure.
A raw intuition, without logic. Like a blade you feel on your neck without ever having seen it coming.
Claremont turned to me, tearing me from my thoughts.
— What's the matter, Natsa? Are you interested in the girl behind? She looks as young as you... and by the way, very beautiful.
He gave me a little nudge, accompanied by that mocking old accomplice look.
— You like her, huh? Admit it.
I glared at him.
— Pfft…
That's all I let out. Then I resumed walking.
But in my head, it was a silent turmoil.
Who is she?
And above all…
Why do I have the impression that she has already looked at me... from a place I can't remember?