Archive of Our Own

“I apologise for the mess,” he finally says, reaching over to begin pouring the milk. “My brother Arthur is not usually this… careless. At least, not in such an uncommon hour.”

Careless. If careless was barging into your bakery at the dead of night just before lock-up and proceeding to bleed out on your floor screaming bloody murder— you can only imagine what complete recklessness would look like on him. Still, something had possessed you to jump into action regardless, and after you’d unceremoniously shoved the handle of a wooden spoon between his teeth to bite on, you’d managed to staunch out the bulletwound in his side before it could get any worse. 

When you’d called for help, however, something had interrupted your line— and Arthur had smiled knowingly through the pain, chirping, “Ah! That would be my brother.” 

That was 2 and a half hours ago.

The air still hangs metallic even after he’d been muscled away. If you focus hard enough, you can feel the way the edges of your apron have stiffened with dried blood and flour.

“Will he be okay?” you ask. It’s genuine. Arthur is a regular here, along with his so-called ‘Prema boys!’ They tend to rough-house and make your job just a tiny bit more difficult than it should be sometimes– but as far as you can tell, they’re the few reasons your business is still scraping by. They’re good kids, you reason. Rowdy and with Mafia ties, you realise now, but good kids nonetheless.

“Arthur’s had worse,” is all he says. “Thank you for the concern.”

You try not to dwell too long on what that means. 

“My name is Charles Leclerc,” he introduces as he stirs his coffee. “And this is Pierre Gasly.” 

He’s mild, almost. Cordial. Every bit the gentleman, but Christ alive, they’re something terrifying— Oozing stellar class in their pressed-suits, broad-shouldered and handsome down to their tipped noses; perfect predators of their kind. Charles is softer looking— not as boyish as his younger brother, no— but not as mean-looking as Pierre either. You note the hint of a cross tattoo peeking the corner of Pierre’s neck and suppose you can mull on the irony of it another day. That is, if you have another day.

“Mademoiselle, with the events that’s happened tonight, we’re inclined to ask you a question—”

“I know who you are.” 

A pause. Charles doesn’t flinch, though. If anything, you’d caught his full attention.

“La Confrérie,” you continue. The Brotherhood. The men who govern the streets of Monaco behind-the-scenes, who pull at the strings through shadow networks in just about every big business they have in their pocket. The type of people who’d leave blood in their wake and have it cleared come morning. There’d been a time you thought of them as myths— bedtime stories and an old wives’ tale to scare children off the streets—

And yet here you are on a Tuesday night, sitting across the biggest name of their syndicate: the Leclerc’s, over coffee.

“Well,” Pierre smiles, all teeth and what you read into as faux good-nature. “That saves us time on introductions, then, because we know who you are.”

Something sickening crawls up your spine at the mention of your name. “If you want to buy my silence—”

“Please,” overrides Charles, and your mouth snaps shut. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Pierre here just likes scaring people. I assure you, my family is in your favour now. No harm will come to you.”

“Now, let’s start easy,” he begins, tone tight with business. “How long have you been running this café… Le Paradis, yes?”

Café and boulangerie, you want to correct. “For as long as I can remember,” you say, instead. It’s not much, admittedly, just a quaint little thing, starting itself off as a humble hole-in-a-wall bakery that had been a prime during your father’s time. Now tucked between a gelateria and a tiny park that’s bordered in wrought iron fences, you’re used to all strange sorts of demographics across the board, but the Mafia would be a first. “I basically grew up here.” 

Charles eyes the place. It’s whimsical— retains the vintage charm of Monté Carlo back when Papa was still around. He can tell you must’ve changed very little in the interior; the traditional floorings have weathered, and the walls are still kept designed half-tiled and in colourful mosaics that would speak to the earlier locals near the residentials here.

Outside, the window boxes are tended with life and the vines creep up brick and lantern; while the cobblestone street cracks through with wildflowers that spill over from the neighbouring public garden. When the night air blows, he can hear the faint tinkle of the windchimes you’d hung on the branch of a flowering brush that’s overgrown into the arch above the front entrance.

Maman would love the place, surely.

It’s homely– a constant warmth, welcome, smell. It’s no surprise Arthur had spoken so fondly of your business, the place is something straight out of a fairytale. 

So are you, too. 

From the mismatched roll of your sleeves to the dash of white flour on your cheek, you’re an endearing sight, if Charles could speak candidly; you fit the role of the darling baker of this unravelling, fantastical story almost too well. He’s heard plenty from Arthur and his circular table of Prema miscreants, however: “She’s a quiet little thing, but fearless. Keeps her cards close, and whatnot,” they’d say in passing. “Fierce, too, but in a good way, you know? Respected. ”

Respected, yes. Fierce, maybe. He never had a reason to visit this place until now— he can see the determination in your eyes, the chin-up to keep yourself from looking small. Brave would be a better word to describe you. But fearless? No, Charles is sure you’re going to chew through your lip by the end of the conversation. 

“How’s business faring?”

You know where this is going. “It’s seen better days.”

“Word goes that you might shut down soon.”

“Word is word,” comes your sharp reply, to which Pierre had raised his eyebrows from behind his cappuccino, impressed, though still as if to say, watch yourself. You pipe down. “But, yes. There’s competition. I just so happen to be.. losing.”

Charles shrugs. “Coffee is good. Your food is enjoyed by many. You have a beautiful shop. Arthur says you are a well-rounded owner, and I believe him. Why not you make a bigger menu? It would bring the crowd, no?”

You take a moment to answer him. “I would, but I don’t have enough manpower. There are 10 of us in total, half of which aren’t full-timers. Even then, it won’t guarantee customers. Business at this end of town runs naturally slow, if you compare it to the franchises you have at Monté Carlo.”

The subtle dig isn’t lost on them. If they noticed, though, they didn’t seem to act on it. “Allow me to return the favor, then.”

There it is.

“No, thank you. I don’t think it would be a good idea f—”

“I insist,” Charles re-emphasises tightly, shifting to lean close, and the air is suddenly charged with something that has you fighting back the urge to curl in on yourself. You’re given a heavy reminder that there’s no taking no for an answer with the likes of them. “…that you hear out my proposal. Consider it an act of good faith, especially after today.“

You don’t comment.

“So, it’s the people, then? Customers, staff. Perhaps equipment, as well.” It’s less of a question, more an assessment. He gazes at the door that leads into the back of the bakery where the kitchen and bread rooms are. “A baseline amount of legal tender to start you off with, too, and to chase away any interested investors that want to buy this plot, maybe. I’ll have Lorenzo look into it.”

You cut him off. “With all due respect, as much as help is good for me: If half of them are cri—” criminals, you’d wanted to say, “—your people, I’d be putting myself in danger for the rest of my life. I don’t want any part of that.”

“By all means, you’re free to handpick them yourselves if you want,” Charles motions with a non-committal wave. “And like I said, you’re protected, there is no danger.”

“Right, and protected from what, exactly? Or shall I say who?”

Pierre sets his cup down with a frustrated clink. You don’t realise you’ve been sitting upright until you’re shrinking back into your seat at the movement.

“So many questions. You know, the Sicilians have a saying: Cu e surdu, orbu e taci, campa cent'anni 'mpaci.” Pierre translates with ease, “He who is deaf, blind, and silent will live a hundred years of peace.”

The threat is laid out plain as day. You don’t need to be told twice. And yet— And yet— Stubborn as always, you’re quick to counter him:

“Listen, I never asked for any of this. For protection, or money, or help. It’s your brother who came and barged into my shop. It’s you with the gun in your suit, and it’s you with all the power at the end of the day. This business is my life’s work at stake— my father’s. Now you’re coming here, serving everything to me on a silver platter, and expecting me not to question the deal?” 

They blink. Fierce, Charles remembers. Respected.

“Please,” you huff, hating that you were remotely considering all of it in the first place. “I don’t need to know everything, but I deserve to know some things. I deserve to know what I’m getting myself into. Why here? It certainly can’t be convenience— Any businessman worth their salt would have chosen any other outlet on the Allée de la Toussaint, but you settle for the bakery café at the end of it. Why me? And don’t say it’s payment for today.”

“Arthur trusted you,” he says, simply. “I have reason to trust you, as well.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

Pierre almost laughs.

“You’re right,” Charles admits. “I don’t trust you. But I trust my instinct, always.”

“I could be a spy, for all you know.”

“Believe me, mademoiselle,” Pierre smiles, “If you were, you’d make a terrible one.” But then he willingly continues, much to your surprise, back to the main topic. “The plan…” he slows, trying to find the words in English. “The plan is to consecrate Le Paradis into neutral ground. What that means is that none of La Confrérie, or any other existing gang for that matter, can… spill blood in here. If you understand.”

“Your establishment sits on territory that is advantageous to us. Consecrating it would mean there is complete safety within these walls for all of us.”

You look at Charles, then to the dried blood that’s stuck to your palm. So that’s the play. That’s— that’s the catch for all of this. It’s never just been for you. You’d expected.. God, what did you expect? “Are… You’re making my shop a safehouse for the Mafia? Sorry, not just the Mafia— every other gang that exists? Like the Yakuza?”

“Consecrated establishments exist in every other country, you’re not the first,” Pierre explains patiently. 

“And I’m supposed to just, believe that these people— gangsters— follow the rules?”

An undefinable muscle ticked in his jaw. “We’re businessmen. It just so happens that crime is our business. And yes, we follow the rules because we all fall under the same set of code. We’re governed equally.”

“Wh—? Governed by who?”

“Next question.”

“What if someone violates neutral ground?” 

“I kill them,” Pierre Gasly says with a horrific ease, and you turn to him only to realise he’s meant every word he’s said so far. “It’s quite literally my job. Technically, my name ranks higher than the Leclerc’s, or any other for that matter.”

Charles just rolls his eyes. 

“Are there places in Monté Carlo consecrated?” you ask, though admittedly you’re still trying to wrap your head around the fact that there’s a literal underground society that controls crime syndicates of gangsters, hitmen, and assassins across the world. 

“Plenty. Hôtel de Paris is historically the oldest consecrated area in Monaco.”

“And how does anyone know if someone’s broken the rules?” you prod, curious.

“We just do,” Pierre says, nodding to his phone resting on the table. “Trust me when I say this: Everyone will know. And they're dealt accordingly by yours truly.”

You don’t push further than that. Mostly because you couldn’t think of anymore questions, and you guess that the minor details are probably best left in stones unturned if you wanted to keep your head on your shoulders. Hell, you probably know too much already. 

“And in exchange, you want me to…” you trail off. They hadn’t mentioned any side-job of being an informant or even involving you in any of their, well, livelihood. 

“…to bake bread and serve coffee to anyone that steps through your doors,” Charles shakes his head, “Nothing changes.”

“And to maybe ask lesser questions,” Pierre adds pointedly. “The less you know, the better.”

“Just my job. Nothing more, nothing less; ever?” you re-affirm.

Charles nods. “Vous avez ma parole, mademoiselle.”

You have my word, Madame.

You almost laugh. “La parole d’un assassin?” 

The word of an assassin?

But it’s Pierre who laughs. “Touché.” 

“Can you do it?” says Charles, sounding gentle of all things. It’s almost enough to dispel the anxiety that’s eating its way through your heart, but you know better than to hold onto it.

He’s watching you. Daring you. Waiting for the next piece you’ll move. The finality of the dealings— the resolution. There’s the louder part of you inside your head that tells you to turn tail and run, and then there’s the softer part of you that’s had enough of cutting down costs and laying off workers who had families and mouths to feed. Either way, you had an inkling he’d understand wholly regardless of the choice you made.

But, you’re here, now. The deal is to do your job as usual and to shut up. You can do that. Yeah, you can do that. 

The chair shifts when you rise. 

You take a breath to steel yourself with newfound determination. 

As they stand, you don’t bother to wipe your hand on your apron when you offer it.

“There’s blood on your hands,” Charles says.

“Monsieur Leclerc, with your line of work, I’m sure so do yours.”

Well. That certainly startles a smile out of him. 

The smell of blood has long since drifted. 
The café au lait is empty.
Charles’ hand meets yours.

And so you settle that the Devil of Monté Carlo does, in-fact, like milk with his coffee.