After a long night of talking, planning, and eventually falling asleep curled up on the safehouse couch, Laura awoke with clarity—and resolve.

She slid the fresh battery into her comm unit, tucked it into her ear, and checked the secure line. Live. The Fox was listening.

Coraline didn’t say a word—didn’t need to. They both knew what came next.

Now came Laura’s part of the plan.

As much as she hated it, the first step was simple: go back to Jean.

The townhouse loomed ahead, familiar and cold all at once. Laura slipped inside quietly, closing the door with the same practiced silence she’d used a hundred times before. Her mind rehearsed every word, every expression, every breath. This was an act—but a dangerous one.

Jean was seated at the kitchen table, shirtless, a coffee mug resting near his left hand. His torso was wrapped in bandages, stark white against the bruising that had bloomed across his ribs courtesy of O’Hara’s axe handle.

He looked up, his expression unreadable.

“Sorry I’m late,” Laura said casually, stripping off her coat. “Vulpes and I managed to luck out—we found Ruso.”

Jean blinked, tension flickering in his shoulders.

Laura kept her tone light, just this side of satisfied. “The bastard’s finally going to get locked up for life. I stuck around to help dot the i’s, say goodbye to the Fox.”

She let that hang.

Truth laced with bait.

Jean leaned back slowly in the chair, the wince he tried to hide still visible in the tightness of his jaw. “That right?” he said, voice low and gravel-rough from pain and calculation. “So she just… let you walk away after all that?”

Laura gave a small shrug, stepping further into the room. “We found common ground. She’s not what I expected.”

Jean gave a slow nod, the kind that masked a hundred working thoughts. “You sure you’re not compromised?”

There it was.

The test.

Laura met his eyes without flinching. “Are you asking if I told her anything? Because if I had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Jean studied her for a long moment—too long.

Then he smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Good. We’ve come too far to lose control now.”

Laura forced a smile of her own, even as her stomach twisted. “Exactly.”

Behind the façade, the old Laura would’ve recoiled. But the new one? The one who’d made a decision on a safehouse couch hours ago?

She just filed the moment away—along with every tic, every word, every crack in Jean’s mask.

Because the game had started.

And she was done playing by his rules.

Now that she knew the truth—that he was a liar, a manipulator, and on the take—everything about Jean-Claude Bellrose hit different. Every word out of his mouth felt like poison dipped in honey. Every look, every calculated pause, every rehearsed smile. It all rewound in her mind under a new light, and the picture it painted was ugly.

He hadn’t just betrayed the mission. He’d betrayed her.

And now? Now Laura was applying every ounce of training, every instinct she’d honed as a reporter. She wasn’t seeing him through the lens of love anymore—those feelings were gone, burned to ash the moment she realized who he really was.

Now she was watching him like a story that didn’t quite add up.

Like a suspect.

Like a mark.

She could tell he was reeling—internally, of course. Jean was too composed to let it show on the surface, but she knew him too well to miss the signs.

He hadn’t expected Ruso to fall. He’d failed to protect the man he was supposed to keep safe, and now the Italians would be pissed. Furious, even. There would be consequences. He’d have to make peace somehow—return their money, offer restitution, maybe even pull a job for them to smooth things over.

And then there was her. Laura. The traitorous fiancée who’d gone off-script and “helped” the Vulpes. The Midnights—or whoever Jean was really tangled up with—wouldn’t let that slide without punishment. Maybe they’d chastise him. Maybe they’d demand he put her in the crosshairs to prove his loyalty.

Watching him wrestle with all of that in silence brought her a dark, satisfying warmth.

Karma.

He was still calculating, still trying to maintain control—but she could feel the cracks forming under the weight of everything going sideways.

So she smiled.

Leaned in.

And kissed him lightly on the cheek.

Then, without so much as batting an eyelash, she said sweetly, “Good to have things get back to normal.”

Jean froze for a half-second too long.

But Laura had already turned away, sauntering toward the bedroom with just the right amount of casual ease—like she wasn’t playing him, like her words weren’t a blade slipped between the ribs.

She could feel his eyes on her back, and for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t afraid of what he’d do next.

She wasn’t his anymore.

And soon, he wouldn’t see her coming.

Jean watched her disappear down the hall, and the smile he’d worn like armor finally slipped.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, hands curling into fists on the table. The pain in his ribs flared as he shifted, but he barely felt it. His mind was elsewhere—racing, reeling.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

Ruso was gone. The Italians were going to be livid. He hadn’t just failed to protect one of their enforcers—he’d let a symbol of their power get snatched up by the justice system like some common thug. That kind of humiliation would fester. That kind of failure had a cost.

Maybe… maybe there was a way to fix this.

Return the money. Eat the loss. Call in old favors. Remind them how many fires he’d put out for them over the years—how many rivals he’d quietly buried, how many police investigations he’d redirected or defanged. He’d helped clean up their messes in Montreal, silenced rats, leveraged corrupt politicians, dealt with the Irish.

They owed him.

Sure, Alphonso was going up the river, but what was one hitman in the grand scheme of things? The guy was barely more than a hired gun with decent branding. Replaceable. Forgettable. Surely the good outweighed the bad. Right?

Right?

Jean stood and began pacing slowly, the panic behind his eyes threatening to show itself.

He just had to be smart. Strategic. One step ahead.

Control the narrative. That’s what he always did. That’s what he was good at.

And yet...

There was something about Laura’s voice earlier. The way she said “Good to have things get back to normal.” That line echoed louder than it should have. There was something in her tone—something unfamiliar. Like she wasn’t afraid anymore.

Like she knew something he didn’t.

Jean’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t like that.

Not one damn bit.

Jean’s fingers drifted to the engagement ring still resting on his finger.

No. He clenched his jaw. No, that’s just paranoia talking.

The Vulpes was gone. Out of the picture. Laura was here—his.

She’d always been his.

His beloved. His partner. His woman. His sidekick. Just the way he wanted her.

He took a breath and tried to focus. There was damage control to do—alliances to patch, tempers to soothe, strings to pull. But at least, with Vulpes out of the way, one piece of the board had finally been cleared.

That’s when Laura reappeared.

Wearing only a robe.

She leaned against the doorframe with an easy, practiced confidence, then gave him a flirty little pose, hand on her hip and one leg slightly cocked like a pinup come to life.

Then she laughed. “Anyway, I need to grab a shower. I’ve got a follow-up interview with Coraline Penrose later today.”

Jean sipped his coffee, careful not to let the ceramic clink against his teeth. He kept his face still, neutral—but inside, the storm swirled harder.

“That the lawyer from Toronto you mentioned?” he asked, tone even.

Laura walked past the table and snatched a bagel, biting into it with a casual sort of defiance. “Mm-hmm. Nice woman. Quite well spoken.” She glanced at him, then added with a glint in her eye, “Easy on the eyes too.”

Jean paused.

And she saw it.

Laura had spent years cataloging his tells. The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. The way his fingers tightened just a fraction on the coffee mug. The way his breathing hitched for half a second before he forced it back into rhythm.

She’d hit the target dead center.

Jealousy. Possessiveness. Insecurity.

He didn’t trust easily. And when he did trust someone, he needed to own them. Control them.

She took another bite of the bagel and gave him a wink. “Be out soon,” she said lightly, already heading toward the bathroom.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And Jean sat there, coffee going cold in his hand, knowing something had shifted.

He just didn’t know what.

Not yet.

But Laura did.

And so did the woman she was meeting later.

It’s just an interview, he told himself. Just work.

Laura was a reporter. This was normal. Professional.

But the thought of her spending time with someone who wasn’t him—laughing, talking, connecting—sent a low throb through the back of his skull.

His fingers tightened on the handle of his coffee mug until the ceramic creaked.

Laura was bisexual. She had always been upfront about that. He’d smiled at the time, told her he loved her exactly as she was.

And maybe he had.

Back then.

Before the missions, before the masks, before the paranoia took root and spread like rot.

Now?

Now it just meant twice as many threats. Twice as many people who might charm her, who might take her attention away. Steal her from him with soft smiles, shared glances, whispered laughter over espresso and bylines.

Men. Women. It didn’t matter.

They were all problems.

Variables he couldn’t control.

And Coraline Penrose? Smart. Rich. Poised. Confident. Dangerous in a quiet, effortless kind of way. Exactly the kind of person Laura admired.

The kind of person who might open her eyes a little too wide.

He stared down at the coffee in his mug, the surface rippling slightly from the tremor in his grip.

He’d have to keep an eye on that.

He didn’t need a scandal, not now. Not with the Italians breathing down his neck, the Midnights getting jumpy, and the Vulpes supposedly out of the picture.

Still.

Maybe it was time to schedule a follow-up of his own.

By the time Laura stepped out of the shower, steam still curling from the bathroom door, she wore nothing but a pair of towels—one wrapped snugly around her body, the other twisted through her damp hair.

She moved with relaxed confidence, all softness and warmth, and leaned in to press a kiss to Jean’s cheek as she draped her arms loosely around his neck.

He smiled up at her, all affection and easy charm. “I think I might do a solo patrol tonight,” he said casually, brushing a hand along her waist. “Clear my head. Let you focus on writing up that interview. That cool with you, babe?”

Laura nodded, planting a soft kiss just beneath his jawline. “Sure thing. Just… stay safe out there, alright, Jean?”

He gave her a low chuckle and another kiss to her shoulder. “Always.”

What he didn’t know—what he thought she didn’t know—was that this patrol wasn’t about clearing his head. It was about smoothing things over with the Italians. Damage control. Making promises. Begging forgiveness. Reestablishing dominance.

What he didn’t realize… was that she already knew.

And while he was thinking of excuses and alliances, Laura was thinking three steps ahead.

The small pouch Vulpes had handed her hours earlier—sleek, matte black, and no larger than a thumb drive—sat in her purse, nestled between a spare throwing knife and a press pass.

A tracker.

Silent. Untraceable. Precision-designed to cling to gear without notice.

And tonight, while Jean prepared for his little solo excursion, Laura planned to slip it into his kit like it had always been there.

He wouldn’t feel it.

He wouldn’t know it.

And when he stepped out into the night, full of lies and plans?

They’d be following every move.

***

Laura’s “interview” with Coraline Penrose wasn’t an interview at all.

That was just the cover story—for Jean, for anyone else who might be watching, listening, or trying to connect dots that needed erasing.

In reality, it was a day of calculated disassembly. Quiet erasure. Two minds working in lockstep to pull Laura Locke out of Madame Minuit’s shadow—digit by digit, byte by byte, trace by trace.

They worked from the secure workspace in one of Luara’’s safehouses—a minimalist, slate-grey room lined with encrypted terminals, signal jammers, and gear that screamed off-the-grid precision.

Laura stood behind Coraline as she typed, lines of code dancing across the screen. "Everything tied to the Minuit alias was built to look clean," Coraline muttered, "but Jean left just enough sloppiness for me to trace. You were careful. He was arrogant."

Laura nodded. “Sounds like him.”

Coraline tapped a key. "Okay—I've purged your IP history from the log that tied to the Quebec journalist database. You're just another reporter now. No mask. No noise."

Laura moved to the table and opened a small case of burner phones and encrypted drives. “I brought everything I ever used. All the gear, backups, decoys—even my old voice modulator.”

Coraline looked impressed. “You came prepared.”

“I came to disappear.”

And she meant it. Today wasn’t about hiding. It was about cutting ties. Madame Minuit would become a myth, a ghost. An urban legend that lived and died beside Jean-Claude Bellrose.

By mid-afternoon, they had wiped aliases from municipal traffic cams, shredded metadata from old burner phone texts, ghosted cloud-stored dossiers, and shredded any paper that hadn’t already been reduced to ash.

The only thing left tying Laura to her former life was him—Jean’s word, Jean’s memory.

And he wouldn’t be able to use that.

Not without burning himself, too.

Coraline leaned back in her chair, looking at the cleared screen. “That’s it. As of ten minutes ago, Madame Minuit doesn’t exist anymore. All that’s left is Jean’s ego.”

Laura folded her arms. “Then let’s break that next.”

Laura leaned back in her chair, the tension in her shoulders easing ever so slightly. She reached for the iced cappuccino she’d been nursing for the past hour and took a long sip, the cool sweetness a contrast to the fire running just beneath her skin.

Then, with a wry smile tugging at her lips, she glanced sideways at Coraline.

“So,” she said, casually swirling the straw, “shall we tune in and see what’s happening on Radio Jean?”

Coraline smirked, already reaching for the slim, encrypted laptop to her right. “I thought you’d never ask.”

With a few deft keystrokes, the screen flickered to life, and a grid of windows opened—GPS positioning, audio channel, ambient sound feed from the tracker’s mic. They could hear the low hum of traffic, the shifting weight of someone inside a vehicle, and then—Jean’s voice. Crisp. Controlled. Paranoid beneath the surface.

He was already in motion.

Already talking.

“Looks like our boy’s en route,” Coraline said, her voice calm but sharp. “Southbound. Judging by that last turn, he’s heading for the warehouse district.”

Laura leaned in slightly, ice cappuccino still in hand, eyes now cold and focused. “That where he likes to meet his ‘business partners’?”

“Among other things,” Coraline replied. “Let’s listen in.”

Static gave way to the clipped edge of Jean’s voice, speaking low into a burner phone.

“…no, I’m not happy either. But I’ll make it right. I always do.”

Laura sipped again, never looking away from the screen.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Let’s see how well always holds up.”

***

Jean exhaled slowly, trying to hold onto the illusion of control. He couldn’t let the cracks show.

“I gave the money back,” he said, voice taut with restraint. “We took care of the Irish hitters. Yeah, you lost Alphonso, and I know Don Carmine’s not happy, but I can’t be blamed for your hitter failing to finish the job.”

Odette—the oneThe Vulpes had squared off with at the meat-packing plant—snorted derisively. Her arms were crossed, her stance dripping with contempt.

“The Fox knew how to fight,” she snapped. “Not my fault you can’t keep your woman on a leash. Maybe I should put a collar around that pretty neck of hers—see how well she behaves for me.”

Jean’s jaw clenched, his molars grinding as he forced himself not to take the bait. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I’m talking to your boss,” he growled. “Not the hired muscle.”

Alessandro shifted his weight forward, the old warehouse chair groaning under him. The bikers bulk made him look like a statue carved out of menace.

“Insult Odette at your own risk,” he said coldly. “Because this is about you—and your lack of control over that crazy whore you call a partner. So shut up, and pay attention.”

Jean bit back the response burning on his tongue. He knew better. Pride wouldn’t protect him here—only results would.

Alessandro waited a beat, then nodded once. “Good. The Don understands that your work’s mostly been good for business. He’s willing to give you a chance to get back in our good graces.”

Jean straightened subtly. “What do you need?”

“Simple,” Alessandro said, cracking his knuckles before folding his arms. “From now on, you keep your woman under control. No more slip-ups. No more surprises.”

Jean nodded, eager now—desperate to settle things. “Done.”

“Then we’re halfway there,” Alessandro said, his voice turning to iron. “Now for the other half.”

He leaned forward, eyes cold.

“We need you to make sure Alphonso Ruso doesn’t become a loose end.”

Jean’s blood went cold.

Not because of the job itself.

But because, in that moment, he realized he wasn’t partnered with the mob anymore.

He was owned.

“You’ve got three days,” Alessandro said, his voice flat and final. “The hit takes place during the transfer to Toronto.”

He leaned back, the chair creaking under him, but his eyes never left Jean’s.

“We pulled some strings. You’ve got an opening—brief, but clean. All you need to do is sit on the right rooftop with a sniper rifle, and then blam—problem solved.”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

“We’re even.”

Jean didn’t blink. Didn’t nod. Just stared, the weight of the command settling on his shoulders like wet cement.

They weren’t asking.

They were giving him a chance to prove he still had value.

Three days.

One shot.

And no room for failure.

***

Coraline leaned back in her chair, one hand resting thoughtfully beneath her chin as Jean’s voice crackled through the feed.

“Three days,” she said, almost to herself. “Three days to tie up any loose ends with you and the Madame Minuit persona. Three days to finalize our setup. And three days to set the plan in motion.”

Laura smirked, arms crossed, confidence coiled behind her eyes. “Three days?” she echoed. “That’s practically a lifetime for women like us, Coraline.”

Coraline smiled at that—just a small, sharp thing.

“Oh, he’s going to regret giving us that much time.”

They shared a look—tight, knowing.

Because Jean thought he was getting his leash back.

But what he’d really done… was starting the countdown to his own collapse.