Blood and Honor

Paris, 1911 The air at Parc des Buttes-Chaumont was alive with the warmth of early spring as the sun filtered through the trees like golden silk. Laughter and conversation wove a tapestry, couples whispered secrets on wooden benches, children chased each other along the gravel paths. Louisa Moreau sat on the grass with her son, Gabriel, her fingers brushing absently through his dark curls as he played with a carved wooden horse. He was five now, his laughter bright, untouched by the shadows she carried. She exhaled softly. He doesn’t know what blood he comes from. He doesn’t know what I’ve done to keep him safe. A luxury he would not have forever. She watched as he ran toward the small pond, his little boots kicking up dust. The sight of him, carefree and happy, should have brought her comfort. Yet a sense of unease curled in her gut. Something felt off today. A tension in the air she couldn't name. Instinct had kept her alive in the underbelly of Paris, where men like Stevenson De Luca and Leonardo Costa ruled with silver tongues and loaded pistols. She had learned to listen to them. And right now, they were screaming. Then she heard it. The sharp c***k of a gunshot. The world seemed to slow. People screamed. A flock of pigeons scattered into the sky. Gabriel froze, eyes wide in confusion. Move. Louisa lunged forward, grabbing him just as another shot rang out. The tree beside them exploded in splinters. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she dropped to the ground, shielding her son with her body. Shouts erupted from across the park. Men in dark coats were running toward her? No. Their guns were raised at someone else. She twisted her head. Across the park, a man stumbled by the fountains, blood spreading across his crisp white shirt. His dark coat, once pristine, was stained with war. Stevenson De Luca. The king of the Parisian underworld. He clamped a hand to his side, teeth exposed, as more bullets whizzed past him. Three men closed in around him, moving fast. Assassins. Louisa muttered a curse under her breath. Men like Stevenson, cold and unforgiving, the type of man who'd raze a city to the ground if it meant retaining his throne. She had no right to save him. And yet, Gabriel whimpered beneath her, his small fingers digging into her dress. The gunmen weren't targeting Stevenson anymore. They were shooting into the crowd. Innocents would die. A bitter oath slipped past her lips. Damn it. She shifted, and let drop the small knife from her boot. The bullets she could not stop, but the men pulling the trigger, those she could. She turned to Gabriel, her hands on his shoulders. "Stay here. Do not move." He nodded, wide, trusting eyes. Never did he question her. Then Louisa ran straight into the fire.