Sébastien had tried to escape the bar soon after the Midnights had shown up, slipping out the back the moment he sensed the tension shift. He had no desire to be in the same room as the notoriously violent Monsieur Minuit, especially when there was even the slightest chance someone might point him out as a loose thread. If the wrong person so much as suggested he knew something about Alfonso Ruso and his whereabouts in Montreal, he could already imagine the consequences—a cracked jaw, shattered ribs, or worse.
Better, he reasoned, to flee like a weasel now than to crawl away with broken bones later. That was what he told himself as he cut through the back alleyways, moving fast but not running, head down and shoulders hunched to avoid drawing attention. His plan was simple—reach a bus stop or a metro station, blend into the crowd, and disappear into the city’s veins before anyone even realized he was gone.
But the Midnights had other plans for Sébastien Desrosiers.
Just as he turned a corner onto a narrow, dimly lit alley, his world exploded in a burst of searing white light and concussive force. The flashbang detonated just ahead of him, the sudden blast overwhelming his senses in an instant.
To Sébastien, it was as if the entire street had been consumed by a star. His vision went white, burning away any sense of direction, and his ears rang with a high-pitched shriek that drowned out everything else. His balance wavered as his inner ear reeled from the shockwave, his stomach lurching as if he had just been tossed onto a boat in rough waters. He stumbled backward, slamming into the cold, graffiti-tagged brick wall, his legs barely supporting him.
Panic clawed at his chest as he tried to push forward, to run, to do anything—but his body wasn’t responding the way he needed it to. The world was a blur of noise and blinding light, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps as adrenaline surged through his veins.
Through the haze of disorientation, one thing became clear—he wasn’t getting away.
He stumbled, staggered, his body moving without direction as his brain scrambled to make sense of the world around him. The sensory catastrophe of the flashbang still gripped him—his ears rang like a siren trapped in his skull, his vision swam with ghostly afterimages, and his balance was all but nonexistent. Each step felt like walking on a tilting ship, the pavement beneath him unstable, shifting.
Then, just as his equilibrium began to steady, a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, fingers tightening like a steel vice. Before he could react, the force behind it propelled him backward, slamming him hard into the rough surface of a brick wall. The impact sent a fresh jolt of pain through his ribs, knocking what little breath he had left from his lungs.
He flailed instinctively, arms jerking to shove away his unseen attacker, but it was no use—the grip on him was unrelenting. His pulse pounded in his ears, panic blooming in his chest like wildfire. Every survival instinct screamed at him to fight, to run, to do something—but deep down, he already knew there was no escaping this.
A scream bubbled at the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down before it could escape. Screaming, alerting the cops? That wasn’t an option. That was worse than cowardice.
Vigilantes—strange as they were—commanded more respect in the circles he ran in than the police ever could. Sure, the Midnights were dangerous, violent even, but they were still part of the life—an extension of the city’s brutal ecosystem. Getting caught by them was bad, but getting the cops involved? That was unforgivable. It was one thing to keep business in the underworld, to deal with your own. It was another to let outsiders—the real authorities—interfere.
His breathing came in short, panicked gasps as his hands pressed against the wall, trying to steady himself, trying to think of a way out of this that didn’t end with him in a hospital bed or worse.
But then, a voice, smooth and dangerous, cut through the fading noise in his head.
"Going somewhere, Sébastien?"
As Sébastien’s vision finally began to clear, his worst fear was confirmed—he was pinned against the cold brick wall by none other than Monsieur Minuit himself. The towering vigilante loomed over him like a specter of judgment, his grip ironclad, his hazel eyes cold and unreadable behind the faint glow of his mask.
Sébastien struggled instinctively, twisting and jerking in a desperate attempt to free himself, but it was useless. The man who held him wasn’t just stronger—he was in control, his grip unyielding yet precise, not exerting more pressure than necessary. Fighting would only make things worse. He knew that.
His mind raced for alternatives. His gun. He still had his—
No. He didn’t.
His stomach dropped as his eyes flicked downward, realizing with dawning horror that his revolver was already gone. He hadn’t even felt it being taken. But there it was—clutched in Monsieur Minuit’s gloved hand like it had never belonged to him at all.
The vigilante hadn’t just grabbed him—he had disarmed him in the same smooth motion, stripping him of his one real chance at control before he even knew what was happening.
Sébastien could only watch helplessly as Monsieur Minuit turned the weapon over in his hand, as if appraising it, before casually tossing it to Madame Minuit, who caught it without breaking stride. She moved with practiced efficiency, flipping open the cylinder and sliding out the bullets like she’d done it a thousand times before. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she dismantled it further, removing a crucial piece—the firing pin, the heart of the weapon.
Just like that, his revolver was nothing more than a lump of useless metal. A paperweight.
With a look of casual disinterest, Madame Minuit tossed the disabled gun into the alleyway, letting it clatter onto the pavement, discarded and forgotten.
Sébastien swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his own helplessness settle over him. His gun was gone. His chance to escape was gone. And now, he was at the mercy of the Midnights.
And he had a feeling they weren’t feeling particularly merciful.
"Just an evening walk?" Sébastien muttered, trying—and failing—to sound nonchalant. The words came out shaky, his own disbelief laced in every syllable.
Monsieur Minuit’s gaze remained steady, unreadable behind his mask. He didn’t tighten his grip, didn’t press harder, but somehow, his mere presence was enough to make Sébastien feel like the air in his lungs was running thin.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Madame Minuit shifting, her movements slow, deliberate. The moment he looked her way, his stomach twisted.
A blade—a karambit, small, curved, and wickedly sharp—danced across her gloved fingers in a display of effortless control. She rolled it over her knuckles in smooth, fluid motions, the curved edge flashing dangerously under the dim alley lights. It was mesmerizing in a terrifying way—an unspoken reminder of just how familiar she was with its use.
Sébastien swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. His throat suddenly felt painfully exposed.
Madame Minuit’s dark eyes flicked up from her blade just long enough to catch his reaction, and that barely-there smirk of hers deepened. She said nothing—she didn’t need to. The message was clear.
You know exactly what I can do with this.
"It is a nice night for a walk, Sébastien," Monsieur Minuit replied smoothly, as if he hadn’t noticed the way his wife was casually terrifying the man he had pinned to the wall. His voice was calm, almost conversational, yet it carried the unmistakable weight of authority. "I’d love to be out enjoying the fresh air, maybe even taking my lovely partner for a moonlit stroll—hand in hand, just the two of us."
He sighed, shaking his head slightly as if this whole situation was nothing more than an unfortunate inconvenience. "But instead, we’re working. Because some hitman from Toronto decided to crawl into our city, and now we have to clean up the mess." He leaned in just a fraction, lowering his voice ever so slightly. "And I hate working when I don’t have to."
Behind him, Madame Minuit continued to twirl her blade, her gaze locked onto Sébastien like a predator sizing up prey.
Sébastien very much got the message.
"Hitman?" Sébastien repeated, his voice strained with forced incredulity. "That sounds like Mafia business. Me? I'm just a gopher, not a made man—what would I know?"
The words tumbled from his lips, his stammer betraying the sheer desperation behind them. He knew it was a weak defense, a flimsy attempt to wriggle free from the iron grip of the vigilantes, but it was the only card he had left to play. Even as he said it, though, a sinking sensation settled deep in his gut, twisting like a vice.
He could tell from the look in Monsieur Minuit’s eyes that it wasn’t going to work.
The vigilante remained silent for a beat, studying him with a patience that was somehow more unnerving than outright rage. The way he held Sébastien against the wall wasn’t the grip of a man trying to prove a point through brute force—it was controlled, measured, like a hunter securing his prey before the real interrogation began.
Behind him, Madame Minuit let out a quiet, almost amused hum. The karambit in her hand stopped twirling, her fingers curling around the handle with effortless ease. She let the curved blade rest against the leather of her glove, its wickedly sharp edge glinting under the faint streetlight.
"A gopher?" she echoed, tilting her head slightly. "Well, that is interesting. Because gophers?" She tapped the flat of the blade lightly against her palm. "Gophers don’t run when they have nothing to hide."
Sébastien’s mouth felt dry as he scrambled for another excuse, another lie—anything that might get him out of this in one piece. But Monsieur Minuit was already shaking his head, clicking his tongue in disappointment.
"Come on now, Sébastien," he said, his tone smooth as ever, but there was a razor-thin edge of warning beneath it. "You and I both know you’re a lot of things—but you’re not stupid." His grip tightened just slightly, enough to make Sébastien’s spine stiffen. "You ran the second we walked in. And you didn’t run like some clueless errand boy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
He leaned in just enough to make Sébastien feel the weight of his presence, his voice dropping lower. "You ran like someone who knows something."
Madame Minuit took a small step forward, close enough now that Sébastien could feel the cold steel of her blade just barely graze against his exposed forearm. It wasn’t a cut—just a whisper of pressure, a silent promise of what could happen if he kept talking in circles.
"So," Monsieur Minuit continued, his voice as steady as ever. "Let’s skip the part where you waste both our time. The hitman from Toronto—where is he?"
Sébastien swallowed hard, the weight of the question pressing down on him like a coffin lid. He could keep lying, keep pretending he didn’t know anything.
Or he could accept the fact that the Midnights always got what they wanted.
Sébastien broke—not in a dramatic collapse, not in a frantic flood of confessions, but in the resigned way of a man who understood that resistance was pointless. Like ripping off a band-aid, he decided it was best to stop fiddling around and get it over with.
"Okay, okay," he exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as he let go of the pretense. "I heard a few things! The Italians are keeping him in a safe house. The local families owe Don Ruso a favor, so they’re keeping his nephew out of sight until they can arrange for him to disappear."
He forced himself to meet Monsieur Minuit’s gaze, hoping that giving them something would satisfy them enough to let him go. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
Madame Minuit hummed in acknowledgment, tilting her head slightly as if considering his answer. "A start, Sébastien," she said smoothly, rolling the karambit between her fingers with practiced ease. "But that much we already figured out." She took a slow step closer, her voice never rising, never becoming aggressive, yet somehow far more terrifying than if she had screamed. "We need more—and we both know you’re a good listener."
Sébastien swallowed hard.
"You hear things other people don’t, from your various... let’s call them jobs," she continued, her words carrying an almost teasing lilt. "You're resourceful, you keep your ear to the ground—it's how you've stayed useful. And useful people, Sébastien..." She let the weight of her words settle over him like a noose tightening around his throat. "...know better than to hold out on us."
Sébastien licked his lips, his pulse hammering in his ears. He did know better.
He just wasn’t sure if he could afford to give them what they wanted. But looking at Madame Minuit’s blade and Monsieur Minuit’s unwavering stare, he was quickly realizing—
—he couldn’t afford not to.
"Fine," Sébastien exhaled, the words slipping out like a man releasing a breath he had been holding for far too long. "The Irish Syndicate in Toronto—they know more. They’re pulling strings with the Irish family here in Montreal." He licked his lips, his voice lowering as if speaking too loudly might get him killed. "They want Alfonso Ruso dead. Blood debts, feuds—you know how the Irish love that shit. They’ve got ideas on where he is, and if they get to him first, your boy is going to be leaving Montreal in a burning wreck."
Silence hung heavy in the alleyway.
The Midnights exchanged a glance—quick, subtle, but Sébastien caught it. It was a look that spoke of understanding—not surprise. They had already considered the possibility, but now they had confirmation.
The Irish didn’t forget a blood debt. If they had their sights set on Alfonso Ruso, then it was just a matter of when, not if, they would make a move. And if they were coordinating with their counterparts here in Montreal, that meant the fragile truce between the city’s criminal factions was about to be put to the test.
Madame Minuit let out a slow breath, tapping the flat of her karambit against her palm, her expression unreadable. Monsieur Minuit, however, let his gaze linger on Sébastien for a moment longer, as if weighing whether the man had anything else worth saying.
He didn’t. Not unless they wanted to start cutting pieces off him to find out.
But what he had told them was enough to change the game.
Because if there was one thing they both knew about the Irish, it was that when they wanted someone gone, they didn’t hesitate.
And their signature? Car bombs.
No theatrics. No warnings. Just a fireball in the dead of night and a name crossed off the list.
If the Irish were moving on Ruso, then Montreal’s uneasy balance was one bad decision away from turning into an all-out war.
And the Midnights couldn’t let that happen.
"Thanks, Sébastien," Monsieur Minuit said, his tone almost pleasant, like they had just shared a casual conversation instead of an interrogation in a back alley. His grip slacked, and in an instant, Sébastien seized the opportunity, scrambling away like a rat freed from a trap. He didn’t look back, his footsteps slapping unevenly against the pavement as he disappeared into the dark.
Neither of the Midnights watched him go. He wasn’t important anymore.
Madame Minuit exhaled sharply, flipping her karambit once more before smoothly tucking it back into its concealed sheath. She crossed her arms, her sharp gaze scanning the alleyway as if trying to visualize the pieces of the growing problem laid out before them.
"Great, just great," she muttered, half to herself, half to her partner. "We have a killer on the run in Montreal… and other killers looking to erase him."
She shook her head, rubbing her temple in frustration. "This is bad for so many reasons."
Because it wasn’t just about Ruso anymore.
A hitman from Toronto hiding in their city was one thing. That was manageable. Track him down, drag him into the light, and deal with him before he could dig in too deep.
But now?
Now they had the Irish Syndicate moving behind the scenes, working with their Montreal counterparts, planning an assassination that had nothing to do with justice and everything to do with vendetta.
If they got to Ruso first, it wouldn’t be clean. It wouldn’t be surgical. It would be a message, loud and explosive. And if a car bomb went off in Montreal under the wrong circumstances?
The city’s delicate underworld truce would go up in smoke.
Madame Minuit sighed, rolling her shoulders back as she forced herself to focus. "So. What’s the play?"
Monsieur Minuit’s jaw tightened slightly, his eyes fixed ahead in thought. He didn’t answer immediately. But when he did, his voice was firm.
"We find Ruso before they do."
Monsieur Minuit stilled, tilting his head slightly as if fine-tuning his senses, focusing on something just beyond the normal range of human perception. His posture shifted ever so slightly, a ripple of tension rolling through his body as his hand instinctively reached for the brass knuckles holstered at his belt.
"We aren't alone," he murmured, his voice quiet but edged with certainty.
Vulpes blinked. He heard me?
That shouldn’t have been possible. Stealth was her expertise. The shadows were her domain, and she had spent years honing her ability to move unseen, unheard. She had executed her approach flawlessly—no wasted movement, no misplaced step. Yet somehow, this man—this vigilante—had sensed her presence.
Her mind worked quickly, analyzing. It wasn’t just luck. His senses were honed, like a wolf detecting the faintest shift in the wind, like a predator attuned to the slightest irregularity in his environment. He had forged himself into a living weapon, his instincts sharpened to an almost unnatural level.
She had miscalculated. Not by much, but just enough. And Monsieur Minuit was the kind of man who noticed.
Vulpes didn’t hesitate. There was no use pretending otherwise.
"Correct," she said smoothly, dropping silently to the ground in a controlled descent, her cape settling around her like a flowing shadow.
As she straightened, she met Monsieur Minuit’s hard, assessing gaze. She wouldn’t say it aloud, but she had watched the way he worked, the way he terrified that man, the way he commanded a room not just through presence, but through an almost surgical application of fear and control.
They weren’t just people in masks playing hero.
The Midnights were the real deal.
The kind of vigilantes she could respect.
But respect didn’t mean trust.
Monsieur Minuit clenched his fists, the metal of his brass knuckles glinting faintly under the dim light. His stance became rigid, his voice dropping into something hard and standoffish.
"I don’t know who you are, but if it’s a fight you want, I will oblige you, Madame Renard."
There it was. Suspicion. Defensiveness. The natural reaction of a territorial predator faced with another of its kind.
Before the tension could escalate, Madame Minuit moved, stepping closer to her partner and resting a gentle hand on his arm.
Vulpes caught the gesture immediately.
Her instincts for reading people, for seeing what others missed, honed over years of navigating criminals and liars, picked it up instantly—this wasn’t just a gesture of restraint. It wasn’t just tactical.
It was personal.
This wasn’t just a partnership. There was something deeper here. Something intimate.
Madame Minuit's eyes flicked toward Vulpes, her expression shifting from guarded to something else—a flicker of recognition.
"Wait," she said, her voice steady, but laced with realization. "I know her. That’s the woman from Toronto I told you about—the one who took down that lunatic Psychedelic and has been putting the boots to the gangs and syndicate operations there."
She turned back to Monsieur Minuit, her tone firm.
"She’s like us."
Vulpes exhaled softly.
She hadn’t expected that.
She had expected hostility. Expected the challenge, the territorial response from Monsieur Minuit.
But respect? Recognition?
That hit different.
That flipped the script.
Neither Vulpes nor Monsieur Minuit had expected that.
For a split second, there was a pause—an unspoken recalibration happening between all three of them. Monsieur Minuit’s shoulders remained tense, his grip still firm around his brass knuckles, but there was hesitation now—hesitation that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Recognition changed things.
But Madame Minuit didn’t miss a beat.
Effortlessly, she transitioned into another train of thought, shifting the energy of the conversation with calculated ease. She was good at this—defusing tension through logic, through commonality.
She glanced at Vulpes with sharp, knowing eyes.
"I bet you’re here for Ruso," she said smoothly, her voice slipping into the cadence of reason. "Same thing we want. And I don’t blame you, either—he’s got more blood on his hands than most hitters."
Her words were deliberate. She wasn’t just justifying their mission—she was aligning it.
"If we can drag him in, it’s an open-and-shut case. And that? That hurts the Syndicates—not just in Toronto, but across Eastern Canada."
Vulpes narrowed her eyes.
Not in suspicion. Not in challenge. But in calculated thought.
Because Madame Minuit was right.
Ruso wasn’t just some disposable hitman on the run. He was a pressure point—one that, if pressed correctly, would send ripples through the criminal underworld. He wasn’t just a problem for Toronto.
If they took him down, it wouldn’t just be a win.
It would be a message.
And maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t the only one who saw it that way.
"This is my city, and we don’t need help from an outsider," Monsieur Minuit growled, his voice edged with unyielding authority. His posture stiffened, his stance grounding like a man readying for a fight—not necessarily a physical one, but a territorial one.
Vulpes caught the shift immediately.
Not in him, but in Madame Minuit.
It was subtle—a small flicker of tension, a change in weight distribution, the way her fingers curled just a little tighter before deliberately relaxing. She didn’t like what he had said.
More specifically, she didn’t like how he had said it.
And then, in a calm but deliberate correction, Madame Minuit spoke.
"... Our city."
The emphasis wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t a challenge.
But it was firm.
Vulpes filed that away.
For all his commanding presence, Monsieur Minuit didn’t operate alone. He wasn’t the sole architect of this crusade. They were a unit. A balance. And whatever dynamics existed between them, it was clear that Madame Minuit’s voice carried weight.
That mattered.
"I’m not here to step on anyone’s toes," Vulpes replied, keeping her voice even, measured. No challenge, no submission—just fact. "But Madame Minuit makes a point. We have the same end goal here. If we work together, it’s better than butting heads for no reason."
She kept her stance neutral, non-threatening, but her mind was working fast.
She didn’t want to brawl with someone who wanted justice as much as she did.
And the more she assessed these two—their awareness, their skill, their presence—the less certain she was that she could even win that theoretical brawl.
This wasn’t a pair of pretenders, no idealistic amateurs punching above their weight.
The Midnights were lethal. Disciplined.
Just like her.
And that made them far more valuable as allies than adversaries.
And beyond that… maybe, just maybe, Vulpes was starting to like Madame Minuit the more she interacted with her.
Not just as a potential ally. Not just as another vigilante who understood the weight of the work they did.
But as a person.
Madame Minuit was sharp, deliberate in her words and actions. She wasn’t ruled by ego or impulse—she was tactical, capable of adapting in the moment, shifting the energy of a conversation to keep things from spiraling out of control.
She was thoughtful in a way that suggested experience, not just skill, but an understanding of people, of dynamics.
And… well, there was no denying that her skintight outfit was certainly working for her.
Vulpes kept that particular observation to herself, her expression unreadable as she studied the woman before her.
But there was something there, something she hadn’t expected.
For now, she filed it away.
Business first.
Everything else? That was a problem for another time.
"Fine, Madame Renard, you can work with me," Monsieur Minuit finally conceded.
And there it was again.
That subtle shift.
Vulpes caught it immediately—the flicker of discomfort, the way Madame Minuit’s expression barely changed, yet spoke volumes. A small, narrowing of the eyes, the tension in her jaw, and the quick, sharp side-glance toward her partner.
Vulpes had seen that look before.
Angry girlfriend.
Madame Minuit didn’t like the way he’d said it.
"... Work with us, you mean," she corrected smoothly.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t hostile.
But it was pointed.
Monsieur Minuit was quick to adjust, perhaps a bit too quick—his response coming just a little too hard, a little too clipped.
"Yes, us."
Then, as if to reassert control, he added, "And that means I and her—" he motioned between himself and Madame Minuit "—we call the shots. Got it?"
Vulpes watched the exchange with quiet amusement, but kept her expression neutral.
She wasn’t here to push egos. She wasn’t here to make it personal.
This was their city, and she respected that.
They knew it best.
They had bled for it, sweat for it, fought tooth and nail to protect it—just as she had done for Toronto.
And if they had come into her city, if they had stepped into her domain on a hunt like this?
She would’ve told them the same damn thing.
So she simply nodded.
"Agreed," she said evenly, showing neither resistance nor submission—just understanding. Then, after a beat, she added, "And to start with an act of goodwill—" she let the words land with weight "—I know the Irish Syndicate in Toronto better than most."
She let that sink in before finishing with the real prize.
"And I know the man who’s calling the hit on our hitman."
That got their attention.
Madame Minuit’s sharp eyes locked onto hers, flickering with interest, and without hesitation, she extended a hand—a silent but clear gesture.
A handshake.
A deal.
Not one of empty words, but one sealed between people who walked the same path, who understood that trust in this business wasn’t given lightly—but when earned, it meant something.
Vulpes considered it only for a second before reaching out, her gloved hand clasping firmly over Madame Minuit’s.
The deal was made.
The hunt was on.
The Vulpes took a slow breath, measuring her words before speaking.
"Can we talk somewhere more... private?"
The Midnights exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them in the way only seasoned partners could manage. Monsieur Minuit’s brow furrowed slightly, skepticism lingering in his stance, but it was Madame Minuit who gave the final decision.
With a simple motion—a point upward—she signaled their next move.
It was a silent code, but one that only a fellow creature of the rooftops would understand.
Vulpes caught the meaning immediately.
There were few places more private, more secure, than the shadowed expanse of a rooftop above the restless city.
No prying eyes. No unwanted interruptions. Just the night, the wind, and the truth waiting to be spoken.
Vulpes fired her grappling gun, the line shooting upward with a sharp hiss—but she wasn’t the only one.
Out of the corner of her eye, Madame Minuit did the same, her movements fluid and effortless, almost like she had been waiting for this moment.
A race.
Vulpes didn’t react outwardly, but she felt it—a shift in Madame Minuit’s energy. This wasn’t just about getting to the rooftop for their conversation.
This was playful.
A test, maybe—to see what Vulpes was made of. Or, perhaps, to show off her own skill.
Vulpes hadn’t expected this, but… she didn’t mind it.
Not after the last few months, not after the constant weight of responsibility, survival, and the never-ending hunt.
This felt… good.
Almost healthy.
The moment their feet touched the side of the building, they pushed off, moving in synchronized momentum as they vaulted upward.
Madame Minuit was fast, but Vulpes was used to this terrain—her body moving on instinct as she flipped onto a fire escape railing, then launched herself upward, catching the ledge of the next rooftop and pulling herself up in one fluid motion.
But Madame Minuit was right there with her.
The Montreal vigilante had grace, her movements more dance-like than mechanical. She didn’t just scale buildings, she flowed over them, as if the city itself bent to her will.
They moved parallel, trading ground as they ascended, each finding new angles, new faster paths, neither wanting to be the one who fell behind.
At one point, Vulpes leapt between buildings, grabbing onto an exposed pipe and using it to propel herself higher. Madame Minuit didn’t follow—she spun midair and landed on a ledge instead, kicking off in a diagonal climb that nearly put her ahead.
Nearly.
Vulpes saw the final stretch—the last ledge leading to the flat surface of the rooftop. Without hesitation, she vaulted forward, using the momentum of her grapple line to swing herself up and over the final ledge.
She landed lightly, her boots barely making a sound as she straightened.
A split second later, Madame Minuit landed beside her, just a fraction of a second too late.
She glanced over, eyes gleaming behind her mask—not with frustration, but with something else.
Amusement. Respect. Maybe even a little bit of satisfaction.
"Not bad, Toronto." Her voice carried the hint of a smirk, smooth and teasing.
Vulpes just exhaled, letting the moment settle.
And then, with a heavy thud, Monsieur Minuit finally landed behind them—a little slower, a little heavier, but no less commanding.
He was watching Vulpes closely, the way a guard dog watches a new presence near its territory.
He had kept up, but he hadn’t joined the race.
Because he hadn’t trusted her enough to enjoy it.
That was fine. Vulpes had expected that.
But as she stood on that rooftop, the chill of the night air against her skin, she knew one thing for certain.
Madame Minuit had enjoyed it and so had she.
Alone now, where no one could overhear them, Vulpes was ready to lay out what she knew.
Monsieur Minuit stood rigid, arms folded across his chest, his sharp eyes locked on her, reading every word as it left her lips. He was listening, but he wasn’t relaxed—not yet.
Madame Minuit, on the other hand, was different.
She stood with an ease that suggested something more than just caution—comfort, even approval. It was subtle, but Vulpes could tell. The Montreal vigilante had read her, measured her, and apparently, liked what she found enough to stay loose around her.
That was interesting.
Vulpes took a breath and started.
"Alphonso Ruso. One of the more prolific hitters in the Ruso family. Rumor has it he’s a borderline sociopath—the kind of man who doesn’t just kill because he has to, but because he likes it. He’s an expert in the methods the Italians prefer when it comes to making problems disappear.”
She let that hang for a second before elaborating.
“The Italian Mafia had always preferred a mix of efficiency and brutality, and their hitmen were trained in methods that didn’t just remove people—they sent messages. If they wanted it clean, they went for the classics, A .22 caliber pistol to the back of the skull—small enough not to exit, but enough to turn a brain into soup. A garrote wire—silent, quick, and leaving nothing behind but wide, bulging eyes. A single shot through the eye, a signature move among the older Sicilian killers, meant to signify that the target "never saw it coming."
Vulpes grimaced as if she had seen all of these things first hand.
“But when they wanted to make a statement? That’s when things got ugly. Bodies stuffed in trunks, throats slit wide open, dumped somewhere they’d be found as a warning. Dismemberment, piece by piece, mailed to rivals or family members—a reminder that disrespect had a cost. Acid baths, wiping away a man’s entire existence, leaving nothing but a ghost where he once stood.”
It was Madame Minuit’s turn to grimace, both women had seen the worst kinds of violence people were willing to visit on each other and it showed. Monsieur Minuit remained stoic as if showing anything might make him look weak and he was not man who would tolerate looking weak even for a moment.
“And then there was fire. A favorite. Sometimes it was a house, an apartment, or a back-alley death—a body drenched in gasoline and turned into an example. A way to erase not just the man, but his memory. And Alphonso Ruso? He was fluent in all of it.”
The Vulpes adjusted one of her pouches out of habbit before she continued her story.
“But recently," Vulpes continued, "he messed up. Got personal with a job, got sloppy—and with a little help from me, the RCMP caught him. But despite that, his uncle—the Don—decided to pull some strings. Carmine Ruso is a lot of things, but he’s not the type to throw family under the bus, even when they screw up. Alphonso’s done with Toronto, but his uncle is giving him a chance to disappear and start fresh elsewhere.”
Monsieur Minuit remained still, absorbing the information in silence, his expression unreadable.
Madame Minuit, however, nodded, her sharp gaze locked onto Vulpes, showing she was absorbing every last drop of intel she was being given.
Vulpes didn’t pause. There was more.
"Then there’s the Irish. That was Alphonso’s previous fuck-up."
She saw Monsieur Minuit’s eyes narrow slightly, his expression shifting just enough to confirm he already had a feeling about this part.
"A few months ago, Alphonso let his temper get the better of him. He made it personal with the wrong guy—Patrick Malone’s younger cousin. Fight over a woman. Alphonso knifed Sean Malone, put nine stab wounds in him, left him bleeding out in the gutter."
Vulpes let that fact sink in before she added:
"You can imagine how Patrick Malone took that."
She didn’t need to explain.
Patrick Malone wasn’t just an old-school crime boss—he was a man who never forgave a debt of blood.
And Alphonso Ruso had signed his own death warrant.
"That dumb fuck," Madame Minuit muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.
Her posture shifted slightly, her hands resting on her hips as she exhaled sharply.
"You don’t pull that kind of crap with someone like Madman Malone. He’s a damn legend in Eastern Canada’s crime families."
There was no exaggeration in her tone—just the weight of cold, hard truth.
Patrick ‘Madman’ Malone wasn’t just some aging mobster clinging to past glories.
He was a relic of another era, a man who built his empire with blood, fire, and an unshakable reputation. The kind of crime lord who didn’t forget, didn’t forgive, and never let a slight go unanswered.
In Toronto’s underworld, there were rules—unwritten but ironclad.
And one of those rules?
You don’t fuck with the Malones.
Certainly not Sean Malone, a blood relative of Patrick himself.
And definitely not over something as petty as a woman.
For a moment, Madame Minuit’s eyes flickered toward Monsieur Minuit, and even he, usually unreadable, gave a slight nod—acknowledging just how bad this situation had become.
"Yeah," Vulpes agreed, her voice low, measured. "And now the Irish want Alphonso dead. They aren’t just looking to settle a score—they’re out for blood. And they won’t stop until they burn him out of hiding. Even if that means tearing through Montreal to do it."
Madame Minuit exhaled again, rolling her shoulders like she was trying to work out the frustration physically.
"This isn’t just about a hit anymore. If the Irish get to Alphonso first, it’s going to start a war."
"That dumb fuck," Madame Minuit muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.
Her posture shifted slightly, her hands resting on her hips as she exhaled sharply.
"You don’t pull that kind of crap with someone like Madman Malone. He’s a damn legend in Eastern Canada’s crime families."
There was no exaggeration in her tone—just the weight of cold, hard truth.
Patrick ‘Madman’ Malone wasn’t just some aging mobster clinging to past glories.
He was a relic of another era, a man who built his empire with blood, fire, and an unshakable reputation. The kind of crime lord who didn’t forget, didn’t forgive, and never let a slight go unanswered.
In Toronto’s underworld, there were rules—unwritten but ironclad.
And one of those rules?
You don’t fuck with the Malones.
Certainly not Sean Malone, a blood relative of Patrick himself.
And definitely not over something as petty as a woman.
For a moment, Madame Minuit’s eyes flickered toward Monsieur Minuit, and even he, usually unreadable, gave a slight nod—acknowledging just how bad this situation had become.
"Yeah," Vulpes agreed, her voice low, measured. "And now the Irish want Alphonso dead. They aren’t just looking to settle a score—they’re out for blood. And they won’t stop until they burn him out of hiding. Even if that means tearing through Montreal to do it."
Madame Minuit exhaled again, rolling her shoulders like she was trying to work out the frustration physically.
"This isn’t just about a hit anymore. If the Irish get to Alphonso first, it’s going to start a war."
"And if we don’t find him first," Vulpes continued, her tone edged with certainty, "either he disappears for good, or he becomes just another casualty in a brewing mob war—rather than facing justice for the blood on his hands."
She let that statement hang in the cold night air, the weight of it undeniable.
Madame Minuit nodded firmly in agreement, her expression sharpening with resolve.
Her partner, ever stoic, offered a small but deliberate nod—a rare gesture of confirmation from the man who had been so wary of Vulpes only minutes ago.
They were on the same page now.
This wasn’t just about hunting down a hitman anymore.
This was about preventing something worse.
"Then we work together—track down Ruso, keep the Irish from planting him in a pine box, and gift-wrap his ass for the RCMP?" suggested Madame Minuit.
Vulpes couldn’t help but agree—it was a solid plan, one that aligned with both her mission and her principles.
Without hesitation, Madame Minuit reached into her belt and produced a communicator, offering it to Vulpes—just as Vulpes, by sheer coincidence, had been reaching for the same type of device to offer in return.
They both paused, registering the moment, and then exchanged a knowing glance.
"Looks like great minds think alike," Madame Minuit quipped, smirking as their fingers brushed during the trade.
Vulpes chuckled, pocketing the communicator and tucking her own away for later use.
"We’ll see what we can drum up with the biker gangs," Madame Minuit continued. "If you want to gather some intel while we’re doing that, try hitting up the law firm of Schwartz & Goldstein. Rumor has it they process quite a bit of paperwork for the Italian families here—things the cops wouldn’t think to look at, but people like us would."
Vulpes nodded, glad to have a solid lead and to finally be on the same page with allies who could help ensure that justice was done.
As she turned to leave, Madame Minuit’s voice called out once more, tinged with playful amusement.
"Oh, one more thing!"
Vulpes turned back just in time to see Madame Minuit produce a small, sleek device from out of nowhere, holding it up with a wry smile.
"You can have your tracking device back."
Vulpes stared at the tracker in Madame Minuit’s hand, then let out a short, genuine laugh.
"Only if you take yours back first."
With a flick of her wrist, she revealed another tracking device—this one entirely different in design—holding it up for Madame Minuit to see.
The other woman blinked, then grinned, clearly impressed.
"Well played," she murmured, accepting the trade.
All the while, Monsieur Minuit watched the exchange in silence, his sharp eyes never leaving Vulpes. He was assessing her, analyzing every interaction, every movement—trying to get a solid read on the woman from Toronto.
He was still guarded, that much was clear.
The man had trust issues, but really—who didn’t in this line of work?
What did surprise Vulpes, however, was the ease with which she had found common ground with Madame Minuit.
It wasn’t something she had expected—but it also wasn’t something she was about to question or reject.
Still, Monsieur Minuit’s reaction?
That, at least, was the one she had been prepared for.
But none of that mattered for now.
They had their roles to play, their separate tasks to complete. The night was young, and the Midnights and the Fox were officially on the prowl.
