The Heir's Confession
I opened the hotel door and immediately sensed someone inside, so I dropped into stance number seven, ready to counterattack. But the people in front of me had their heads bowed. They started speaking in French; the only word I caught was "Bonjour." When I pretended not to understand a thing, one of the men switched to English. My own English wasn't great, and he spoke so fluently that I caught less than thirty percent of what he said. Somewhere in the middle I heard the name Valentin, so I figured they were connected to him.
I pulled out my phone and opened the translation app. "Who are you?" I held the screen up to the two large men. "Say, say." Only then did they reply in French. "The young master has already departed for the estate. He extends an invitation—would you care to accompany us?"
Valentin, you were hiding some serious power, huh? When I opened the app, I saw a message from him. An invitation. I nodded. One man grabbed my luggage while the other led the way. When I mentioned I still needed to check out, they said it was already handled and simply handed me the key, telling me to follow them.
Outside the hotel sat a single car—a luxury sedan. A Mercedes. They loaded my bags into the trunk, one took the wheel, and the other opened the rear door for me. I slid naturally into the back seat. I climbed in with a vague sense of unease, but my curiosity about Valentin's true identity was overwhelming.
After roughly an hour we seemed to be leaving the Paris suburbs behind. Traffic thinned, and all I could see were open plains dotted with the occasional farmhouse. Since I spoke neither French nor English, I stayed quiet, but I figured I should at least ask where we were headed. I opened the app again. "Where are we going?"
Whether the translation worked or not, the man in the passenger seat leaned toward the phone and answered curtly. "Home." Sir, that wasn't what I asked. I tried again, asking for the location and an explanation, but the translation must have failed because he tilted his head in confusion. After a couple more attempts—whether he was deliberately ignoring me or simply couldn't understand—I gave up. Instead I switched to GPS. We were heading from Paris toward Orléans. If these were kidnappers, they were far too sloppy, so I decided to go along. Real kidnappers would have taken my phone first.
Ten minutes later the four-lane highway narrowed to a two-lane country road. In the distance a grand mansion rose, reminiscent of the Palace of Versailles. So our Valentin was loaded. But why were there guards at the front gate? Was this not a private residence? Two men stood watch; when our car approached they checked our identities and opened the gate. We drove through the gardens and stopped in front of the mansion. Valentin was waiting.
"Lucas, I'm sorry." His expression said far more than the words. He looked genuinely remorseful. I told him it was fine and made a lighthearted comment about how nice the house was. Only then did his face relax into a smile. He instructed the attendants who had followed us to take care of the luggage, then pulled me inside.
Was this really a house? The lobby and décor were so opulent I would have believed it was a five-star hotel. Rich brown carpet stretched across the floor, and a chandelier hung in the center of the lobby. Still dazed, I missed Valentin calling me and only snapped out of it when one of the attendants tapped my shoulder. I hurried after them.
Following the lobby, we entered what looked like a dining room with a table large enough for twelve. Two people were already seated—Valentin's parents, I assumed. His father had the stern look of a stubborn actor, while his mother radiated the kind of gentle warmth that suggested she would indulge any whim. I bowed in greeting, since I couldn't think of anything to say, then stood there like a folding screen while the three of them spoke rapidly in French. I understood nothing, but the atmosphere was tense. It reminded me of family gatherings back home—parents arguing with an eldest son who lived abroad, the usual questions about marriage and children, ending with the classic "I'll handle it when I'm ready."
Sure enough, the conversation ended with Valentin raising his voice, leaving an awkward silence. Apparently family drama was universal. He spun around, grabbed me, and dragged me up to the second floor. The room felt like a reception parlor, furnished with luxurious sofas and a solid-wood table—the kind of mahogany piece you'd see in movies. He told me to sit, then walked over to a cabinet in the corner, poured two glasses of liquor, handed one to me, and downed his in a single shot.
This wasn't the Valentin I knew. Still, his drinking capacity hadn't changed. The guy who got chatty after two beers had just slammed back what looked like whiskey. Once the alcohol hit, I became a one-sided listener. There was no need to react—I wouldn't have understood anyway. I simply recorded everything so I could translate it later.
After about an hour he suddenly stood, poured himself another drink, and then—passed out. He went outside, called for someone, and the attendants carried him away as if they'd done it many times before. One of them then escorted me to my room on the third floor. It looked like it might once have belonged to a woman, or perhaps that was simply the style—lace-trimmed bedding. I asked if I could get something to eat; after all, they'd invited me for a meal but hadn't fed me. The attendant smiled and returned shortly with a cart of food, which he laid out in the room.
After eating and taking a quick shower, I transcribed the recording and ran it through the translator. I wanted to know what Valentin had been rambling about while drunk. The more I read, the more I realized I probably shouldn't have heard any of it. He started with the usual small talk—his family had money, I should make myself comfortable, sorry for showing me things I wasn't meant to see. Then he apologized and, remembering the earlier scene, began blaming his parents. Every word they said annoyed him; they never agreed with him. Typical complaints. Maybe because I reacted well, he moved on to the family history.
How badly had he been gaslit that a twenty-two-year-old felt the need to start from the family founder? According to him, their ancestor had been a peddler supplying goods to the lord's castle in Orléans during the twelfth century. Orléans was the city I'd seen on the GPS map earlier. The family began to grow after that ancestor made a good marriage and connected with a powerful household in a neighboring region. The next three minutes or so were garbled—either the translator failed or Valentin's pronunciation was terrible. From context, I guessed it was about successful business dealings.
Generations of ancestors blessed with many children began placing their offspring in various regions, eventually building a logistics empire. A classic family conglomerate—three hundred years of it. When shipbuilding and trade advanced, they expanded abroad to England, Italy, Spain, and so on. Nothing unusual so far. Then, during the colonial era, each nation opened its colonies and the family entered its golden age. At one point, Valentin boasted, five percent of all French ships belonged to them. After the world wars and modern history, rival branches tried to seize control, power shifted back and forth, and eventually they arrived at the present situation.
From that point on, the story became something I definitely shouldn't have heard. Their traditional trading partners, he said, followed the map of colonial history. The British branch dealt with Afghanistan, his own family with Vietnam and Suriname, the Spanish branch with Mexico and Colombia, the Dutch with Guyana and Indonesia. I noticed a common thread: all were major drug-producing regions. Then he said it outright—the family's most important commodity was drugs. Using the old colonial networks, they supplied Europe. The problem now was that sourcing product from former colonies had become extremely difficult; local organizations had taken over most production lines and no longer listened to them. Understandable, really—local resentment ran high after centuries of exploitation. As competition intensified, his father pressured him to shape up, to work harder if he wanted to beat the other heirs. After that it was mostly complaints about his parents, so I stopped reading. The translator handled the profanity with impressive accuracy.
The next morning, sober again, Valentin came to my room. He began the day with his usual "I'm sorry." I pretended to know nothing. He asked if I'd heard things I shouldn't have. If I had, he joked, they'd have to silence me. Then he suggested we go eat. "I know you are drug dealer." How the hell did he know?