Aunt Joséphine's footsteps echoed through the traboule like funeral drums, the unopened Beaujolais bottle sweating condensation onto her trembling hands. Marcel's flashlight beam cut through the predawn gloom, illuminating Colette Dubois' final shout: "Reprenez votre pot-de-vin!" But they'd already vanished—two ghosts fleeing a death sentence.
Mémé Louise met them at 9 Rue des Canuts, her silhouette carved from Lyon's morning mist. "Alors?" The single word hung like a shroud.
Joséphine's voice cracked. "Thibault… ou la rue."
Above them, Danielle Dubois' lace curtains twitched. A camcorder lens glinted—a sniper settling into position.
At 06:17, Madame Bernard carried her ritual offering: a steaming bowl of soupe à l'oignon for Monsieur Thibault. When her knocks went unanswered, the oak door creaked open to reveal:
Thibault's body splayed on blood-slicked cobblestones
His nightshirt tangled around skeletal ankles
Captain Shaw's Mali medal glinting beneath his claw-like hand
Her scream shattered the courtyard's fragile peace.
Chaos erupted:
Bastien burst from the garage, engine grease streaking his face like war paint
Marcel crossed himself before draping Thibault in a silk-weaver's funeral shroud
Danielle dialed Montreal, her whisper cutting through the grief: "C'est fait. Maintenant, envoie Yannick."
Mémé Louise placed a sprig of Provençal lavender in Thibault's rigor-mortised grip. "Il a voulu rentrer chez lui," she murmured. His unseeing eyes stared southeast—toward the Alps he'd mortgaged for exile.
Jean-Claude Thibault's response came via telegram: VENDRE TOUT. ENVOYEZ LE CORBEAU.
Yannick Moreau arrived in a Renault 5 Turbo, crushing Thibault's geraniums beneath Pirelli tires. "Mon beau-frère dit: merci à Lyon d'avoir nettoyé ses ordures." He gestured at the mourners. "Maintenant, dégagez avant que j'appelle la police!"
Colette Dubois intervened, clipboard trembling. "Monsieur, un peu de respect pour—"
"Respect?" Yannick spat at her Chanel pumps. "Vous êtes tous des squatteurs!"
Old Bernard snatched his baguette de tradition. "On n'est pas des ordures!" The crusty loaf cracked against Yannick's jaw—a distinctly Lyonnais rebuke.
Pandemonium:
Bastien swung his baguette like a claymore ("Pour le capitaine!")
Yannick scrambled into his Renault, screaming "Sauvages!"
Danielle's camcorder whirred, capturing Marcel's boot connecting with the car door
As tires screeched away, Bastien brandished the broken bread. "La prochaine fois, ce sera une ficelle!"
Lydia watched Yannick flee from behind the tabac's beaded curtain. Gavin Sterling materialized like smoke beside his Peugeot MTB. "Un combat par jour?" He leaned against the zinc counter, pine-and-ink scent cutting through Gauloises smoke. "Comment une petite brebis survit-elle dans cette bergerie de loups?"
"Nous ne sommes pas des loups!" Lydia's cheeks flushed crimson. "Tu ne comprends rien à notre famille!"
Gavin invaded her space, his knuckle grazing her jawline. "Vraiment?" The contact sparked electric. "Alors éclaire-moi."
When Lydia hesitated, Gavin pivoted toward his bike. "Dommage… ces dix mille francs de cachet iront à Sophie."
"Cachet?!" Lydia seized his sleeve. "On est payés?"
Gavin's laugh was velvet over steel. "Tu croyais qu'Élodie faisait ça pour la gloire?" He tapped her temple. "Ton sauvetage vaut plus que des claques à la télé."
As he detailed the contract—10,000 francs upfront—Lydia's gaze flickered to the west wing. Danielle's shadow loomed like a gargoyle.
Pressure mounted: Gavin's proximity, Sophie's pearl burning in her pocket, Mémé's tubercular cough echoing off stone walls. The truth spilled out—Thibault's death, the bail précaire purgatory, Jean-Claude's developer pact.
Gavin stilled. Raw pain fractured his mask. "Ton père est mort pour des gilets pare-balles pourris fabriqués par les Dubois. Et maintenant…" He gestured at the crumbling courtyard. "…ils veulent voler sa maison aussi?"
His hand rose—not to tease, but to cradle her cheek. "Petite brebis," he murmured, "même les agneaux portent des cornes."
"Viens à France 3," Gavin urged, nodding at his bike. "Signons avant qu'Élodie change d'avis."
Lydia balked. "Mon vélo… Marcel l'a pris pour le corbillard."
"Monte." Gavin patted the Peugeot's rear rack. "Je te porte."
Horror flooded her. "Et les commérages? Si quelqu'un voit—"
"Quoi?" Gavin's eyebrow arched. "Que l'agneau chevauche le loup?" He leaned in, breath warming her ear. "Après notre documentaire, ils parleront de bien pire."
Lydia's ears burned. "Ce serait… de la flirterie précoce."
Gavin threw back his head, laughter echoing through the traboule. "Flirterie?" He mimed pedaling. "Si chaque lycéen qui transporte une copine est un dragueur…" A dangerous glint entered his eyes. "…alors le Lycée du Parc est un bordel."
Yet when Lydia finally relented—fingers tentatively gripping his waist—Gavin's breath hitched. The Peugeot wobbled violently on the cobblestones. Her warmth against his spine felt like absolution.
Danielle Dubois zoomed her camcorder as they disappeared down Rue Neyret. "Aussi prévisible qu'une pigeon," she hissed into her Motorola. "Jean-Claude? Envoie les photos au Progrès: 'Héros de Lyon en amourette avec son producteur'…"
She rewound the tape: Gavin's hand covering Lydia's on his abdomen, her blush visible through pixelated gloom. "Ajoute ce titre: 'La Sainte de Croix-Rousse Perd Son Auréole'…"
France 3's studios hummed with cathode-ray tension. Élodie Marchand greeted them with poisoned honey: "Nos amoureux arrivent enfin!" She waved a mock-up of Le Progrès's front page—Gavin's hand on Lydia's waist blown up to poster size.
Gavin's grip tightened on Lydia's elbow. "Où est le contrat?"
Élodie slid papers across the table. Clause 7 shimmered with fresh ink: "Participant agrees to romantic storyline development."
"C'est quoi cette merde?" Gavin snarled.
"Réalité télévisuelle," Élodie purred. "Les audiences adorent les romances."
Lydia stared at Clause 7. Ten thousand francs glowed like fool's gold. Mémé's coughs echoed in her mind—each hack a death knell for their home.
Gavin's pen hovered. "On peut partir."
"Non." Lydia grabbed the pen. "Danielle veut nous faire fuir? Montrons-lui les cornes de l'agneau."
Her signature bled across the paper. Gavin followed suit, his eyes never leaving hers. Outside, thunder cracked over Fourvière Hill. The velvet guillotine had fallen.