PROLOGUE
Paris, France —Winter
Khalid Francois Du?s loaded the cartridge into the chamber and spun the cylinder. By now a seasoned veteran of the game of chance, he prepared his weapon without looking, and set it on the table.
While a cacophony of bets swirled around him and his opponent sat across from him sweating bullets, Khalid poured three fingers of cognac into a balloon snifter.
The delicate crystal glass looked out of place in the secret chamber located in the basement of a bordello in Petite Asie. It was the only thing of worth in the room sporting blood stained floors, smoke charred walls and a single table flanked on either side by two chairs.
Khalid mentally shrugged. He probably looked out of place as well to this crowd of thieves, bruisers and common labourers in his rumpled, yet tailored, evening suit. Still, that didn’t keep them from betting on his soul.
Too bad they didn’t know their bets were nothing but a symbolic gesture. He’d died months ago—the day she walked out of his life.
Without warming the contents of the snifter and per his usual habit whenever thoughts of her f*cked with his head, Khalid downed the contents in one lusty gulp. Pickled from a two-bottle a day habit, his insides barely recoiled from the liquor burning a path to his belly.
Unfortunately for him, his newly acquired vices had not assuaged his wounded pride or the fact that the only woman he gave a damn about didn’t give a f*ck about him. Scowling, Khalid poured himself another drink. Hopefully, if his luck ran out—he prayed it would be tonight—his wasted existence and his troubles would soon be over.
Khalid eyed his opponent and smiled. Barely out of his teens, the ginger-haired youth had taken up the gauntlet to pay a seemingly insurmountable debt to Le Vautour…The Vulture, an unscrupulous loan shark and ring leader of these nefarious weekly games.
As if he’d conjured him? Le Vautour pushed his way through the throng to the center of the room. Barrel chested with a ruddy complexion, he was a prince of the underworld and filthy rich from other’s misfortunes.
“Silence,” he bellowed. “Silence! The appointed hour has arrived and all bets have been placed.”
He was probably sitting on a hefty purse, Khalid mused as he eyed the bulge in the other man’s upper coat pocket. Indebted to no one and a five-time victor, Khalid had become a legend in Paris’ back alleys. Add in the fact that no one knew his true identity, and the attendance of the games had grown exponentially.
“The game is simple,” Le Vautour continued. “Two men. One revolver. One bullet. Each round one shot a piece. To the victor, a quarter of the spoils.”
Le Vautour placed his hands on the scarred tabletop and eyed his pawns in turn, finally settling on the boy. “Since Monsieur La Chance is the reigning champion, Lucas, you will go first.”
Despite the multitude crowding around them, the room was as quiet as the inside of a church. Nonplussed, Khalid sipped at his cognac. There was nothing in the rules about not imbibing between rounds as long as he didn’t get too impaired he couldn’t complete his turn, which would result in forfeiting his share of the purse. Of course, that didn’t bother Khalid either. He hadn’t collected his earnings since his streak began. Instead, he’d asked them to be tallied and delivered to a Miss Olivia Bryant living on the continent.
“Lucas we’re waiting,” Le Vautour prompted.
Adam’s apple bobbing, the youth reached for the revolver so fast, it spun out of his reach and half way across the table.
Khalid would’ve felt sorry for the boy, but that would mean he still had feelings and emotions. “Steady,” he said, thrusting the gun toward his opponent.
Hand shaking, brown eyes rolling with anxiety, Lucas lifted the revolver to his temple. His fear was so palpable it rolled off him in waves like the stench from Paris’ sewers on a hot summer day.
“Keep your hand steady,” Khalid coached. “You don’t want to miss your mark and end up maimed.”
Lucas nodded slightly as he pressed the barrel firmly to his head. The crowd pressed in closer. Expression marred with greed, Le Vautour licked his bulbous lips. White knuckled, the boy squeezed his eyes shut at the same time he pulled the trigger.
Click.
The room erupted with raucous cheers as Lucas, shoulders slumped with relief, placed the revolver onto the table. Khalid lifted his glass in salute and in quick order downed his drink. It was his turn and unlike the boy, he never wavered.
Palming the revolver, he turned it on its side and gave the cylinder a spin. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he caught it with his hands, eliminating his chances of survival. The rush tasted better than the one hundred dollar-a-bottle of cognac he favoured and even opium.
“Kal, what the f*ck are you doing?”
Hearing his childhood nickname, Khalid recoiled, and for the first time, in many weeks, his resolve to self-destruct waivered. Even worse, he felt ashamed when his older brother, Aksim, materialized out of the crowd, followed closely by his younger sibling, Iz?l.
Khalid blinked at them. How in the hell did they catch up with him? He’d paid out the nose to stay two steps ahead of them.
“Get out of here,” he growled.
Aksim shook his head and water dripped from his hat onto his heavy winter coat. “I’m not leaving without you,” he countered. “Father sent us to retrieve you and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Of course.” Khalid almost grinned in the face of his brothers’ apparent astonishment. They must have expected a fight. And with good reason. A notorious hothead, Khalid would’ve given them one if all the fight hadn’t left him months ago.
“I’ll be right with you, just let me finish up here.”
Smiling broadly, Khalid pressed the barrel of the revolver against his temple and squeezed the trigger.