Read Chapter 9: The Rooftop Reckoning

The rooftop smelled of salt and diesel, the kind of air that clung to Monaco’s back alleys rather than its promenades. Below, the casino glowed like a patient beast, indifferent to the two figures crouched behind a ventilation unit.

Camille pressed her back against the metal, wiping sweat from her temple. Her knuckles were white around the zip drive Ferrand’s notebook had pointed them toward—a lead, supposedly, left by someone who knew Bellamy’s habits. Someone who wanted them here.

“This is too easy,” she whispered.

Victor scanned the rooftop’s edge, his jaw tight. “Nothing about tonight has been easy.”

“That’s my point.” She held up the notebook, its pages worn soft at the corners. “Moreau’s entries mention a dead drop at the casino’s service hatch. But the hatch is three roofs over, and we’re standing on the wrong building.”

Victor’s smile was thin. “You noticed.”

“You led us here.”

“I followed the map.”

“You sketched the map.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he pulled a cigarette from his jacket—unlit, a nervous habit she’d clocked two days ago. “I needed to see who was watching us.”

Camille’s stomach dropped. “You used us as bait.”

“I used *me* as bait. You’re the one who insisted on coming.”

Before she could answer, a boot scraped concrete behind them.

Victor moved first—not away, but into her, shoving her sideways behind the vent unit as a knife arced through the space she’d occupied. The blade rang off the metal housing. Three men emerged from the shadows of a water tower, moving with the unhurried confidence of professionals.

The one with the knife was short, broad, and smiling. “Mr. Falk sends his regards.”

Victor’s hands came up, palms out, his posture shifting into something Camille hadn’t seen before—looser, lower, balanced on the balls of his feet. “Tell Falk I’m good for it. I’m working on his problem right now.”

“The problem is you’re still above ground.” The man lunged.

What happened next unfolded faster than Camille’s eye could track. Victor didn’t block the knife—he *caught* the wrist, pivoted, and used the man’s momentum to slam him into the vent unit. The knife clattered. The second thug came in swinging a lead pipe, and Victor dropped into a crouch, sweeping the man’s legs. The third hung back, pulling something from his waistband.

A gun.

Camille’s hand found the notebook, then the loose brick at her feet. She hurled it. It caught the gunman square in the temple—a lucky shot, but she’d take it. He staggered, fired wild, the round screaming off the parapet.

Victor was on him before he recovered, driving an elbow into his wrist until the gun hit the ground and skittered into the dark.

The first man was rising again, blood streaming from a split brow. Victor grabbed Camille’s arm and ran for the rooftop’s service door. She didn’t resist. They burst through into a stairwell that stank of stale cigarettes and rain, boots hammering down concrete steps until they hit a landing with an emergency exit.

Victor shoved the bar. The door swung open onto a fire escape that descended toward a service alley.

“Go,” he said.

“What about the drive?” Camille’s hand was still clamped around the USB in her pocket.

“We’ll figure it out once we’re not bleeding.” He took the stairs in twos, metal groaning under his weight.

They hit the alley running, ducking through a gap between dumpsters and emerging onto a narrow street lined with shuttered boutiques. Victor pulled her into a doorway, pressing a finger to his lips. Footsteps thundered past above—settling, then fading.

Camille waited until her heart stopped shouting before she spoke. “Getaway driver.”

Victor blinked.

“You moved like someone who’s spent a lifetime leaving scenes fast. The way you read corners, the way you used their momentum, the way you didn’t flinch when the gun came out.” She stepped closer, voice low. “That isn’t securities work.”

He wiped a cut on his knuckles against his trousers. “I was young.”

“How young?”

“Seventeen. Nice. A crew ran armored-car jobs on the Promenade des Anglais. I was the wheelman—faster than their security scanners could react.” He looked at her, and for once, the charm was gone. “I got out when the crew got dead. Falk found me later, through an old associate. He doesn’t care what you used to be. Only what you owe.”

Camille thought of her father’s workshop, of the careful hours spent learning to read metal by touch. “And I’m what you’ve got to pay it with.”

“No.” He said it flatly, without defense. “You’re what I’ve got to *end* it. Falk’s not collecting money anymore. He’s collecting leverage. If I solve this necklace job, I get to walk away. If I don’t, I become another name on his list—or another body in a container.”

They stood in the doorway, the city humming around them. Somewhere, a siren wailed and faded. Victor’s eyes dropped to her pocket.

“The USB,” he said.

Camille pulled it out, still warm from her body. It was a simple black stick, no markings, heavier than usual. “It was tucked behind the brick on the parapet, exactly where Moreau’s notes said tonight’s drop would be.” She turned it over. “But the notes were in Bellamy’s old workshop. And someone led us up there first.”

Victor frowned. “You think it’s staged?”

“I think whoever’s running this knows our every move. Moreau vanished. Bellamy’s ‘death’ was faked. Falk’s name shows up in a shipping manifest. And now a USB drive appears on a rooftop we were directed to, right before we were ambushed.” She met his gaze. “Someone wanted us to fight for this. Someone wanted us desperate enough to trust whatever comes next.”

Victor was quiet for a long moment. Then he took the drive, turned it over, and pointed at a hairline scratch along the casing.

“That’s Bellamy’s mark. His signature. The same flaw that shows up in his mold work—the crack in the metalwork, the way he always left a trace.” He handed it back. “Whatever’s on this, he wanted us to find it.”

He didn’t say *it’s a trap*. He didn’t need to.

Behind them, in the rooftop above, a light flicked on and off three times. A signal. Someone was still watching.

Camille pocketed the drive. “We need somewhere safe.”

Victor’s expression went distant. “Monaco Vieille. There’s a café on the ramparts. Old owner. Doesn’t ask questions.”

They moved into the city’s shadows, and Camille felt the weight of the USB like a stone in her chest. It wasn’t answers they were carrying. It was bait—and they were the only ones willing to bite.