Le Français
Copyright© 2024 by BreaktheBar
Chapter 89
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 89 - On the hunt for the mysterious crimelord 'Le Français,' Detective Sinead Connors meets financial wizz Marc Fornier. When she needs his help in her investigation, Marc decides that she can pay him back through a little game...
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Coercion Consensual Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Crime BDSM DomSub MaleDom Light Bond Rough Spanking Group Sex White Male White Female Oriental Female Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Sex Toys Tit-Fucking Big Breasts Public Sex Small Breasts Slow
“This isn’t good,” Sinead muttered. “This is not good.”
“We don’t know that,” Jules hissed.
Sinead clenched a fist low out of Jules’ sight and tried not to bounce her knee as well. Three cars, blacked out, all pulling into the warehouse yard at the same time? They hadn’t heard anything from Marc for about ten minutes, which really wasn’t that long if things were going well, but if they weren’t, it could be too long already.
“We should try to get a look,” Sinead said.
Jules grunted and rolled her eyes. “And do what? They’re probably already inside. Or, if they left guards with the cars, then what? You get spotted and play the dumb bimbo who somehow got lost near the docks?”
“Fuck off,” Sinead scoffed. By the look on Jules’s face, she knew that Sinead knew she was right.
“Look, we just need to be patient,” Jules sighed. “This is why you’re so shitty at using Informants, by the way.”
“What?” Sinead asked. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” Jules said. “Usually, you pick people who need you way more than they can offer you to earn your help. And you get too invested, and then things go wrong. This is why you barely ever cultivate CIs to begin with.”
“Fuck off,” Sinead repeated herself, muttering as she looked back out the window. This was the problem with having a partner for so long and being best friends with her. She knew your weak spots and history. And what buttons to push.
“Have you slept with Marc yet?”
“No,” Sinead said.
“Alright,” Jules backpedalled a little.
They both watched the open warehouse yard gate, window rolled down partially despite the cool, damp weather, listening for gunshots or screams.
The problem with playing it cool in an uncomfortable situation is that, to make it work, you must maintain that cool. Marc was a practiced hand at that in the corporate world. Playing cat and mouse, digging out truths and untruths, fishing for little details while pretending they meant nothing. Occasionally discovering heinous stuff - horrible business practices, hush money cover-ups, that sort of thing.
It was difficult to keep that facade when two Italian mobsters pulled Victor up from his slouched position and revealed two bloodsoaked holes in her chest.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Marc said in surprise.
Victor didn’t just overdose; he was shot.
“You think this is interesting, huh?” the leader of the five Calabrian mafia goons asked. “He’s fucking dead, and you think that’s interesting?”
Marc shrugged a little despite the very large man currently looming over him at the end of the bar like an American Football linebacker waiting to rush and tackle him. “I assumed he had died of an overdose,” Marc said truthfully. “Those wounds make this a very different sort of scene.”
It was a bit of a standoff. Marc was, unfortunately, not face to face with the swarthy Italian-Canadian he’d played cards with several nights ago. Instead, the leader of these gangsters was the severe-faced, skinnier one with the big nose. A part of Marc still couldn’t give over how much he looked like Jean, his friend from Nice. Not that the resemblance did any favours to Marc whatsoever.
And he wasn’t the only problem.
“I’ll get him talking,” Liam said. The Irishman didn’t look too bad after their scuffle during the Poker party, but then neither did Marc. He was, however, still walking with a bit of a limp, favouring the leg that Marc had kicked in the knee. “Just fucking let me have him. It’ll take me two fucking minutes, Antony.”
When they had first walked in, the hot headed Irishman had only been stopped from reaching Marc by skinny Antony getting the big one to hold Liam back.
Antony shook his head, grimacing as he looked over Victor. “I’m assuming you don’t have a gun on you, Mr Fornier?”
“I don’t,” Marc said. “Unlike you fine gentlemen, my line of work does not require the occasional bullet or threat of one.”
“How about cocaine?” he asked, looking from Victor’s powder-smeared face to the powder on the bar top.
“My poison of choice is a good wine, I’m afraid,” Marc said. “I haven’t had a sniff of cocaine since one very wild party my freshman year of University in Paris, and that was ... well, long enough ago, now.”
“He’s obviously got something to do with it,” Liam growled. “Look at him, just drinking fucking whiskey and staring at the body.”
“What’s obvious,” Marc said dryly. “Is that the adults are talking.”
Antony sighed heavily, grabbing Victor by the face and turning him to examine him for any other markings. There didn’t seem to be any from Marc’s point of view - no bruising or damage. He wasn’t entirely sure how the timing of all of that could work since he wasn’t a forensics or biology expert. How long after a man died could he still sustain a bruise?
“No exit wounds,” Antony murmured. “So the bullets were small calibre and still in him. Have you looked around?”
“The safe in the office back there is hanging open,” Marc said. “And I believe a computer has been effectively ripped from the security system.”
Antony tsked and shook his head, giving off an air of accusing ‘Amateur.’
“If it would help anything, I would be happy to let you search my car. I clearly haven’t stuffed his wads of cash down my pants,” Marc said.
“Why are you here then, Mr Fornier?” Antony asked.