Gregoire, first; it had been almost too easy. But he had enjoyed the gibbering terror, the pleading, the muffled screaming from the duct-taped mouth. Still, over too quickly, for the years of darkness, the long fight against despair. Pierre accepted the consequence of his own moment of weakness. But it would not happen twice.

All that remained was to punish the traitors.

Judy did not count. She had slept with his son, but that was what easy girls like her did. He had no doubt that eventually he would need to kill her—Judy knew too much. But not immediately. She was an alibi, and an albatross. One murder, meticulously planned years in advance, he could get away with; two, close together, he doubted it. She would be bribed and fucked into submission.

It was the others whom he would attend to.

Chiefly, to his darling wife. . . .

Who would have thought she had it in her? Quiet, elegant, grateful little Sophie, obedient and maternal. To take the reins, dabble in business, fight her son. Poor conduct. No wife of his should have a public role other than on his arm. He had given her everything, but she had wanted more.

She had declared him dead. She had fucked another man.

The whole world knew that Pierre Massot’s woman had lain in the bed of another.

His son, his son had cozied up to Sophie’s lover. His son had not chosen to wait for him.

Montfort. Once just an annoyance—now, an enemy. He must be crushed, but again, Pierre would do it slowly. He knew something of the man’s war record. Montfort was a soldier, a professional killer. In this case, deception would be necessary.

And . . . Katherine.

Katherine. She had been the closest to faithful. But she had flinched in one respect. Arranging the sale of her shares to that fool Stockton. He could not tell if it was a mistake. He knew, of course, that she hated Sophie. Had Katherine allowed her chafing to undermine his wishes? Was her loathing of Sophie so strong that she would sell his trust?

Pierre thought so. Poor, obsessed Tasha, he thought; how completely, how totally he would always own her. He thought with fondness of her little ruse: get Judy to take up with Tom. Perfect! It ruined Sophie, and, she must have thought, would ruin Judy; how could he love the woman that slept with his own son?

Even now, after half a lifetime with him, she did not understand.

He did not love. There was approval, and disapproval—fondness at best. I rely upon myself, Pierre thought; it is why I am still alive. And why I will win.