Beneath Montmartre Cemetery, the air hung thick and still as amber. Isabella’s smile in the candlelight resembled a cracked mask from an ancient oil painting.
“You’re right on time, Liam. I’m pleased,” her voice echoed off the stone walls, laced with the cadence of one presiding over a dark ritual.
Liam’s gaze drifted past her, settling on Scarlett. She stood in the center of the room, beside a grand piano draped in white cloth, her face as pale as parchment yet her back ramrod straight. Her hands clutched Louise tightly; the little girl buried her face against her mother’s legs, peeking out with one wide eye, eyeing the flickering candlelit underworld with equal parts fear and curiosity. There was no sign of Elliot.
“Where is the child?” Liam repeated his question, his voice hoarse, de
