Vincent's Jacobean wood-panelled reggae joint is empty, except for the older man togged up in studs and leather behind the bar. Clayton Warren paused with a dishcloth on the wooden countertop when our eyes connected. And judging by the whiff of condescension, he is not impressed by the magnificent entrance of the syndicate.
Men in tailored suits stepped around me and dispersed through the visitors' lounge in a timely fashion to take the weight off their feet and relax in leather-worn booths. Most of them sparked up within minutes, the room permeating with plumes of white smoke and boisterous laughter.
Ska music amplified in the background, the heavy base vibrating beneath my feet as I strolled toward the bar for a drink.
Grandpa Warren, who lacked social polish, was not happy to see me. His voice was thick and strained when offering to open a bar tab for the brothers. "Jones," he grunted. "What can I get you?"
"Johnnie Walker," I said, chipper, thumbing through prestigious debit cards, and he automatically reached for the gold-label reserve whiskey bottle on the wall-mounted liquor shelf. "Blue."
Clayton vacillated between the bottles before he selected the rightful alcoholic beverage. He splashed exquisitely blended scotch whiskey into a rauk heavy tumbler, ripped the card to pre-authorise the transaction out of my hand, then moseyed along to distance himself from the obligation of exchanging pleasantries.
Wanker.
My phone vibrated.
Emma: I feel guilty.
Slipping a toothpick through my lips, I licked it to the corner of my mouth and typed a monosyllabic response.
Me: Why?
Emma: I am at the estate, unpacking an overnight bag.
Me: And?
Emma: My father is dead. I should be crying, not stressing over which lingerie set I should wear to bed.
Before I drove away from the wedding venue this morning, Emma rushed back to the car, her eyes wet with tears, her face ghostly white, and word-vomited the tragedy of her father's death. Her mother, Martha, witnessed the ghastly ordeal. Hamish had what could only be described as a mental breakdown and threw himself out the window: blunt force trauma to the head. He died before his brain registered the impact.
Yes, I feigned surprise and comforted Emma with protective hugs and forehead kisses because silent affection was the only apology I could offer without losing her in the process. I have done that dance already, the back and forth.
Emma never broke down, though. If anything, she looked partially relieved, like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders, like she could breathe properly for the first time.
My girl's relief provided solace. I know—what I did not in the Hughes' suite—that killing Hamish was the right decision.
Let's hope Martha is not an issue in the foreseeable future.
Me: Green.
Emma: Huh?
Me: I want you to wear the ivy green lace I bought you so that I can peel it off your sexy body with my teeth.
Emma: Brad!
Me: What?
Emma: Focus.
Me: I am sorry for your loss.
Emma: Very sensitive.
Me: What do you want me to say? The guy was a scrawny schmuck. I am not sorry that he is dead. He did his family a favour.
Emma: Am I a horrible person?
Me: You are by no means reprehensible.
Emma: That does not answer the question.
Me: You want to know if a heartless contract killer is fazed by the dead man's completed suicide and the estranged daughter's inhibited grief...Ask me that question again when I am older, wiser and ready to repent.
Emma: Fair point.
Me: I do not think you are a horrible person for the indifferent energy subsequent to your father's death. Now, can we get back to the underwear?
Emma: I did not pack green lingerie.
Me: You can sleep naked.
Emma: Or I can borrow a T-Shirt.
Me: Minx. You planned this.
Emma: Guilty as charged.
Me: What's mine is yours, Sweetheart.
"Sweetheart?" Vincent hummed scratchily, his lips far too close to my ear, to my cheek, and I flinched at the abruptness of his touchy-feely nearness, the phone launching into the air and skittering across the bar top. "What an adorable hypocorism."
I will not bite.
Vincent slid onto the bar stool with casual finesse, one foot on the steel footrest, the other on the hardwood floor. All black is today's assemblage of designer fabrics, the top button of his shirt undone, a slither of his chest. "Who knew that you could be so..." His lips pursed. "Lovable?"
"You're a fine one to talk." Retrieving the phone, I shoved it into my trouser pocket and stared deadpan at him. "Angel?"
Vincent smiled darkly, dismissively, clicking down Grandpa Warren. "Bourbon."
"On the rocks?" Clayton uncapped a bottle of Blanton's Original and scooped ice cubes into crystal glass, then placed the concoction onto the creatively folded napkin. "Anything else?"
Vincent disregarded the grumpy old sod with a lazy flick of the hand. "You have been very friendly lately." He sipped at the glass, his tongue smoothing the bourbon's rich flavour across the underside of his upper lip. "I have yet to interpret whether the sudden comradeship is genuine or ingenuine."
"I am a friendly person." My stare homed in on the bestudded elephant in the room. "I hate him," I muttered into the whiskey tumbler, the sour-faced grandfather futzing with a glasswasher basket of pint glasses in the background. "He is arrogant."
"Arrogance runs in the family. You tolerate my brother's exaggeration of self-worth." Vincent put an unlit gold-filtered cigarette to his lips and lit the end with Cartier's signature lighter flame. "Why is Liam exempt from detestation if his kin are not?"
"Rephrase, I love your brother." Warren is allowed a free pass for the chip on his shoulder simply because I said so. "I can barely stomach his annoyingly self-centred younger brother." My round eyes goaded the pestiferous demon stirring within him. "As for the blood of kinfolk?" My lip curled with utter distaste. "What a disappointment they turned out to be."
He leaned his elbow on the bar top, his hand cupping his chin as he stared pensively at me. "Are you embittered?"
"A persistent feeling of animosity toward an evil-intentioned individual that makes a special effort to hurt my brother in arms?" The look of shock on Warren's face that day, minutes before the arrest, when he learnt of his relation to the fucking donkey behind the bar, I will never forget it, not for as long as I live, the pain and confusion in his eyes, the anger and disappointment in his voice, the burn of his brother's betrayal. "Yeah, that about sums it up."
Vincent wore a tight, sombre expression. "Clayton is my grandfather."
"I have no respect for him," I said, loud for the man in heavy black leather to hear. He looked up from beneath harshly gathered eyebrows, an angry snarl on his lips. "Problem?"
"Yes." Clayton's sharp eyes were ablaze with aversion. "You."
"Me?" A toothpick balanced on my bottom lip. "What the fuck did I do?"
The irritable plonker prepared a round of drinks for the men: Manhattan, old-fashioned, sazerac and vieux carre. "Your name is dishwater by association."
"Hey, I wear my reputation like a badge of honour." My hands lifted in mock surrender. "It's not my fault you can't handle the proximity of a God."
Grandpa Warren fumed with smouldering anger, his chest puffing out to exert dominance, the alpha wannabe twat. "I ought to—"
"Clayton," Vincent intervened before the dispute became a human slaughterhouse. "I kindly ask that you remain inconspicuous in difficult situations. Jones is acting boss by force majeure. If you behave disgracefully, the syndicate will turn against me by default." It was only then I noticed the silence in the room. The brothers are quiet, watchful and on guard. "Is that what you hope to achieve?"
"You expect me to stay calm with that son of a bitch in the room." Clay, staring dejectedly at his youngest grandson, is shaking with pent-up rage and bitterness. "He killed my son."
"Inaccurate information. You know Liam killed his father." Vincent's gold-ringed fingers strangled the bourbon glass. He brought the rim to his lips, downed the brownish liquid in one swallow and immediately poured another one. "Jones is not to blame for my brother's uncontrollability and impulsiveness. If you cannot handle this knowledge, leave the bar and let the syndicate fend for themselves."
Clayton's mouth opened to debate with his opponent, but the haughty personage of his grandson was enough for him to back down. He flung the chequered tea towel over one shoulder, swiped the Jameson en route to the staff-only door and scuttled along like a long-legged rat.
Happy to see the back of him, I kept an eye on the Blanton Original. "That bottle looks very lonely."
"Help yourself." Vincent blew a cloud of smoke. "Clayton is not over Raymond's death. I fear he will never forgive Liam for that merciless hit."
"Your father was lucky." Fortunately for Raymond, his firstborn son and heir was young, immature and wet behind the ears when he stumbled upon Raymond Warren's seignorial mansion on that fateful night. If he'd found his father later in life, he'd have done far more than fire a bullet. "I know Warren like the back of my hand. A gun would have been the least of your father's problems if he were still with us. Your brother would have sentenced him to a life of chains and darkness."
"I suppose." Vincent's finger tapped the bourbon glass along to the recurrence of music notes. "Do you have a contingency plan for the Italians? That's why you requested a meeting, is it not?"
I nodded, slow and introspective.
"Very well." He stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray, then got to his feet as if the slight movement exhausted him. "Do you want to see my toys?"
"That depends," I said, wary of the man's ulterior motives. "If the multifunctional thingamabob is primarily used to facilitate human sexual pleasure, I would rather not."
Vincent gazed at me in obvious wonderment.
"Look, I will not pretend to understand your genre. You are into some freaky shit." A kink fest of sorts. "But I am not sold on erect silicone and masked nymphomaniacs ... Satyromaniacs?" My brow arched in question, and he spaced out with hard-pressed lips. "Help me out, Vincy Boy."
"Jones?" Vincent stepped closer, so close I could smell a hint of cologne on his neck and a splash of bourbon on his breath. "Are you asking me if I derive pleasure from hypersexual men?"
"Or women," I recapitulated cautiously, as I did not wish to offend the man. "Maybe both? Not that it matters. You know what? I am high as a fucking kite. Allow it." Hot and bothered, I motioned for him to lead the way. "Show me the dildo collection."
Vincent regarded me with unreserved amusement. "You are extremely tense and uncomfortable," he accused, and I did not deny it. "Why?"
Scratching my neck, I removed the toothpick from my lips. "I am not into it."
"Into what?" he queried anticipatorily, and when I pinned him with a pointed look, he laughed darkly. "Humour me."
Christ, I might be sweating. "Well, I am not, you know..."
He stared, waiting.
"I am not gay," I whispered to be respectful of the others, to be mindful of Jax, who recently lost his boyfriend, Alfie. "It's not for me."
"Have you ever tried it?" he asked, curious, and I did not need to respond. He could see the truth written all over my horrified face. "Then, how do you know it's not for you? You might surprise yourself."
"Just..." My hand waved toward the staff-only door—my ticket out of this dangerous predicament. "I am not having this conversation with you, Vincent. Hurry up and show me the toys so that we can get down to business." His mirthful smirk clawed right under my skin. "You do this to fuck with me."
He made a noncommittal noise.
Then it dawned on me like a sledgehammer to the head.
How did I miss all the signs?
Vincent Warren got the hots for me.
"It's not going to happen." Peeling his fingers off my elbow, I placed a hand on his chest and urged him to step back. "This, you, me, us, is way beyond the boundary of what I am into. Believe it or not, I am a tits-man. The bigger, the bouncier, the better..." His wide smile and mischievous eyes made my hackles rise. "You are starting to piss me off."
"Jones, for the last time, I am not sexually or romantically attracted to men." Vincent's hand ironed out the crease on the front of my shirt, his tentative fingers lingering on my cotton-clad pec. "I crave the opposite sex. Much like yourself, I am partial to a nice pair of breasts but particularly fond of a woman with a shapely arse." He looked at me then, deep into my eyes, into my soul, the intrusive bastard. "Even if I were attracted to men, I would not cast you a sideways glance." His gaze roved over me, head to toe, with lazy scrutinisation. "You are not my type."
Well, that was a harsh slap to the face. "What are you talking about?" I am a godly temple to be worshipped, a statue of sculpted perfection for those with appreciative hands and eyes. "I am everyone's fucking type."
"Please, I would rather fuck my fist for all of eternity than entertain someone with an ego as big as yours," Vincent said, deepening the knife in my back. "I have vertiginous migraines whenever you enter a room. You are, for lack of a better word, intolerable."
I disregarded the man's long list of critical feedback. It took more than a few petty insults for me to take shit personally. "Why do you annoy me?"
"You make it easy for me to do so." Vincent is ready to slaughter me with defecating wisecracks but propitiated himself. "You have convinced yourself that I am gay or bisexual. I should contest this matter. However, in light of unsubstantiated accusations, I do not have the energy to convince you otherwise."
Downing remnants of whiskey in one mouthful, I set the empty glass down on the bar top with a satisfied sigh. "What about Donny?" Yes, I went there because I had to understand the dynamics of their close—dare I say, "intimate"—relationship. "What's the deal with you and him?"
The question took him aback. He recoiled almost indiscernibly, his wandering eyes a tell-tale sign of disconcertment. "Donny is a good friend of mine."
It was my turn to wait.
"It's an immensely complicated tangle of grey areas, Jones." His frosty voice was enriched with self-control. "A man like you could never understand."
Well, that was a jibe if I ever heard one. "A man like me?"
"Obstinate. Ignorant." He re-capped the bourbon bottle and placed it behind the bar for later. "Take your pick."
My lips curved in anticipation. "Try me."
"Another time," Vincent dismissed the notion of possible love interests, his piercing eyes locked on something—or someone—behind me. "We have guests."
Peering over one shoulder, I thought I'd see Josh or Nate, as the troublesome duo promised to be here on time, but the familiar face of the family's rebel greeted me instead. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"
"Behave," Logan joked, throwing his arms around me for a much-anticipated hug. "Vincent told me to meet him here."
Relieved to see Logan in the flesh after weeks of hardly any contact, I embraced him with love, then stepped back to give him some space.
"You cannot be trusted in the house without parental guidance." Vincent turned to me, slightly miffed at his nephew. "Logan raided the wine cellar. I almost killed him."
I passed the lad a disappointed look.
"I apologised," Logan stuttered, his once baby-faced countenance dusted with spatters of dark facial hair. "Look, I had one bottle—"
"A six-litre bottle of Ornellaia's famous Vendemmia d'Artista," Vincent explained in a bored voice, and Logan winced yet another apology. "It's no bother. I can take the hit. A twenty-five-year-old celebratory edition at the coast of forty-nine grand is of no consequence. Is it, Logan?"
Decidedly fucked off, I slapped the boy around the head. "What the fuck am I going to do with you?" I barked, and he flinched, rubbing the ache I had inflicted on his ear. "You had to leave Warren Manor for bad behaviour, ransacking the minibar and stealing sports cars. You crashed the Rimac. You, staying with Vince, is supposed to be redemptive."
"Oh, you haven't heard the best." Vincent extracted a waxy green apple from his trouser pocket and wiped it on the lapel of his shirt. "He is failing college."
Warren is going to kill me. "Logan..."
"I am trying," Logan came at me with excuse after excuse. "My attendance is better. I am paying attention during lectures and—"
"Having sex in public libraries," Vincent snitched whilst aloofly peeling the apple with his trusty switchblade. "Perhaps it is time to resort to violence."
Logan paled.
"You're having sex?" I asked, and the lad's pale cheeks turned the darkest shade of purple. "We need to have a chat."
"I am safe," he replied, too embarrassed to face me, to look me in the eye. "I, you know, wear condoms and stuff..."
"And stuff," I repeated, and he rubbed a hand down his face in humiliation. "Go and sit with Jax and the others. You are not allowed out of my sight."
Logan huffed snippily. "Can I get an orange juice first?"
"No." I mirrored his piss-poor attitude. "You can bastard wait." He stormed past me with an eye roll, shrugging the backpack's handle over his shoulder. "And Logan?"
He paused with his back to me.
"Say thank you to Uncle Vince for the welcoming hospitality, but you won't be staying there anymore," I told him, and he visibly tensed. "Your ass is coming home with me."
"Are you serious? So, that's my life now?" Logan came back with long, powerful strides that ate up the distance antagonistically. "Everyone is gonna shove me from pillar to post. Nice." He snarled down his nose at me. "I know when I am not welcome. Sorry for being such a fucking burden."
"That reverse psychology shit is not going to work on me," I said angrily, the blood in my veins pumping hot. "You are getting too big for your boots. I have been patient. You are Warren's boy. That means something. But enough is enough."
His jaw steeled.
"You were destined to fail the minute that crack-brained whore of a mother shit you out and left you in public squalor to fend for yourself." My heart quickened in speed as I willed myself to not lose control. "You remember, don't you? The insalubrious place you once called home, with druggies and sex workers in and out and a mother that was too jacked up to see if you were still alive? Have you forgotten how it felt to sleep in a cold, locked room at night with the fear of strangers standing over your fucking bed? Or, wandering around the streets in the early hours of the morning to avoid Cyril Broderick's belt? What about dumpster diving, huh? Isn't that how you found food? You pilfered garbage and other people's leftovers."
Logan's face looked uncomfortably red and hot when the brothers chortled jocosely in the background.
"Yet, here you are, with a second chance in life, ready to throw it all away. And for what? A quick joy ride. A hangover from Hell. A cheap fucking thrill with some down and out on school grounds? Raise the goddamn bar," I added, and his head hung in shame. "Do you think Warren will get out of prison and put you on a fucking pedestal when he finds out you got kicked out of college because alcohol and sex took precedence over education? No, he will throw you back in the gutter for bringing shame on his family. That's where you belong, right? With all the other nobodies of the world." To get him off the path of self-destruction, I had to be cruel to be kind. "Tell me, I am wrong."
His mouth was agape. "Did those insults make you feel good about yourself?"
"Don't ever forget where you came from or who helped you along the way," I said quite poetically, and oddly enough, he took advice on board with a stiff nod, albeit with reluctance. "You are confined to house arrest. You are not permitted to leave the estate. If you do not like the rules, you can pack your shit and take yourself back to the borough." Giving him a firm shove in the shoulder, forcing him out of my reach, I tossed the toothpick over the bar, the short, pointed piece of wood landing in the bottle cap catcher. "How's that for strict parenting?"
Logan maintained eye contact for a harrowing twenty-three seconds before he tsked to himself and embarked on the walk of shame.
He got to the booth by the jukebox, dumped the backpack under the table and straddled the leather stool in a strop.
A string of silence unravelled.
All eyes are on Logan.
And he felt it, the sting of everyone's scrutiny, his restless movements, foot taps to the floor and finger thumps to the table, changing dramatically in tempo.
I had an untalkative conversation with Vincent.
What are we going to do with him?
Time will tell.
Leaving the visitors' room of sociable brothers, airborne marijuana and off-beat rhythms, I followed Vincent into the employees-only door and ventured down the white-painted hallway. He bypassed many rooms to reach the janitorial closet overstocked with chlorine bleach.
Interesting.
"Should I be worried?" I asked, watching him move the floor-to-ceiling shelving unit to reveal a stainless-steel bulletproof door. "Vincent?" A green light appeared above the door, the biometric facial recognition system granting him access with a robotic welcome message. "Show off."
His smirk was boyish.
In his shadow, I relied on my senses as we took the narrow staircase underground, sinking further into the abyss with peripatetic inclination.
My hands were glued to the wall for support. I did not trust the levels of steepness. "Vincent," I complained, unable to see anything in the dark. "If I miss a step and fall flat on my handsome face, I will skin you alive. Make no bones about it. I am mean with a blade."
"You will speak of this to no one," he laid down the law, and strangely, I felt a bubble of excitement in my stomach. "The Elite, I trust, but a firm belief in the reliability, truth and ability of superiority does not extend to the rest of the institution." A set of double doors opened in the dark hall, and suddenly, the motion detector electrified bright fluorescent lights. "Understand?"
Too stunned to respond, I inspected Vincent's secret headquarters from the doorway in slack-jawed dumbfoundedness.
The cavernous room of stainless-steel workstations and keypad-locked wall cabinets was aesthetically pleasing. A circular, mixed-media conference table with high-tech electronics and fancy office chairs dominated the middle section (It looked brand new, as if no one had ever utilised the space for intended business meetings) and the floor-to-ceiling compartment of black attire (shirts, trousers, suit jackets, leather shoes and boxer briefs) appeared to be strategically placed like a uniform for special weapons and tactics officers.
"Christ." My eyes catalogued everything in sight with keen interest. "What the fuck is this place?"
Vincent peeled out of his suit jacket. "My sanctuary."
"Right." My feet carried me through the fluorescent cave of esoteric weaponry, high-quality knives and echo suppressors. "You have been holding out on us."
"No, I have been consistently frank since the day I met you." Leaving the suit jacket on the workstation by the display cabinet of semi-automatic guns and sniper rifles, he washed his hands with soap and water in the commercial sink. "You have a short attention span."
"You are the real deal, huh?" I asked, not that I required an answer to the question. The drawer of execution methods (metal syringes and chemical bottles: midazolam, vecuronium bromide and potassium chloride) is self-explanatory. "Apothecary?"
"The States." He snatched the unopened vial of midazolam out of my hand. "That is to put someone to sleep. Would you like to volunteer as tribute?"
"Have a fucking day off." My brain inventoried the heavy-duty shelves of ammunition belts and magazine speedloaders. "Explain the drug combination."
"One syringe consists of three components." Vincent inserted the vial in the foam tray of sixty-seven compartments and shut the drawer. "Sedation, paralysation and cardiac arrest. It's quick but effective." He was curious about the syndicate's code of conduct. "What does the institution prefer?"
"Heroin overdose is successful in producing a desired result." Dr Death, the brains behind pharmaceutical science, specialised in the drug development process. I simply helped myself to disposable syringes and stabbed some fuckers. "Nate is the pharmacist. Ask him."
Vincent hummed lowly.
"All you need is a Batmobile." Fumbling with a weaponised executive pen, I twisted the piston converter clockwise to uncloak its partially serrated blade. "Bruce Wayne does not have shit on you."
"Do you have a sensory imbalance?" He is unsettled by the smallest of issues. "Why the compulsion to touch everything? Undiagnosed haphemania?"
"Punch in the eye?" I retorted, and his eyes did a rapid sweep of the ceiling. "Excuse me for showing an interest." Falling into a leather chair, I tucked my arms behind my head and kicked my feet onto the conference table. "Remind me to stay upstairs next time—away from he-who-shall-not-be-named."
Vincent glossed over the snide remark. "Must you wait for the others to proceed with the meeting?" He rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbows and eased onto the chair directly opposite me. "I am bored."
"Criminal supernumeraries benefit from the institution's patience and generosity." I got straight down to business. "Why? I officially denounced the majority of business partners for the flagitious decampment to Italian soil."
Vincent listened intently.
"Ignazio is a permissive potentate." After a silent stretch of anxiousness, I dropped my feet to the floor, elbows to the table and fingers interlaced. "Why does he continue to walk around with a heart in his chest?"
"The Italian will die the second he comes out from hiding." A deadly promise glittered in the man's steely eyes. "I will personally open fire."
With all the long-barrelled rifles showcased around the room, I never doubted him. "Still, I do not like it," I admitted, wearing my heart on my sleeve. "We look over our shoulders whilst he lives to see another day."
"Patience, Jones. Ignazio is in for a violent comeuppance." Vincent is purposely didactic. "Furthermore, we are not responsible for the pusillanimous leadership of others."
"I concur." Ignazio's cowardice is beyond frustrating, though. I want results. "But we are responsible for issues we can control."
Vincent eyed me with caustic humour. "What do you propose?"
"It's never too late to reframe actions." Emptying my trouser pocket, I lined up essentials on the table: matches, blunt wraps and a bud of kush. "A clean slate would be advantageous for Warren Enterprise."
"Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but new beginnings originated in France." His voice dripped with ironic sarcasm. "When Louis Brasseur, the patron de la mafia of Marseille, abandoned Warren Enterprise and amalgamated with the Italians." With notable impatience, he gently rocked in the leather chair, side to side. "Jones, I attend every closed-door conclave. You have already concluded that my brother's empire is safer under lock and key, hence the closure of licit business establishments and, with a heavy heart, Club 11. A clean slate is old news."
"In the beginning, I wasn't thinking clearly, so the situation was comprehensively mismanaged," I argued my case, and he hearkened to the voice of an apologetic man without disagreement. "I don't know, Vince. Warren got life, and I had zero seconds to pick up the pieces. Do you think anything could have prepared me for the judge's punishment? A life sentence? No. I never saw it coming. I thought the boss was indomitable."
His fingers spun a pound coin on the table.
"In the aftermath of Warren's imprisonment, I should have handled adversaries better," I said with inarticulate regret, running my finger across the pliable blunt paper, sprinkling cannabis evenly into the cavity. "But Dominic happened. Alice and the baby." Allies turned against the syndicate. Carter disappeared. "Emma."
"Your little friend from the rookeries of London." His hand slammed down on the table, the coin flattening beneath his palm. "Can the street-dweller handle the transition of grime to glamour?"
"Don't call her that." Provoked by the man's antagonistic tendencies, I rolled the deck into a decent-sized blunt. "Emma is not some girl, Vince."
Vincent scrutinised me with imperturbable poise and confidence, not a chink in his armour. "Was that an admission of love?"
"An admission of something." My heart felt like it was under attack. "Emma is neither an enemy nor the target of vitriol and judgement. I know how you operate. You question outsiders closely and aggressively to see if they are trustworthy. Interrogation is not necessary, not with her. I will not stand for it."
He wore a low, lazy smirk. "I have no objection to your courtship with Miss Hughes."
"You reproach every female you encounter." Warren's younger brother is the common denominator of scorned, revenge-seeking females. If he is not overly fond of someone, he will exert himself to the utmost capabilities to uncover their innermost secrets, then reveal them publicly to watch them squirm in the eye of judgement. Take Blaire, for example. He played her like a bastard fiddle for the sheer fact that he disliked her. And Celine, who he'd only known for five seconds, bore the brunt of his opposing viewpoints for introducing herself at Warren Manor. But one woman with total impunity has not gone unnoticed: Mrs Warren. "Aside from Alexa."
Vincent is just like his brother, impossible to read, but tonight, I had successfully caught him off-guard twice. The mask of indifference slipped, only slightly, for me to take note of the panic on his ruddy face.
"Guilt has very quick ears to an accusation," I quoted Henry Fielding, swiping the match across the matchboard to spark a dancing flame. "Do you want to talk about it? I am a good listener."
He levelled a serious look at me. "There is no conversation to be had."
"Really?" By the force of soporiferous drugs, I lit the blunt and relaxed in the man's company, exhaling a ribbon of thick smoke toward the high ceiling. "Cat got your tongue?"
"Contemplative," he spoke with dry, laconic wittiness. "Pardon my French, but the fucking incoherencies are indecipherable."
"Cut the shit." I am not the only one that's noticed the awkwardness of the unspeakable situation. People whisper rumours. The brothers talk. Vincent is struck down by limerence whenever Alexa walks into a room. "What's the deal, huh? Are you in love with Warren's wife?"
Vincent scowled. "First, I am gay, potentially sleeping with my best friend, Donny." A black and gold cigarette with Imperial London emblazoned on the filter dangled from the edge of his mouth. "Now, I am accused of loving my sister-in-law." A lighter flame ignited nicotine inhalation. "How can I take a serial vacillator seriously? You resort to nonsensicality."
Christ, I hate that I have warmed up to the twat. It was easier to lay into him when I despised him. "Just answer the question."
He spun the pound coin on the table again. "No."
"No?" An eyebrow canted. "What do you mean, no?"
"No, I am not in love with my brother's wife." He slid a round metal ashtray across the table for us to share. "Must I elucidate the nature of our platonic relationship to appease you?"
"Are you sure?" My suspicious mind did not cease to race with the concept of them having an affair. "I get the feeling you are not quite being honest with me, and that would suck, what, with us being all friendly and shit."
"And if I were in love with Alexa," he wondered, his brows tugged inward, and I could not differentiate between honesty and dishonesty, slick-talking and trickery. "What does that mean for us?"
"I swore fealty to the king of the underworld." That's the most straightforward question I have ever had to answer. "My loyalties lie with Warren."
Vincent never batted an eyelid. "Here is a secret for you." He flicked cigarette ash into the metal ashtray. "Your allegiance to my brother is commendable. For what it's worth, I am glad he found you that night."
My heart twinged.
"I used to be envious of your relationship. I wanted that, the big brother in my corner, love, patience and respect. I would have given anything to be on the receiving end of his approval. Now, I look at the situation differently." He glanced at the double doors when the repetitive click of footsteps approached the man cave. "Liam needed you more than I needed him."
"Without him, I would have died." A candid explanation is what he deserved. "We had a difficult upbringing. I lived in squalor with an abusive mother and an absent father, whereas he bounced from one foster home to another with people who did not want him." Smoke whispered through my lips. "You got dealt better cards. No one is mad about that. At least one of us had a happy childhood."
Vincent is silent. I know he is thinking about his mother, Valerie.
"You had no reason to envy us." Resting the half-smoked blunt in the ashtray, I leaned back in the chair to get comfortable, to let the effects of marijuana work through my veins. "I had to work hard for Warren's love, but you walked into his life and earned it for existing. That is the power of blood. I don't think you realise just how much he cares about you, Vince."
"Thank you," he whispered after a long stretch of silence. "Regardless of what feelings you think I might harbour for Alexa, I love Liam far too much to intentionally hurt him. I, too, swore fealty to him the moment I realised he was my brother. No matter what happens in life, I will forever have his best interest at heart."
Yet, I could not shake the coldness in the air, the nagging feeling eating away at me that he wanted more from the boss's wife.
"Listen," I hedged around the problem. "I do not want to know the truth." It's better for everyone if I am ignorant. "The heart decides, right?"
Vincent's jaw tensed.
"Just don't act on it," I gave him a friendly piece of advice. "Alexa will always choose him. And you will be left out in the cold as a consequence. That's if he doesn't kill you first."
The double doors opened.
"I was summoned!" Alexa strolled into the room on slender, silken legs, the train of her split-thigh cocktail dress dragging along the floor like a river of glitter. "I am not happy about this last-minute meeting. You owe me for this nonsense, Brad."
Great. I am in the shit again.
"I had a date with Jace tonight." Her long, sleek hair fell to the base of her spine. "My first night off since I gave birth to Isabella, and you ruined it."
"Ay, caramba." Thighs slackened casually, I turned in the chair to face her, deliberately touring the length of her body with approving eyes. "The environment is officially corrupted."
My boss's wife is undeniably perplexed.
"Look at you," I said, a flattering comment for the fresh-faced beauty in black. "All sexy and shit."
She flipped me the middle finger.
"Ouch." With a look of sheer horror, I slapped a hand on my chest to expunge the ache of my wounded heart. "Way to take a compliment."
Her hips swayed as she sauntered across the room.
Yes, I might have ogled her arse because where the fuck did it come from?
"Brad," Alexa castigated me for no damn reason, dumping her sparkly clutch purse onto the table. "Stop looking at my butt."
My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. I flung the other man in the room a quizzical look. "Why does she have a go at me but not you?"
Vincent shrugged.
Alexa's angel wings were on full display, the intricate feathers unfurling gracefully on the shimmer-dusted skin of her shoulder blades. "Brad!" she snapped, and I swear, I had an instant headache. "You'd think I had never worn a bloody dress before!"
"Calm down, gob-a-lot. It's not my fault there is so much skin flying about." I gestured to her chest, where her tits nearly poked out for a peep show. "Everything is in my bastard face."
Her eyes rolled.
"You had to walk past the brothers looking like that." Relighting the blunt, I took two puffs and proffered haze to Vincent. "Could the outfit be any more revealing?"
"Yes, I could roll the dress to my hips and flash my peach." With a facety attitude of contemptuousness, she flicked hair over her shoulder and lowered herself to the chair, her leg crossing over the opposite knee, her arms positioned on the armrests. "Then you would have something to complain about."
"How can one express dissatisfaction?" Vincent slipped her a long, speculative look, and then, tauntingly slow, his lips cracked into a wolfish smirk. "I love a good peach."
Alexa's face heated.
"It's not like we haven't seen it all before." The crazy bitch went ballistic and danced starkers at Club 11 in front of the brothers and the punters to piss off her husband. Not her finest moment in life. I got front-row seats to the striptease and never failed to remind the boss how I admired her rebellious heart. And her delectable-looking pussy. "It feels like a lifetime ago."
"At the club?" Vincent is lost in the fantabulous memory of her trying to work a stripper pole in seven-inch fuck-me heels. "Yes, I remember it well."
"Brad," Alexa sighed, disappointed. "You promised to erase that night from your memory."
Apparently, I make promises to break them. "Alexa in all her naked glory, exposing her arse to pervy old men."
Her red-polished fingernails drummed on the table. "Will you control yourself?"
"Moi?" Missing the good old days, I winked at her. "Never."
"Jones." Vincent's arm draped across the back of her chair, his fingers dangerously close to her shoulder. "Do not flirt with my brother's wife."
"You are only jealous because I can get away with it." Glaring at his hand with murderous intent, I imagined how loudly his bones would snap, crackle and pop if I gripped his arm, pushed his wrist back and applied the right amount of pressure to dislocate his naughty fingers. "Unlike some people, I know."
Vincent grunted something inarticulate.
"Hang on a minute." My stare bounced from Alexa to the double doors. "You were not surprised by the secret Batcave. Have you been here before?"
"Yes." Alexa toyed with the chain around her neck. "Why?"
"Well, that's fucking charming." It's nice to know that she received a personal invite long before the brothers. "Vincent, I am wholly offended—"
"So, Logan is upstairs." Alexa changed the subject to alleviate the tension in the air. "He has to live at the estate?"
It sounded like a question. "He is not welcome at Warren Manor."
"Logan will always have a home with me." Her frosty stare betrayed the calmness in her voice. "I miss him, Brad."
"I am with Jones on this one." Vincent stuck to the two-puff pass rule, returning the blunt to me. "You have a baby to consider. How can you take care of Isabella whilst stressing over an ungrateful teenager? Let him stay at the Jones' residence until he is mature enough to come home."
Alexa let out a sigh of despair.
"It's for his own good." Logan's in self-destruct mode. He is angry at the world, lashing out and throwing his life away. Alexa is too soft on him, letting him get away with murder. That's why he needs to be with someone else. If not Vincent, then me, to whoop his arse into shape. "Trust me. I know what I am doing."
"I trust you," she said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "But... Please do not be too hard on him. He's a good kid. He's just a little lost."
Oh, I have great plans for the boy, starting with an early morning wake-up call and a cheeky run with the sunrise. "I will not let you down."
Familiar laughter echoed in the hall, the double doors parting for two dapper-looking men in smart suits to enter. Thankfully, Josh came bearing gifts: takeout containers wrapped in an unpresentable cardboard box.
"Well, I'll be damned," Nate drawled, his eyes flickering from one cabinet to the next. "That's an Airsoft Surgeon." His inked finger aimed at the titanium sniper rifle on the shelf, the best level of versatility and modularity. "You got the Optic Thunder, huh?" He was like a kid in a candy shop, rubbing his hands together in moreish delight. "Vincent ain't playing."
Josh's spine bowed as he examined the Thunderhorse set of matt black throwing knives on one of the counters. "What's with all the weapons?" He ran the pad of his finger along the clip-point blade of a stainless-steel Hibben knife. "Are you any good?"
Vincent tapped an unlit cigarette on the table, then popped it between his lips. "Only the best."
Josh deposited the box of Greek-inspired dishes onto the table.
It's mealtime for the famished.
"You look nice," Josh complimented the woman's glamorous style as he tucked into a container of giouvarlakia dumplings sprinkled with fresh dill and zested lemon. "Hot date?"
"Jace bought grand tier box tickets to watch Puccini's La bohème at The Royal Opera House." Alexa dipped rosemary stuffed flatbread into olive oil. "A great love story that I will never get to see, thanks to the blond-haired idiot with his imperious demands."
"Why did you ruin her life?" Josh is too preoccupied with teasing techniques to notice the stolen dumpling melting in Alexa's mouth. "You should let her branch out and spread her wings."
"Thank you, Josh. I am glad someone has my back." Alexa's in heaven, the dumpling's filling of seasoned minced lamb dissolving on her tongue. "And I earned a date night with Jace. I have barely spent time with him since the baby was born."
"I am on your side, Alexa." Josh almost stabbed at the container with a plastic fork, but something stopped him: the pilfered dumpling. "You bunch of melts." He was instantly primed for a fight. "Who stole my food?"
I plead the fifth.
Josh's head slowly turned to Alexa. "It was you."
"Me?" Alexa's tongue swiped a speck of Greek yoghurt on her upper lip. "I have never tasted a dumpling before in my life."
"Liar." Josh crammed chips into his gob. "Glut. It's rude to take food off others' plates. I was saving that dumpling for the tzatziki sauce. I should shove my fingers down your throat until you throw up. You don't deserve to digest stolen goods."
"You shouldn't be eating that shit, anyway." Nate moved the bag of salted chips out of Josh's reach. "Cheat Day is next week. You have to train and bulk up."
"I am an Elite. I work out every day of the week. I can afford to eat steamed dough if I want to." Josh retook the chips, keeping the bag on his lap in case Dr Death tried to steal them from him. "Do not mess with a hungry man's dinner, Nate. If I want to eat, I will eat. If I want to be fat, I will be fat." A vein by his temple pulsed. "If I want to say fuck the gym and fuck you, I will say fuck the gym and fuck you!"
"You ungrateful piece of shit!" Nate's inked hands flattened on the table as he rose from the chair onto his feet. "I bust my ass off helping you. And for what? This level of bullshit? Fuck you, Josh!"
Alexa inspected her almond-shaped fingernails.
Recognising the signs of a physical altercation, I gingerly set the chicken-stuffed gyro aside and pushed to my feet. "Everyone take a breather—"
"I am sick of you!" Josh's low, savage snarl reverberated throughout the chemical-infused space. "Always riding my ass! I never signed up for a personal fucking drill sergeant when I joined Warren Enterprise!"
I don't know how it happened. One minute, the men are arguing—idle threats to rip each other's throats out—and then the gloves are off, angry fists flying, takeaway containers sliding.
A tub of spaghetti boiled in goat meat slapped me in the face. I spat anthotyro cheese out of my mouth, the soft, creamy texture of gag-worthy atrociousness trickling down my chin.
Josh can hold his own in a fistfight, but he could not take on Nate if you paid him. The guy is built like a brick shit house. A machine of muscle and iron. So, when Josh landed on the floor with Nate on top of him, I was not surprised, not in the slightest, because the syndicate's jack of all trades is not someone you want to fuck with.
"That's enough." Removing the slush on my face, I gripped Nate's shoulders and dragged him off the lad, disconnecting their tangled bodies and forcing him to stand. "Nate—"
Nate pulled the Glock on Josh, the barrel pointing directly at the target. He stood over the lad like an impenetrable wall of muscle, the most disgusted sneer on his scrunched-up face.
Everyone went quiet, so quiet you could hear a pin drop on the floor. I cleared my throat, silently asking Nate to calm down, to consider his actions.
"Seriously?" Josh's brown hair stuck out in all directions as he staggered to his feet, a rivulet of blood on his busted-up lip. "You'd squeeze the trigger on me?"
"Nate," I said, concerned for the lad, but Nate refused to look at me, his chest heaving for breath. "Come on..."
"Fuck him," Nate spat, his finger hovering over the trigger. "I am tired of his bullshit. He doesn't deserve to be here. Fuck if he ever did."
"Nate?" Alexa's hand closed around the gun, her fingers touching his tightly clenched fist. "Josh is one of us. You will never forgive yourself if you hurt him."
When Nate took his eye off Josh to reply to Alexa, I swooped in without hesitation and disarmed him. I snatched the weapon out of his hand, taking control of the situation.
"You gun-toting dickhead," I ripped him a new arsehole, thrusting the gun beneath the waistband of my trousers. "You do not have the authority to kill or threaten one of the brothers. That's on me, and you fucking know it."
Josh smoothed two hands over his head to tidy his appearance.
"I am done with this omnishambles," I said, not bothering to sit down. "Now is not the time to argue and fall apart. Warren is relying on us to get shit done. Let's get down to business so I can go home and see my son."
Nate's jaw muscle throbbed.
"I will start with you," I said, jabbing Alexa in the chest with the tip of my finger. "You are going to boot camp, bitch."
Alexa's entire body recoiled. "Did you just call me a bitch?"
"Yes." A derisive snort. "Shamelessly."
"Asshole."
"Proud."
"Thank you for the impolite offer, but I decline." Her smile was nothing short of sinister. "You will not force the barracks on me."
"I can, and I will." You see, I never asked if she'd like to attend the barracks out of the goodness of my heart. It was a demand. Therefore, she does not get a say in the matter. "The fortification of self-defence is non-negotiable."
"I can defend myself." Her shoulder thrust me out of the way as she deserted the circle to return to her seat at the table. "I don't need an enforcer to teach me how to fire a gun. Jace did that already."
In a flash, without a moment's thought, I swiped the stainless-steel throwing knife off the steel counter, snatched the nape of Alexa's neck before she could become seated and overpowered her with unnecessary strength.
She squealed with a mixture of panic and shock, her back crashing into my chest, her fingernails tearing at my forearm that was locked around her throat.
And that's all it took for me to put her in her place, the sharpest point of the blade digging into the side of her neck, right over the internal carotid artery.
I could kill her right now if I wanted to.
My lips tickled the shell of her ear when I whispered, "Dead."
"You son of a bitch." Alexa slapped the knife out of my hand, the heavy blade skittering along the floor. "You killed me!"
Vincent watched Alexa closely as she powered through the room with furious strides. "Angel, I thought you could defend yourself."
"That mishap does not count." Her hand delved into the under counter cupboard for a bottle of Grey Goose. "I keep my walls down around him because I do not expect him to betray me!"
Vincent's scowl deepened. "Betrayal is such a strong word." He is my best friend tonight, and honestly, I appreciated his input more than I let on. "Jones was merely proving a point. Judging by the vodka bottle in your hand, it is safe to assume that scaremongering worked."
With a face like a slapped, peachy—pun intended—arse, Alexa poured vodka into a stainless-steel tumbler and finalised the drink with a sterling silver straw.
"Nate, I want Alexa to have extensive physical and firearms training," I ordered, and he accepted the challenge. "Do not go easy on her, either. If she doesn't know how to throw a decent punch and quick-swap firearms within three months, I will personally hold you accountable."
"God." Alexa scoffed into the tumbler. "I know how to use a gun."
"Get your shit together, Mrs Warren." Nate is all smiles, the wind-up merchant. "Your ass is mine."
"Command?" Alexa smirked with devilish mischief. "I would like to raise a grievance," she said tightly. "Unfair treatment."
I had the urge to laugh. "Who is treating you unfairly?"
Alexa's eyes turned into beady slits.
"Do not misinterpret the situation. Protection outweighs mistreatment," I said loosely, as the assignment is for the greater good. "I have to regain Warren's Empire. The last thing I need to worry about is you at the mercy of adversaries. Do as your bastard told, or I will lock you underground until the boss is exonerated. How's that for unfair treatment?"
"Sure." Her eyelashes fluttered. "Fine."
"Fine," I replied snippily.
"Fine," she clapped back.
"Fine!" I had to stop myself from belting her disobedient arse. "Anything else?"
"Maybe." Her lips pushed into a disdainful pout. "I had a date with Dominic this afternoon."
Yes, I am aware. Mabel is informative. "So, I was told."
"Imagine my surprise when I dropped him off at the estate and ran into Emma Hughes." Alexa failed miserably at downplaying the role of an investigator. "An overnight bag was present in the kitchen."
Christ, I love the red-lipped vixen. "You are so nosey."
"Thank you." A delighted smile. "I want all the details."
If it were just the two of us, I would pour my heart out and tell her everything, beginning, middle and end, but we are not alone. We have eyes and ears in the room. "I have nothing to say."
"Oh, please," Alexa groused with stoic bafflement. "A woman is in your house, keeping your bed warm. There is plenty for you to say."
Feeling the heat of the brothers' expert scrutiny, I scratched my jaw, fully aware of the unwanted attention my procrastination was starting to draw. "Emma is..." Everything I ever wanted. "I asked if she would like to be in an exclusive relationship with me."
"I knew it!" Alexa's hands clapped with excitement. "Tell me everything."
"Oh, I can fill in the gaps." Josh uninvitingly elected himself for the task. "I spent the entire weekend in their cringeworthy, lovesick company. Friday, the sexual tension between them was off the charts. Saturday, they argued, then locked me out of the suite and fucked each other all night long," he sang Lionel Richie and Nate doubled over with hysterics. "All night long!"
"Shut up, Joslyn!" I berated him for breaking the bro code. "Like you can fucking talk." My icy glare dared him to deny it. "Did Josh tell everyone about Pedro?"
Nate's smile fell to the floor. "Who the fuck is Pedro?"
"Brad!" Josh blushed a deep scarlet. "Why?"
Friendship among men is momentarily over for the snitch. I was sent here to expose him. "He got into a frisky foursome: two hot chicks and a rubber dildo."
"I did not get frisky with Pedro." Josh ran a hand over his head. "I bolted out of the room as soon as those horny bitches waved that fucker in my face."
"Sailor..." Nate is squeamish about toys near his back passage. "I thought the toe-sucking was bad, but you went too far this time. A dildo? How can you do that to yourself, Man?"
"I am not a toe-sucker. And I never touched any sex toys." Josh is exhausted by the ordeal. He knows he cannot win this battle. "It was them, Patty and Mary. They tried to seduce me. I am the victim here!"
Nate's stare dipped to the lad's rear end. "Is your ass sore?"
"No, my virgin ass is not sore!" Josh is fighting for his life. "What part of I-bolted-out-the-room-as-soon-as-those-horny-bitches-waved-that-fucker-in-my-face did you not understand?" His arms outstretched widely to highlight the magnitude of the problem. "The fuck? You act like I went to town on it!"
"Oh, my God." Alexa buried her face in Vincent's chest to smother the giggles/snorts escaping her mouth. "Greedy gobbler."
Josh's eyes narrowed at her.
"Not to mention Carol Anne," I ratted him out. "He pulled out all the stops and ventured to fucking Narnia with that cock strangling nympho."
"Carol Anne?" Nate lips twisted in disapproval. "You got serious issues, Sailor."
"Brad, I hate you." Josh was mid-step over the spilt food on the floor when Vincent's hand struck him in the chest. "Can I help you?"
"You ignorant fool." Vincent pointed to mashed-up moussaka with a finger click. "Do I look like a janitor? I am not responsible for another person's untidiness."
"Wait!" Alexa's brow bowed down in puzzlement. "How did you spend the weekend with Emma and her sister? I thought you attended an international fashion conference?"
"Long story," Josh shut the conversation down, using a plastic fork to scrape crushed courgette balls into an empty takeaway container. "Don't ask."
Nate went down on one knee to help clear the squished white fish. "So, what's the purpose of this meeting, anyway?" He flinched when something sticky grazed his fingers. "I know you didn't call everyone down here to discuss Mrs Warren's amateurish marksmanship."
Alexa ignored everyone's running commentary.
My backside fell into the chair. "What's the functional pillar that supports Warren Enterprise?" The streets raised me. Warren's passionate tone of voice played like a symphony in the back of my mind. "What put him on the map?"
"Poverty?" Nate shrugged one shoulder. "Violent neighbourhoods."
"That's where it all began, right?" Warren broke down doors, took over turfs and demanded allegiance. He started from the bottom and worked his way up the ladder until the throne fell into his possession. He never looked back. "The fall of Warren's Empire is a disastrous odyssey, but we have not lost until every one of us is buried six feet under."
Vincent pulled out a chair for Alexa to sit down. Only then did he return to his rightful position for the entirety of the conversation. "What's in the pipeline?"
"I want to rebuild our army, make it stronger than ever before." Thoughts of the boss in a cast-iron cage drove me forward. "Business is closed until further notice. As far as Ignazio is concerned, he won the war. Warren is in prison. The firm is gone. We go our separate ways and wallow in self-pity."
"You want us to separate?" Alexa asked, and my silence was enough. "But why? We are stronger together. Brad, I need..." Her sad eyes memorised every detail on my face. "I need you."
"Hey, I am not walking away from you, Sugar Tits." But I need a stellar plan for the disadvantageous situation to present an advantageous position. "Ignazio will believe in our defeat. However, in reality, the fight has only just begun."
"Okay." Alexa blew out a shuddered breath. "In you, I trust."
"Nate, I need previous assignments to be severely bowdlerised," I instructed, and within seconds, he was in work mode: black-framed reading glasses, a leather-bound notepad and a fountain pen. "New missions will be handed out to the brothers and neatly docketed prior to the subdivision of the institution."
Josh shared a confused look with Alexa.
"Put every Bentley underground," I reeled off loose ends. "Roll out new, bulletproof vehicles with fake licence plates to the brothers. Not one car is the same."
"Stealth mode, huh?" Josh slid an arm over Alexa's shoulders, pulling her to his side for a friendly hug. "I like it."
Alexa had tears in her eyes. "I hate it."
"As for employees?" I had so many people to care for, club girls, bar staff, security guards, chefs, servers--the list is endless. "Put everyone on statutory sick pay pending further information."
"Can we afford it?" Josh asked whilst Nate made a note to double-check the payroll software. "Are we going underground with the wheels?"
Alexa read the answer in my eyes. "No," she protested, not having a bar of it. "You can't do this, Brad. We are not broken. We are not weak. We do not hide." A tear of devastation is on her cheek. "We can take on anyone that stands in our way. We fight back every fucking time. My husband demands it."
"Everyone is going to die," I stressed, not that she cared to listen. "If we do not make serious changes, I will lose everything in battle. Is that what you want?"
"No." She wiped the tear on her cheek. "But we should not be forced to live below the surface. What about the children? A life in the dark is not life at all."
"I made a purchase. I bought a safe house in Surrey." It's only an hour's drive from London. "If staying underground is too difficult, then everyone will be relocated until further notice."
"And Logan?" Alexa is aghast by the new game plan. "What about college? He has to study."
"Logan will receive private tutoring until I give everyone the all-clear," I spoke with strict authority. "It is impossible for attackers to enter a heavily guarded estate. He will be safe."
"The same applies to Warren Manor." Nate put Alexa's mind at rest. "However, if there is a security breach in the next few months, I agree with Brad. Everyone must relocate to the safehouse until we shut down Ignazio's operation."
Alexa is scared. I can see it in her eyes. "Have you both thought about Celine and Emma? What if the Italians target them?"
Nate looked at me for guidance.
"It's going to get nasty, isn't it?" Alexa did not need confirmation. "What is the first assignment?"
"Mass destruction." There is no free pass. If you are not with us, you are against us. "Innocent people will die. The Italians will retaliate."
Alexa cupped her mouth.
"But first, I need an armed force." Accepting a pre-rolled blunt off Josh, I ignited the end with a lighter flame. "Our first hit will transpire in three weeks."
Nate scribbled down notes.
"Starting with the streets." Sin City is there for the taking and I am a willing participant. "Those who turned against us will bleed." Louis Brasseur can enjoy his last summer before the angel of death comes for him like a shadow of the night. "Vincent, I need you to handle former business associates, preferably overseas."
"Gladly," Vincent agreed, reading between the lines. "Anything else?"
"Yes." We fought with the local Italians but never hit our enemies where it truly hurt: their motherland. "Ignazio attacked first. He came into our city and hurt the people we loved. Karma is a bitch. I want you to track down Eli in Italy and wipe out every relative, friend, neighbour and associate connected to Johnny Cazale, Anthony Costello, Saverio Bosqui and Ignazio Corrazzo. See if you can help the Ukrainian find Christina Moschini while you are there."
Vincent hummed in thought. "What of Alberto Moretti?"
"No, I will hunt down Moretti." Alberto, the lying, two-faced, opportunistic tosser and his entourage of preponderantly disloyal ilks will die at my hands. "Josh, I need an update on the Vasiliev brothers before I put this operation in motion. Are they friends or foes? Did we ever find out if they were in cahoots with the Italians?"
"We have tapped into Nikolai's phone calls and read his emails." Josh is unfazed by the Russian politician. "There is no tangible evidence to suggest that both parties know each other. In my honest opinion, I think the Vasiliev brothers are corrupt arseholes, but that segment of corruption does not apply to us. They have their agenda to worry about: The rapist brother on lockdown. I say, let's give them a chance. You said it yourself. We need allies."
Nate jotted information down.
"Are we in agreement?" I asked the others if they had reached an accord. "Good. I will pay the Russians a friendly visit next week. I want to know if he is still in contact with Warren. If so, I can work with him to strengthen our position." Nikolai might have friends that want to do business with us. "Did we get answers on the new governor at Belmarsh? I have not received any updates from the boss's lawyer."
"Carl Bishop?" Dropping the pen on the table, Nate slumped back in the chair with two arms braced across his chest. "You know, I haven't spoken to him in a while. No emails. No text messages. Not one phone call." His forehead wrinkled with deep-set lines of worry. "I should swing by his apartment and make sure he is alive and kicking. It's not like him to go off the grid without notice."
Vincent splashed a hefty amount of vodka into stainless-steel tumblers and arranged them on the table for everyone, a cold drink to end the meeting.
"I hope Carl is okay." Alexa is sitting on the edge of her seat, her foot tapping the floor restlessly, the vodka cup tight in her knuckle-white hand. "I am curious. What is the final assignment?"
"The Palace of Westminster," I said honestly, and the four of them exchanged concerned glances. "If we want Nikolai in the big boy's office, I need to eradicate the rats to make room for him."
Nate is in disbelief. "You wanna take a shot at the government?"
"Only the ones that refuse to forge an unbreakable bond." My plan is going to work this time. I just need some time to fit the pieces together. "Look, I have to strategise future actions. In the meantime, I want the syndicate to obliterate the streets and work towards rival organisations, inclusive of limited companies, partnerships and corporations. You can be the CEO of the company or a small business owner. I don't give a fuck. You are paying for the syndicate's protection whether you like it or not. But first, I want you to put the fear of God into them. You make them wish they'd never been born."
Josh is focused on the task ahead. "And if they decline our offer?"
"Dump them in the Thames with all the other tossers that challenged us over the years." My body was tense, the heavy burden of Warren's crown weighing heavily on my head. "I know it sounds messy. I still need to prepare the brothers. But we got something the Italians lack. Each other."
Alexa's lips stretched into a nostalgic smile.
"Command." Nate's hand came to my shoulder. "Rule number forty-eight: Family is not defined by blood."
"Rule number sixteen: Have faith in the hands of those who braced you," Josh recited the rules. "Never give up hope."
"Eighteen." Raising the tumbler, I made a toast to the men, Alexa, and our future together. "We don't keep our enemies close. We bury them."
"Ninety-nine," Alexa whispered, and four pairs of different-coloured eyes turned to her. "Remember me, for I will never forget you."
An unfamiliar ache settled in my chest. "I am done with this shit." My hand tightened around the tumbler as I poured neat vodka down my throat. "Who's ready for the biggest hit in mafia history?"
Nate kissed his military tag. "I was fucking born ready."
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I will be back for typos. ❤️
Another long update. I think it's safe to say that I have missed writing. I can't seem to stop myself once I start. 🤣
Anyway, thoughts on the update? I really enjoyed writing this one. It was nice to have the original gang together, even with the hiccups.
I am looking forward to the next instalment so that I can level-up some of the soldiers.
FYI: Eli is up and coming. I'm sure #rr's can remember his close relationship to Alexa? 👀 And the pigeon man.
Who else deserves a promotion? We have room for a few more.
—Brad?
—Vincent?
—Clayton?
—Logan?
—Jax?
—Alfie?
—Alexa?
—Jace?
—Isabella?
—Josh?
—Nate?
—Emma?
—Warren?
—Carl Bishop?
—The Italians?
—The Russians?
—Alberto Moretti?
I can't remember everyone mentioned in this chapter. It was a long rundown, lol. Who did I forget? I bet there's someone.
Thank you for reading. ❤️
Please don't forget to vote. ⭐️
P.S. This is the penultimate chapter. Deception is almost complete. 💜