Trois: The French Connection, Book 3

By Brooklyn Knight

He has three days to save her...

Dylan Hamilton has waited two years for this day to arrive; the day when Laila Renaud will become his wife. But the morning after his nuptials, he awakens, drugged and confused, only to discover that she has been snatched from his bed. And according to the man who has taken her, he has a limited amount of time to get her back. The clock is ticking...

When Stefan Miller finds three Italian gangsters sitting in his suite the morning after Dylan’s wedding, it’s confirmation that his worst fears have come true. His brother’s antics have finally caught up with him and everyone else, including his love-interest, Sasha, who has been held ransom. Now with the clock counting down, he and Dylan must come up with a plan to save the women from impending doom.

Theoretically, it’s a simple operation: Get Stefan's brother! Engage Dylan’s mob-boss of a mother! Save the girls!

But the rescue effort doesn’t go as smoothly as planned, especially when the puzzle pieces of Dylan’s traumatic past begin to connect. And especially when Stefan discovers that Sasha has fallen under the curious spell of her green-eyed kidnapper.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brooklyn Knight
• Release date: May 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005158422

Brooklyn Knight

Brooklyn Knight is a romance enthusiast who lives in the island of Bermuda and has been writing stories since she was a little girl. Over the years, her gift for designing and bringing characters to life has evolved, and she enjoys creating vivid, memorable characters and unforgettable situations. Her characters are thought-provoking and evocative; and they will draw emotion out of you like water from a well.

Book preview

Chapter One

Stefan

‘What Love Looks Like’

The members of the string quartet lifted their bows and placed them on the strings of their instruments. The cellist played first and the violinist joined in. The mellow sound of the Bridal Chorus wafted into the warming, but still crisp April air, and an intimate congregation rose to their feet.

We were in Le Nôtre's Garden, seated between the water basins and canals of the luxurious commons of Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte. Before now, I’d only heard about the private French mansion. Tons of celebrities had seen fit to pay the pretty penny to make it their wedding venue, but when Dylan announced that he’d secured the location for his and Laila’s destination wedding, I wasn’t surprised.

A cloudless sky stretched overhead, and a light breeze brushed through my curly afro. I turned my eyes to my best friend of over fifteen years and bit back a juvenile grin.

Dylan Hamilton looked clean. Like, cleaner than a window on a Manhattan skyrise; and that was saying something because my boy knew how to arrange his threads. He was Miami’s biggest and baddest businessman, and he practically lived in an Armani suit.

But today…

The fabric of his custom tux reeked of Benjamins, and his patent leather shoes were so shiny, I’d been able to coif my afro in them before we marched through the vast rooms of the seventeenth-century masterpiece of a mansion, on our way to the altar. Surely, the cufflinks blinging at his wrists would steal from the simple band he’d be wearing in an hour or so, but I knew they were no match for the blood-red ruby set he’d be fitting on Laila Renaud’s hand.

I leaned over towards his ear and cleared my throat. She’s coming, I warned him.

He stiffened like a board. His jaw jerked and so did the corner of his eyes. Is she really?

Hell yes, I confirmed. I paused. You didn’t see her dress, did you?

No! I haven’t seen her for two goddamn days, he said through his teeth. He glanced at me, his head not moving an inch, as the quartet crescendoed. "Have you seen her?"

Sure did, I muttered. I looked over my shoulder and then back at him. Shit, Dyl … I breathed, teasing him, riling him up. "If you haven’t seen her in two days, I can only imagine what’s gonna happen at that reception. The two of you are gonna go MIA, but the thing is, everyone will know exactly where you are."

Which then technically means, we won’t be MIA, he contested. He grunted deep in his throat. How does she look, Stef? he whispered.

She looks like the minute you see her you’re gonna tear that gown off.

We laughed and the priest glared at us.

We cleared our throats simultaneously.

Laila’s maid of honor, her cousin Yasmine, scolded us in French. I had no idea what she’d said, but Dylan smiled and scrubbed the back of his neck. His face flushed red.

In a moment, Laila’s presence descended upon us. Her uncle, the one who’d walked her down the aisle of the garden, took a few easy steps up the marble altar and into an elaborate pavilion, flowing with sheer curtains. The African garb he donned was regal. Black and gold threads encased his broad frame, and a matching cap sat on his greying head.

Laila’s dress spilled in front and behind her, and I took a moment to steal a glance at Dylan’s face. I’m a man, and I’ve never been in love before, but if I had to take a stab at what love looked like, I knew, without a doubt, it looked like Dylan Hamilton.

His mouth trembled as he received his queen – the woman I knew he’d move mountains for. His eyes brimmed with unfiltered desire, and my prediction that he’d fuck her before the vows were complete, threatened to come to pass. Dylan’s eyes fluttered. His mouth parted. His gaze was locked on her, and hers on him. Her curly hair been pinned high on her crown and I watched, awe-struck, as Dylan ran a trembling hand over her cheek.

"Ma belle fille." He whispered her nickname.

Laila’s eyes flew shut before opening again. Moisture collected on their edges.

This is what love looks like.

Her uncle eased backwards until he receded into the audience, sprinkled with a select few of Dylan’s business colleagues and prominent members of society. Laila’s small selection of family and friends occupied the seats in the front row.

I glanced over at a particular woman sitting next to them.

Sasha.

Our eyes connected, and a quick breath caught in her lungs as I drank her and her shimmering red gown in. My eyes burned through her, and she looked into her lap, a timid smile toying with her luscious lips; lips I had yet to taste, despite having made her acquaintance six months ago.

Now that all the drama is over, that will have to change.

I started to return my focus to the ceremony but immobilized when I noticed three men standing behind the last row of seats, watching the festivities. They were all dressed in fine, three-piece suits, but the guy in the middle was the boss. Aviator shades concealed his eyes, and I would bet my bottom dollar they looked as sinister as the aura he was projecting, even all the way from the back of the garden. He radiated a dark confidence, which I could tell few men had challenged.

As if searching for targets, the men flanking Big Boss scanned the audience. The guy on the left turned his focus on Laila, and the one on the right was staring at Sasha. But the more I observed him, the more I realized he was doing more than staring. He was gawking, his eyes, fierce and intense; pinned on her, almost as if he was ready to pounce. The breeze caught his thick, brown hair, which was faded on the sides, but long and brushed back on the top. It carried against the gentle wind, before falling back into place, like magic.

Sasha shifted in her seat and wriggled her shoulders.

Suddenly, the dude on the left whispered something in Big Boss’s ear. The man’s brows drew in, and then his eyes turned on me. My breath hitched in the back of my throat and I eased around, trying to ignore what was clearly bad company and my rolling stomach.

This was Dylan’s special day, but I had a nagging feeling that some shit was about to go down.

Chapter Two

Dylan

‘Finally, You’re Mine’

I smelled her before I saw her. Her perfume consumed me, made me unsteady with euphoria. To think that Stefan had the opportunity to take in her splendor before me incensed me but that was jealousy. I was hungry for Laila.

Ravenous.

The day was slipping by, and by the time I’d have her to myself, almost three days would have passed. It was an unacceptable amount of time. It had gotten so bad that last night, I’d snuck by the girls’ hotel suite when her uncle, whom I called Papa, was finally asleep. I’d been making excuses to see Laila all day, but Papa had warned me that to see the bride before her wedding day would bring bad luck. Bad luck was the last thing I needed, especially considering all the obstacles we’d had to navigate to get to this day.

But I’d ignored Papa’s advice, slinked my way to the floor above mine in Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte, and stood outside of the suite door. Hearing the sound of her laughing, smiling voice was enough to placate me, even if only for a second. I basked in the mirth and giddiness that only women could manufacture, especially the night before a wedding.

I wanted to see her.

No, I needed to see her.

The sexual tension building up inside of me was threatening to make me burst. I rubbed my stiffening cock, trying to rearrange myself, and hurried away from the door. Torturing myself made no sense.

But now, standing at the altar, Papa was finally giving her to me. My heart clamored against my ribcage as I encased her small hand in mine. I let my eyes fall onto her pretty face, and her expressive eyes sparkled under long, black lashes. Her mouth quivered and blushed.

I wet my lips.

It would take everything in me not to crush my mouth against hers and consume her. The kiss the priest would allow would be a shadow of what I wanted to do to her.

A groan rumbled against my Adam’s apple. "Ma belle fille, you’re taking my breath away," I whispered, staring into her face, unable to look anywhere else.

And you, mine, she replied. Her eyes shined.

In that moment, everything faded into oblivion. There was no one else in the entire garden. The strumming of the quartet’s strings paled until they no longer existed.

It was just her and me, the way I’d envisioned it from the moment I’d seen her sitting in my boardroom, almost two years ago.

Ladies and gentleman. The priest’s voice jerked me back into reality. I squeezed Laila’s hand and focused on getting through the mundane trivialities required to lock this woman away from the entire world, to make her mine.

She was already mine, but I wanted it written in stone. The legal paperwork we’d sign at the end of the ceremony would be close enough.

We have gathered here today to witness the marriage of Dylan Mark Hamilton and Laila Clara Renaud. He paused. When two people stumble upon love, it’s a marvel; but when they choose to honor that love by devoting themselves, one to the other, it’s certainly a miracle.

Laila’s eyes fluttered.

I clamped my bottom lip with my teeth.

If there is anyone among you, who has just cause for why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now. Or forever, hold your peace.

I stared at the priest who glanced about the cherished congregation. A reverent silence descended over the garden, but the sound of faraway shuffling lifted into the air.

Stefan grimaced.

I glanced at him, eyebrows creased.

He pursed his lips and shook his head at me.

No one said anything.

The priest proceeded. At this time, we have a selection from a friend of the bride.

I looked at Laila, surprised by the addition to the program, and she grinned as Sasha made her way to a podium.

The red gown she was wearing clung to her, and I looked over at Stefan. His mouth was agape, and his eyes were hooded.

I bent my mouth to his ear. I ain’t the only one who’s going MIA at the reception… I whispered.

Stefan bit back a smirk, trying to ignore me.

Music began to play and Sasha started singing. The lyrics from a John Legend song pierced someplace deep within my soul. Laila and I listened, mesmerized, as Sasha’s voice danced in the air, floating over our heads, plunging into our hearts. Her eyes closed and her hands gestured. Her body moved against the rhythm, stoking the torrid passion building inside of me for my soon-to-be-wife.

By the time Sasha was singing the final line, I was lost in a blissful world of anticipation, waiting for the minute the priest would pronounce us husband and wife.

The ballad ended and the ceremony continued.

I read my vows, dissecting my soul, telling Laila things I’d told her a million times since the moment she’d given me access to her heart. I repeated my promise; to protect, cherish, love and support.

She read her vows to me, and I listened to her promise of trust, honor, and devotion.

Stefan was right. MIA might be accurate after all. In fact, I was devising a plan. I would drag Laila from the reception and disappear. Nobody would find us, no matter how hard they searched.

The rings.

I turned to Stefan who pulled the velvet box from inside his tux. The grin on his face reached his ears as he handed it to me. Get ‘em, Dyl, he said.

I nodded and did an about-face, ready to take in the fullness of ma belle fille’s splendor, but when I saw Anthony Moretti and two of his goons sitting in the last row of seats, I fumbled. A violent tremble radiated through me, starting at my feet.

Only a few, select people had been invited to my nuptials.

Moretti hadn’t been one of them.

He was an acquaintance, a man I’d been forced to consort with, thanks to Eliza Hamilton. He was not the kind of man you invited to your wedding.

Or around your woman.

One thing was for sure, his presence here today was deliberate. It meant there was something he wanted.

Laila noticed my stiffening body and frowned. Baby. Her concerned face connected with mine, and she slid her silky hand across my jaw. Dylan, what’s wrong?

I ripped my eyes off Moretti and tried to focus on her beauty. It wasn’t long before my trepidation waned and dissipated.

Still, Anthony Moretti hadn’t taken his eyes off me. I could feel him staring, burning holes though my back.

I tried to erase the scowl from my mouth. I’m fine, I whispered. You’re about to be my wife, so everything is perfect. I smiled and glanced at Stefan.

His eyes were wide, which meant he’d seen Moretti before I had.

I’d deal with this later. Now was not the time.

Please, continue, I instructed the priest. I repeated his words, before slipping the eternity band over Laila’s slender finger.

Her shoulders dropped and she exhaled, but again, she searched my face. She repeated her vows and put a diamond-encrusted white-gold band on my ring finger. I stared at it as relief washed over me.

I now pronounce you husband and wife. The priest paused for longer than was Biblically necessary.

Laila and I stared at him, and I wondered how much amusement the delay was affording him.

A warm smile made his face glow. Mr. Hamilton, you may kiss your bride.

The permission had barely been granted.

I took Laila’s face into my trembling hands. My eyes were focused on the perfection of her lips. "Enfin, tu es a moi," I muttered.

Finally, you’re mine.

My eyes were stinging. My chest was tight.

I’ve always been yours, she whispered. Just hurry up and kiss me, will you?

I grunted and reclaimed her.

My tongue slid over her lush, bottom lip before slipping inside of her mouth. Her fingers, toying with my nape forced a tremor out of me, and I deepened the connection as applause, hoots, and whistles filled the garden.

We disconnected before I was ready, and turned to face our cheering colleagues, family and friends. Laila rubbed her manicured thumb over my bottom lip, and I took her by the hand, catching a glimpse of the eternity bands around our fingers. Then I looked up, not surprised to see that Moretti and his men had disappeared.

Chapter Three

Laila

‘All Yours’

Dylan wiped his mouth with the linen napkin in his lap and dropped it into his empty plate. "Ma belle fille, I’m hungry…".

In an instant, an intense heat pooled under my cocktail dress. He’d just eaten an entire plate of food, and I knew he wasn’t talking about that. An hour into the festivities, and I knew he could take no more. Neither of us could. We’d been the perfect hosts, greeting people we knew as well as the ones we didn’t. We’d done all of the customary activities, to the crowd’s delight. Dylan had slinked my racy, black garter off my quivering thigh with his teeth, sending the crowd wild; and I’d tossed my three-thousand-dollar bouquet at a crowd full of eager and eligible bachelorettes. We’d even thrown in a few Moroccan wedding traditions in for good measure.

But now, the headquarters of my femininity throbbed with need. Every inch of me ached for the feel of Dylan deep inside of me. I’d tried to up the anty by suggesting that we not see each other for two days. It was supposed to increase our arousal, make sure we were in the mood by the time we crossed the threshold of our suite. But with the way he was looking at me, and with the way my body was crying out for him, there was no way we’d make it to a bedroom, much less a bed.

I had never seen my man look so regal. Even the first time I’d seen him – the powerful CEO of Hamilton Associates, the most respected insurance firm in Miami – didn’t compare to the way he looked today. His hazel eyes gleamed. His blond hair was styled to exquisite perfection in the classic pompadour, which always made him look so damn sexy. The custom tuxedo he was wearing, a crisp-black with suede lapels, slim fit and molded against his body… had me drooling like a newborn as I walked down that aisle.

He was flawless.

He growled my name, demanding my attention, and tugged me out of my

Reviews for Trois

[Taffie Tapfumanei · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

The father and the mother ain’t ish… not sure why they where even introduced into the trilogy… bizarre.

[RedHobo · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Didn't hate it. But the whole series is turning into a mess. Italian mobster now ? What next? Aliens? SMDH.