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Erik

Chapter 57

The Assassin

I did not care one single damn iota about the article. I didn't care about the additional fame that it brought The Phantom. I didn't even truly care that the newsletter featuring my stage name would likely increase my salary.

I cared about the drawing underneath. Christine's work. Her beautiful artwork deserved to be seen. She deserved to be seen. If not for her voice, then for this. I was swelling with pride.

That pride only increased as I walked into the Pink Silk Inn to find patrons at tables with that very newsletter, looking at the drawing. Not everyone at the tables were here to sin. Most, almost all, but not everyone. Some of the people here were only wanting a meal, so the men looking at the drawing could have been in that category. Yes, the inn was a brothel, but a very small handful did not know that. Vincenzo said that, though it was fairly common knowledge in Paris, some sheltered young men or travelers often came in simply to eat supper - and Madame Giry had hired an excellent cook. Upstairs were the bedrooms, and unless one gave the coded phrase of "I'd like to try on some silks" to a member of the staff, these rooms were always too full to be occupied by unsuspecting, innocent visitors.

And the patrons who knew played into the false secrecy. It was part of the charm. An exclusive club, in which the only requirement for membership was knowledge of its existence.

To be frank, though, how any foolish man would not suspect the true nature of the place, a place called the Pink Silk Inn, full of flirtatious girls, was completely lost on me. Perhaps everyone really did suspect it - and perhaps those who claimed they didn't were pious but lustful men who were giving themselves an excuse to go and visit the place where they'd get a hot meal and a dozen beautiful women smiling suggestively and giggling with them. All after going to church, listening to a sermon on fidelity within marriage with their wife and three daughters.

I wasn't here for a meal, and certainly wasn't here for the other service they provided. Vincenzo had asked me to come by to discuss something he claimed was important.

I had offered to bring Christine alone - if anything, for the express purpose of proving I was there only to meet with Vincenzo - but when she learned where I would be going, I was not surprised to hear that her answer was no. But not for the reason I expected. Instead, her face fell and she explained that she wasn't sure she could be around prostitutes. It would be, to her, too much like seeing the Garden Flowers. Whether the girls in the Pink Silk Inn were there by choice or not, it was not something she could handle.

It was at times like these that I remembered our time in the Shah's court had affected her too. I kissed her and told her I understood.

She opened her mouth like she wanted to say more, then seemed to change her mind. She kissed me again and told me to be safe.

Here, in the inn, the space was clean. Warm yellow lanterns made the scarlet wallpaper simultaneously brighter and darker. There were tables all around, with girls laughing and taking food and drink orders from the customers. I found Vincenzo not at the tables, but at the bar across the inn. He spotted me and waved me over. Next to him was a man with gray hair and laugh lines around green eyes. If I could guess, I'd have placed his age at sixty.

However, as I approached, the man said something in Vincenzo's ear. My brother nodded as the man downed whatever drink he was working on. He clapped Vincenzo's back before moving to the center of the room. He went to a black-haired girl talking to another, spoke to her, and the girl smiled and led him to the stairs.

I stood beside Vincenzo, who spoke, watching, "I once asked Madame Giry why she fronts this place as an inn rather than be outright with the fact that it's a brothel. They're legal in France, and this place is state-approved. The girls are registered and are given bi-weekly medical checks. The same can't be said for the prostitutes in poorer areas, of course." He looked at me. "Madame told me that it's a business tactic. Besides the fact that the customers feel in on the secret, the fact that this place is also an inn makes the girls seem cleaner, like they aren't actually prostitutes. Men are willing to pay more for that reason. The girls you see work in short shifts and live upstairs. They eat and dress well - Madame takes care of her girls."

"Have you ever?" I asked, gesturing to the staircase.

"Sometimes." He raised a brow at me. "Are you interested?"

"No," I said immediately. "I am happily married."

He snorted. "So are most of the girls' customers."

"It's not for me. Thank you." Just the thought felt deeply wrong. I changed the subject. "What did you want to discuss?"

"Mm." His eyes went to the staircase. "The man that was just with me. You just watched him buy time in a room upstairs."

"Yes."

"His name is Emil Thibaut. He might be the solution to a problem we are having."

"Oh?"

He smiled, then moved from the bar. "Come. I asked Madame Giry for a space for you and me to talk in privacy."

He went to the stairs, and I followed. "What is this about?" I asked under my breath.

"It will become clear."

We ascended, then started down a hallway. Ahead, a girl with bright yellow hair walked our way. She grinned at us. I recognized her.

"Gentlemen," she greeted, a suggestive lilt to her tone.

"Meg," said Vincenzo in return.

Her face spoke of charm as she passed him, but there was a single moment that her expression changed, just as it had at the Cat's Eye. The second she was out of his view, a flash of hurt and sadness entered her eyes. But it was gone when I passed too - back to her endearing attitude as she winked at me.

We at last entered a room - Vincenzo unlocked the door. With a key. The space was decorated with shades of pinks and reds, the furniture plush and the bed canopied. Vincenzo closed the door.

"Meg is, of course, Madame Giry's daughter. She grew up here in the brothel. We...have been intimate." He sat on the chaise lounge in the corner of the room. "Olivier has with her as well. Fairly certain that the man is in love with her, though he won't admit it to me. Oh! Speaking of. He had his trial. As planned, it was found to be self-defense. The two dozen witnesses ensured that outcome."

"Good to hear." I sat in the armchair. I wondered if he told me about Meg because he felt it was not of great concern, or because he thought it was and wanted me to know. He'd said he'd never remarry, but it was clear he still had needs.

"Yes, it is good." He searched my eyes, like he was measuring his next statement. "I will not be doing any more killing."

I raised my brows. "Found God, perhaps?"

"Ah. No. He's still missing."

I chuckled.

"No," repeated Vincenzo. "The man. Emil. He is an assassin."

My blood went cold at the word. Not for fear, but because of the word itself. Though I'd been more of an executioner in Persia, was there really any difference between the two? Other than who was purchasing the killing service - government versus common man. Legal versus illegal.

What I'd done was, technically, legal. What an assassin did was generally not. But legality does not necessarily equate to morality.

"If I need someone done away with," continued Vincenzo, "which, I reiterate, is a rare occurrence - I will hire him."

"How did you find him?"

"I've known of him quite a while. He comes here every week."

"You've known his profession."

"I have. But if there was someone I wanted dead, there was a good reason for it; so I wanted to be the one to do it." He reached across and put a hand on my chair's arm. "Now that I know how it affects you, I will no longer do that."

I stared at my brother.

Hearing these words, the affection behind them, behind his actions, I wanted to tell him what happened to me. I needed to. It was imperative that I knew.

"That was all I wanted to discuss," he said, moving his hand away. "But I felt it better to say in person, for obvious reasons, I think. By the way, I saw Leroux's newsletter - excellent article, but I did not know your wife would draw like that. Though I am not surprised Leroux asked a woman to submit artwork. I've met him, and that's precisely the type of thing he'd do - challenging norms. Treating a lady like a professional, and-"

"Vincenzo," I interrupted, "I - I should tell you."

He waited.

"The exact reason I cannot handle deaths."

He blinked in surprise, but then leaned forward to listen, expression open.

So I told. Everything. Everything that had happened after the night our family died. Everything for the past several years. It took an hour to tell in full. And he was quiet, save for a clarifying question here and there.

I thought the ghosts would resurface while I told the story. But they didn't. They stayed dormant, allowing me to speak.

When I was at last done, Vincenzo's only reply was: "Those sons of bitches."

I was so stunned that I laughed.

"I like Christine even more now. And her father, actually."

Too bad that her father did not like him. Even with the transference of killing to the assassin, it would still be Vincenzo calling the shot to kill.

"I think I'd like to throw my fist into Nadir's jaw," he mused, "and I think Ibrahim is perfect for the job I gave him."

"And me? What do you think of me?"

Vincenzo considered the question, then responded, "I think I am grateful that you told me."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"You have no ill opinions toward me about this."

He gave a half-smile. "Do you want me to have those?"

"No. Of course not."

"Then no."

And there was something so profoundly kind and relieving about that, about how little he cared what I'd done, that a lump formed in my throat. I had to look away or I would surely weep.

He noticed. "Thank you. For telling me."