Chapter 79: 79
Nix sat alone on one of the wooden chairs in the church, his posture rigid yet weary, as though the weight of the world had been stitched into his spine. The air was heavy with incense, its faint sweetness mingling with the cool scent of polished wood and candle wax. Around him, silence stretched like a sacred shroud, only the distant hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional creak of the old pews dared to interrupt it.
Before him stood the statue a towering marble figure of Christ, arms outstretched in eternal mercy. The flickering candlelight made the face of the statue seem alive, casting soft, shifting shadows that gave the illusion of movement. The serene expression on its face seemed to pierce right through him, exposing every wound, every regret he thought he had buried deep.
Nix’s hands were clasped loosely between his knees, fingers twitching unconsciously. His usually sharp eyes, the ones that once held an untouchable confidence, now looked dim hollowed by grief and exhaustion. He wasn’t praying. Not really. He was simply looking, staring at the statue as if waiting for it to move, to speak, to give him the answers he couldn’t find anywhere else.
The candles by the altar burned steadily, their flames mirrored in Nix’s eyes like tiny, restless spirits fighting against the stillness of the air. Every now and then, his jaw tightened, a faint tremor running through him as though he were restraining something rage, sorrow, or perhaps both.
Time itself seemed suspended within the quiet of the church. Dust motes drifted lazily through the shafts of colored light spilling from the stained-glass windows, painting soft hues of crimson and gold across his face. The air carried the faint scent of old wood, melted wax, and incense that lingered like a prayer left unanswered. Still, Nix didn’t move. He sat motionless, elbows resting loosely on his knees, eyes fixed on the statue before the altar unaware of the man who had been watching him from a distance.
"You seem to be grieving," the priest said at last, breaking the silence that wrapped around the sanctuary like a shroud.
Nix turned slightly, his expression unreadable, and gave the priest a brief glance before returning his gaze to the marble figure in front of him.
"How is your wife the one you came to pray for the last time?" the priest asked gently, walking closer and taking a seat beside him. He received no reply. Normally, the priest wasn’t one to remember every face that came through the church doors, so many came to pray, to weep, to confess but for some reason, this young man’s image had stayed with him. There was something about his stillness, the quiet ache in his eyes, that refused to fade from memory.
"The Lord took her back," Nix said finally, his lips curling into a faint, ironic smile, a painful expression that twisted his face into something tragic.
Understanding now why his presence felt so heavy, the priest placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and sighed softly.
"His ways are not our ways, young man. The Lord is the most compassionate being that ever existed. Do you truly believe He would want to see those He loves in pain? His plans for us are of good and not of evil to give us an expected end. I’m glad you haven’t placed the blame on Him. It means your heart is still willing to come back."
Nix exhaled, a sound too tired to be called a sigh. His voice was calm but hollow when he finally spoke. "I have no choice but to come back. And there’s no point in trying to blame anyone. I did that when my parents died... and it led me nowhere."
The priest studied him closely. Nix’s composure was deceptive. His posture was firm, shoulders squared, back straight but his hands trembled slightly where they rested on his knees. His eyes, shadowed beneath the soft glow of the candles, looked far older than his years. The grief in them wasn’t loud; it was quiet, consuming, and endless like a storm that had learned patience. His face was pale, drained of warmth, and yet his gaze held an unwavering depth, as though he were silently conversing with the statue before him, seeking forgiveness that words could not shape.
"Then what are you here for?" the priest asked softly, his voice almost swallowed by the echoing stillness of the church. For a moment, Nix didn’t answer. He simply stared at the figure before him, the stone face illuminated by candlelight and a faint, bitter smile ghosted across his lips.
"To give Him names." Nix’s eyes darkened suddenly, his voice dropping low and cold. "I’ve decided to live the life my parents wanted me to and I believe it’s for the best that I leave this old one behind. But before I do, I’m here to give Him the names of the people who ruined my life."
He paused, a faint, bitter smile tugging at his lips. "I’ve heard He gives the wicked a long rope to repent, but I doubt these people need repentance... or forgiveness." He scoffed softly. "Don’t get me wrong, Father, I’m not holding any grudges. But that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t face the consequences of their actions."
The priest let out a deep sigh. He knew that no amount of preaching would reach the man sitting before him. There was a hardness in Nix’s tone, a conviction carved by loss and all the priest could do was pray silently that this young man would not stray too far from the light.
"This will be the last time I visit," Nix said after a moment, narrowing his eyes as a faint smirk curved the corner of his mouth. "Unless the Lord has a surprise He’s been keeping for a moment like this. But even if there is... I’ll never be coming back to Paris."
He turned toward the priest, his gaze steady and strangely calm. "That’s why I came to bid you farewell."
The priest’s eyes widened slightly as realization dawned on him, and then a warm, nostalgic smile softened his features.
"You’re her son," he said slowly, his voice tinged with emotion. "The little boy who was always forced into the confession box." He chuckled softly. "I used to worry about what became of you after your parents’ deaths. But now I see the Lord truly does have His way of doing things."
Nix said nothing. His face remained expressionless, his silence carrying the weight of memories too painful to recall.
"One thing I can promise you, young man," the priest continued gently, "you may leave Paris and never see me again, but that doesn’t mean the Lord’s presence will depart from you. He’s always with us. Whatever you went through after your parents’ passing... it was to prepare you for a day like this. Trust me He has it all sorted out."
A sharp, repetitive beeping cut through the quiet air. Nix glanced down at his phone. The screen flashed insistently.
"I’ll take my leave now," he said quietly, rising to his feet. He gave the priest a small bow more out of habit than reverence and began walking toward the entrance.
The priest watched him go, a prayer forming silently on his lips.
Nix stopped briefly near the doorway, glancing once more at the screen before answering the call.
"President André Dubois," he said flatly.
"Mr. Dean, I have the guest you requested to speak with."
The footsteps on the other end of the line stopped as if someone had been struck. Nix felt heat crawl up from his gut; an animal, furious and precise, warmed his blood. He imagined ripping them apart watching them wither beneath the weight of their own betrayals yet the fantasy of violence was a mirror he refused to become. To become that thing would be to hand them victory.
"Please put the phone on speaker."
"Done."
A chorus of voices, the clipped confidence of men who’d spent years building a fortress of influence swam into the small room. Nix’s mouth curved into something that was not quite a smile. "Hello there, ancient rulers of the dynasty. Or should I call you principalities?" He chuckled, a sound like metal scraped across stone. It held no warmth. It held only the thin, brittle amusement of a man who’d learned how small their power looked when he no longer bowed to it
"God, I would love to see you all die," he said, letting the words hang for a beat. "But I have a flight to catch, and death is too quick a punishment for the damage you caused me. What’s a better sentence than death than watching the dynasty you built every alliance, every ledger, every hand you shook crumble into dust while you have to witness it." His tone was conversational, polite almost, as if discussing the weather. That casual cruelty made the room go still.
"Are you threatening us?" one of the men barked, the rage in his voice cracking like old plaster. Nix answered with a humorless laugh that grated against the silence short, dry, and without mirth. It was the laugh of a man who’d rehearsed grief into steel: no sound of joy, only the tight, wet echo of something that had been drained from him. It was a laugh that stripped the bravado from those men and left them naked before him.
"You must think yourself special to assume I’d threaten only you," he said, voice even, each word carved. "But let’s end this cat-and-mouse game. The officers will come for you; they will read your charges and take you away. That, however, is not the end. Even behind bars, you must sleep with your eyes open because within the next three months, every single member of your family will be six feet under. Your name will end with you." He paused, letting the promise settle into the bones of the men listening. "This isn’t a threat. It’s a promise. Start counting the days." He scoffed, and the sound closed the line.
He ended the call with the same composed calm he’d used to make every cruel pronouncement like a surgeon finishing a procedure. He slid the phone back into his pocket; his hands were steady, the skin of his knuckles pale. When he moved toward the car, his steps were measured, each footfall a small metronome keeping time with the plan he’d set into motion.
The driver opened the rear door. Nix paused, fingers lingering on the cold metal of the handle as if grounding himself in reality. He lowered himself into the seat with a controlled economy of motion, no haste, no theatrics, only the quiet efficiency of a man accustomed to making decisions that others could not undo. He tucked his phone away, smoothed the lapel of his coat, and looked out at the city for the last time, the skyline a blur of indifferent lights.
"We’re heading to the airport, sir," the driver said, voice neutral as always.
"Good," Nix replied. "Make it quick." His voice carried a finality that needed no echo.
As the car glided into motion, the city slipping past like memories in a rearview mirror, Nix felt the old wound settle under his ribs an ache that would not heal. He wasn’t simply closing a Chapter; he was carrying away a scar that would mark him for the rest of his life.