"Tell me, Mr. St. Trinity... what brings the devil himself to my doorstep?"

The drawl of Monsieur Moreau oozed arrogance as he stood by the fireplace in a burgundy silk robe, swirling a glass of brandy as though the man before him wasn’t a known executioner dressed in black. His thick French accent gave every syllable a polished edge. He didn’t look afraid. That was his first mistake.

RAyNe stepped into the grand foyer like a silent storm. The marble beneath his boots caught the ...