Page 5 of All the Devils Are Here

When he’d finished, his godfather stared at him.

“Jesus, garçon,” Stephen had said. “The Gates of Hell? Dear God, and they gave you a gun?”

Stephen had been in his late fifties by then and at the height of his powers. The business magnate intimidated all around him. Armand suspected even the furniture cowered when Stephen Horowitz entered a room.

It wasn’t simply the force of his personality and the immense wealth he was busy acquiring and wielding, but his willingness to use both power and money to destroy those he felt were crooks.

Sometimes it took him years, but eventually, he brought them down. Power. And patience. Stephen Horowitz had command of both.

He was genuinely kind and openly ruthless. And when he turned those intense blue eyes on a quarry, they quaked.

But not Armand.

Not because he’d never been in the crosshairs, but because what Armand was most afraid of wasn’t being hurt by Stephen. He was afraid of hurting him. Disappointing him.

He’d argued with Stephen. Explaining that he loved Reine-Marie, and loved the tranquil garden in the middle of Paris.

“Where better to propose?”

“I don’t know,” Stephen had said, the clear blue eyes challenging Armand. “The métro? The catacombs? The morgue? For God’s sake, garçon, anywhere but The Gates of Hell.”

And after a moment’s pause, Armand had chuckled. Seeing Stephen’s point.

He hadn’t actually thought of that bench as being in front of The Gates of Hell. He thought of it as the place where he’d found a measure of freedom from crushing grief. Where he’d found the possibility of peace. Where he’d found happiness, with lemon curd on his chin and icing sugar down his sweater.

He’d found sanctuary with his godfather just outside The Gates of Hell.

“I’ll tell you where you need to do it,” said Stephen. And did.

That had been thirty-five years earlier.

Armand and Reine-Marie had two grown children now. Daniel and Annie. Three grandchildren. The imminent arrival of Annie’s second child was what had brought them to Paris.

Armand was now the same age Stephen had been when they’d had that conversation about the proposal. Over six feet tall, and stolidly built, Armand now had mostly gray hair, and his face was lined from the passage of time and the weight of difficult choices.

A deep scar at his temple spoke of the toll his job had taken. The wages of being a senior officer in the Sûreté du Québec.

But there were other lines. Deeper lines. That radiated from his eyes and mouth. Laugh lines.

They, too, spoke of the choices Armand had made. And the weight he gave them.

Stephen was now ninety-three and, while growing frailer, was still formidable. Still going in to work every day, and terrorizing those who needed the fear of, if not God, then this godfather put into them.

It would come as no surprise to his business rivals that Stephen Horowitz’s favorite statue was Rodin’s Gates of Hell. With the famous image of The Thinker. And, below it, the souls tumbling into the abyss.

Once again, godfather and godson sat side by side on the bench and ate their pastries in the sunshine.

“Thank God I convinced you to propose in the jardin du Luxembourg,” said Stephen.

Armand was about to correct him. It hadn’t actually been that garden, but another.

Instead, he stopped and regarded his godfather.

Was he slowing down after all? It would be natural, at the age of ninety-three, and yet for Armand it was inconceivable. He reached out and brushed icing sugar off Stephen’s vest.

“How’s Daniel?” Stephen asked as he batted away Armand’s hand.

“He’s doing well. Roslyn’s gone back to work in the design firm, now that the girls are in school.”