The jet touched down in Geneva under a blanket of low cloud and soft rain. The city, polished and discreet beneath its wealth, seemed a fitting stage for what lay ahead.
Camille stepped from the aircraft into the waiting black sedan, Damien close beside her. Their movements were swift, calculated. This was not a diplomatic arrival, not a social one.
They were hunting a ghost.
The city blurred past in muted greys and silvers as they drove, her pulse steady but sharp beneath her skin. Julien Cazaux—once her brother's confidant, now a shadow on the margins of Europe's tech underworld—was their quarry. The intelligence had been thin, a last trace from an encrypted network. But it was enough.
The sedan slipped through narrow streets toward the old quarter, where centuries of power hid behind elegant facades. The rain slicked the cobblestones, muffling the sounds of the city. Camille's gaze never wavered.
Beside her, Damien watched her with a glance, silent. The tension between them simmered—unspoken, dangerous. They had not spoken of what had passed between them in Paris. Not yet. But it hung in the air with every breath.
"Are you ready?" he asked quietly.
Camille's reply was calm. "Always."
---
The safehouse was a discreet third-floor flat, secured by Damien's operatives. From here, the surveillance net spread through the old city—cameras, encrypted channels, human contacts embedded in Geneva's veiled underworld.
The team leader, Calvet, briefed them swiftly.
"Target was seen two days ago at an old café near the quai. No fixed residence. He's moving constantly. We've tracked contacts with two syndicate players—both hostile to Renault."
Camille absorbed this.
"He's playing both sides."
"Likely," Calvet agreed. "But he's spooked. Moving fast."
Damien's gaze sharpened. "He'll bolt if we push too hard."
"Or disappear completely," Camille added.
The unspoken truth hung between them.
If they failed to reach Cazaux here, the lead might vanish forever.
---
The café was a relic of older Geneva—dim, wood-paneled, lost among boutiques and galleries. It was here, according to surveillance, that Cazaux had made contact two nights ago.
Camille entered first, alone, her presence unremarkable among the city's discreet elite. Damien watched from across the street, hidden in shadow.
Inside, she ordered a coffee, her gaze scanning the room with practiced ease. No obvious players, no tails—yet the undercurrent of tension was sharp.
The minutes ticked by.
Then, at the edge of her vision, a figure slipped inside—hooded, lean, eyes flicking across the space with nervous precision.
Julien Cazaux.
Her breath caught, but her expression remained cool.
He had changed—thinner, sharper. The casual charm of years past burned away, leaving something harder, more dangerous.
For a moment, he hesitated.
Then his gaze locked on hers.
Recognition flared. Shock. Wariness.
Camille met it head-on.
"Sit," she said softly, her voice steady.
For a long beat, he remained frozen—then moved to her table with cautious grace.
"Camille Aragon," he murmured, voice edged with disbelief. "Of all people."
Her tone was cool. "We need to talk."
A wry, bitter smile. "Do we? The last time someone needed to talk, your brother ended up—"
He stopped himself, eyes narrowing.
Camille's voice dropped to steel.
"You owe him that truth."
Cazaux's gaze flicked to the door, the windows—calculating escape.
"I can help you," she said, voice lower. "But not if you run."
A beat.
Then, quietly: "It wasn't supposed to happen. Not that way."
Her heart tightened. "Then tell me what did."
---
From across the street, Damien's gaze was locked on the scene, every muscle coiled.
Through the comms, Calvet's voice was low.
"Target is nervous. No other players on approach. Yet."
Damien's eyes never left Camille.
"She's handling him," he said. "Hold position."
But beneath the command, his pulse beat faster.
---
Inside, Cazaux leaned forward, voice rough.
"Mateo was closing in on something bigger than he realized. Renault wasn't the only name. There were others—old money, corporate factions, even political ties. He uncovered a channel—encrypted finance routed through non-state networks. When he tried to go public—"
His jaw tightened.
"They silenced him."
Camille's voice was fierce. "You were there."
A bitter laugh. "I was a fool. I thought we could win."
He shifted, voice dropping lower.
"And now they'll come for me. For anyone who knows."
Camille's hand closed lightly around his wrist.
"I can protect you."
His gaze flicked to the door again, haunted.
"No one can."
A sharp click outside.
Camille's instinct flared.
"Get down."
---
The window shattered in a burst of sound—glass and suppressed gunfire. The café erupted in chaos.
Camille pulled Cazaux to the floor even as Damien was already moving, weapon drawn, into the room.
Shots rang out—short, sharp bursts. Damien's operatives swept in, precision cutting through the panic.
Within seconds, the room was secured.
Camille rose swiftly, pulling Cazaux with her.
"Move!" Damien's voice cut across the noise.
They exited through the back, every step calculated. The operatives closed ranks, shielding them from pursuit.
Damien's hand brushed Camille's arm—warm, strong.
"You're not hurt."
"No," she breathed. "But he is the key."
Damien's gaze burned. "Then we'll protect him."
For one charged moment, their eyes locked—relief, fury, need all tangled beneath the surface.
Then they were moving again.
---
The safehouse was locked down within the hour.
Cazaux paced the narrow space, tension coiling through him. Camille stood nearby, unwavering.
Damien entered quietly, holstering his weapon.
"You'll stay here," he told Cazaux. "Our protection. No questions."
The other man laughed bitterly. "You think that will stop them?"
Damien's voice was steel. "It will."
Camille moved to Cazaux's side.
"I need everything," she said softly. "Files. Names. Proof."
His gaze met hers—haunted, but steady.
"You'll have it."
---
Later, in the dim quiet of the safehouse's upper room, Camille stood alone by the window. Rain traced slow paths down the glass.
Damien entered without sound, moving to her side.
"You took a risk today."
She turned to him.
"So did you."
A beat of silence.
Then, lower:
"You saved him."
"You made that possible."
Her voice wavered, just slightly.
"We're close now."
Damien's gaze searched hers.
"Yes," he said softly. "But it will get worse before it gets better."
Another pause. Then, with a rare softness:
"I won't let them touch you."
Her breath caught.
"I know."
The space between them closed, slowly, as if drawn by gravity.
Damien's hand brushed her cheek—warm, sure.
And this time, there was no resistance.
Their mouths met—deeper, slower. No desperation. Only fierce need, carefully leashed.
When they parted, the air between them was charged, fragile.
"Camille," Damien whispered.
But no more words came.
They stood in the quiet, the war pressing close around them, the fragile tether between them burning brighter than ever.
And the true storm had only begun.