The Godfather's Love (Erika and Charles) novel Chapter 11

Chapter 11

(Erika’s Perspective)

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One of Damien’s many “offices” was tucked away on the second floor of an antique bookstore off Boulevard Saint-Germain.

Office was a generous term. It felt more like a private library-intimate and quietly majestic. Towering shelves of dark oak stretched up to the ceiling, crammed with books in multiple languages, from crumbling tomes to glossy modern editions.

The scent in the air was a rich blend of old paper, worn leather, and cedarwood. A real wood fire crackled softly in the hearth.

Damien sat beside it, settled into a high-backed leather chair, flipping through the pages of a book bound in aged hide.

When he heard me enter, he closed it gently, lifted his head, and offered a perfectly measured smile.

“Miss Churchill. Welcome to Paris.”

He rose to his feet.

He was tall, his features distinctly East Asian, but his bone structure was sharper than most-striking, elegant, almost sculptural. Like something Michelangelo might have carved from marble.

He wore a tailored three-piece suit in charcoal gray, every button and fold immaculate. There was refinement in his posture, but the gleam in his eyes

was sharp-like a hawk’s.

“Mr. Damien, thank you for receiving me.”

I took the seat across from him and set my handbag quietly aside.

“Just Damien is fine,” he said, signaling to the attendant for tea.

“Your father has given me a general picture of the situation. I’m sorry for what’s happened with the Nell family.”

His Mandarin carried only the faintest trace of accent. Polished, precise, courteous-but his words made it clear: he knew everything.

“It’s all in the past now.”

I accepted the fine bone china teacup he handed me. The warmth seeped through the porcelain into my hands.

“Now, I’m just Erika Churchill. A student in Paris, here to study dance.”

“Of course. Though, if you don’t mind, Damien, perhaps we could also talk… business.”)

He lifted his cup, blew gently across the rising steam, and looked at me through the haze-eyes assessing, intrigued.

“The Churchill family has always been a reliable partner in Europe. However…” He paused.

“I’ve heard that the former Mrs. Nell-pardon me, Miss Churchill-may be in possession of certain… interesting knowledge about specific East Coast shipping routes.”

“And an uncommon understanding of the inner workings of the Nell operation.”

Chapter 11

“Information only has value when it moves,” I replied, setting my cup down and meeting his gaze.

“What I know is rooted in the past. But what I’m interested in is the future.”

+45 Coins

“The European art market-especially the circulation of certain ‘special’ collectibles-and its security systems… they’ve always had their gray areas.”

“Perhaps we can make the machinery run a little more smoothly.”

A faint smile curved Damien’s lips. It wasn’t greedy, like a merchant sensing profit. It was one of recognition-one chess player acknowledging another.

“A very constructive proposal.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

“But you do realize, working with you would mean, to some extent, taking a stance against Charles Nell.”

“Even if you’re no longer married.”

“Are you afraid, Damien?” I asked.

He laughed, the sound genuine this time.

“Afraid? No.”

“I just like to evaluate risks and returns. And,” he added, his eyes narrowing slightly. “to confirm whether my potential partner has the resolve-and the skill-to walk the path she’s chosen.”

“After all, betraying a family like the Nells isn’t as simple as buying a plane ticket”

He was testing me, but also warning me.

Paris wasn’t a sanctuary. Damien wasn’t a philanthropist.

He offered protection, yes. But in return, I had to offer value-and proof that I wouldn’t back down. That I wouldn’t crumble at the first sign of trouble, or at the sound of Charles’ voice.

“My resolve,” I said, reaching into my bag. I retrieved the folded and signed copy of the dissolution agreement and placed it on the table in front of him.

“Is all written in here.”

“As for my capability…” I paused.

The image of white lilies at my mother’s grave came to mind. The final dance in that cold, silent studio.

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