The moment I left the café, everything felt different. The relaxed vibe of the Sablon district seemed like a slow-motion dream next to the urgent commands in my ear.
"Walk north," Leo instructed. His tone was cold and focused. "Do not look back. At the fountain, turn right. A black Mercedes will be waiting at the corner. The door will be unlocked. You have ninety seconds."
I gripped the brass key in my pocket, its sharp edges digging into my palm—my only anchor amid the chaos. I was no longer Isabelle Renaud, the art student. I was now the keeper of a dead man's secret, moving through a hidden battlefield. Every tourist I passed and every businessman on his phone felt like a possible threat. My security detail, the shadows Leo commanded, were my only protection.
I reached the Mercedes without any issues. The back door swung open as I got closer. I slid inside, and the door clicked shut behind me, sealing me in a quiet, leather-clad space. The car merged smoothly into traffic. A moment later, Leo joined me in the front passenger seat, having appeared from another street.
"Report," he said, addressing the earpiece that connected him to the rest of the team.
"Elias has a confirmed location for Marchand," Dante's voice crackled through the car's secure communication system. The audio was so clear it felt like he was right beside me. I could hear a jet engine whining in the background. "A private retirement community, 'Villa Hemelberg,' just outside the city. He's alive."
"I'm on my way," Dante replied, his words resolute. "ETA is two hours. Leo, hold tight. Secure a perimeter around that villa, but under no circumstances approach until I am on the ground."
"Sir, waiting two hours could be a huge mistake," I said, leaning forward between the front seats. "We have to assume the Syndicate had a backup plan for the Curator's capture or death. They could be cleaning house, eliminating loose ends. Marchand is the biggest loose end there is. We need to reach him before they do."
"Isabella is right," Elias chimed in, his tone serious. "If Finch has been tracking this man, his disappearance will have raised an alarm. The Syndicate will act to eliminate the threat. We are in a race."
A heavy silence followed. I could feel Dante's internal struggle—his urge to protect me against the harsh reality of the situation.
"Leo," Dante's voice sounded strained, the words bitter. "You have command. Take Isabella. But get her out at the first sign of trouble. You will prioritize her safety over the objective. That is your main task. There is no other option."
"Understood, sir," Leo answered, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
Villa Hemelberg looked serene, an old, impressive manor surrounded by lush autumn gardens. It felt worlds away from the violence and plotting that had brought us here. We entered through the gates, with Leo acting as my driver and me as the concerned granddaughter of a potential resident.
We found Jean-Pierre Marchand in a glass conservatory, caring for rare orchids. He was a small, bird-like man in his late eighties, with a neatly trimmed white beard and strikingly clear blue eyes. He looked up as we approached, his expression polite but guarded.
"Monsieur Marchand?" I asked softly.
"Yes?" His gaze was sharp, assessing me as Inspector Giroux had done.
I skipped the small talk. I took the brass key from my pocket and placed it on the small table beside a blooming orchid. "A man named Jacques Dubois asked me to give you this," I said quietly.
The politeness in his eyes faded. A deep, weary sorrow replaced it, as if he had aged a decade in an instant. He sank onto a nearby wrought-iron bench, staring at the key as if it were a ghost. He wasn't surprised; he was resigned.
"I knew this day would come," he whispered, his voice sounding like dry leaves rustling. He looked from the key to me, his gaze piercing, searching for a truth I could not yet provide. "For nineteen years, I have cared for my flowers and hoped that the daughter of the scribe would never have to carry the weight of her inheritance."
He picked up the key, tracing the ornate, serpent-like design with his fingers.
"I am a man of my word, mademoiselle," he said, his voice regaining a hint of its former strength. "I promised Jacques I would safeguard his truth. But I must warn you."
He looked up, and the intensity in his blue eyes was chilling—a glimpse of the darkness we were about to uncover.
"The truth is not a shield," he explained. "It is a sword. Once you unsheathe it, you have no choice but to wield it, even if it means cutting down the world you thought you knew."