I had a private and confidential document on the desk. It was delivered at the crack of dawn by an unidentified male who worked as a representative for specific individuals at the metropolitan police department. For too long, I studied the sealed envelope. Hours of indecisiveness increased irritation. I have pondered the advantages and disadvantages, positives and negatives, benefits and disbenefits, and I am at the point where a decision must be made, as time is of the essence, yet I procrastinated and delayed with a pen in hand.
"Sixty-three-year-old Vito Colombo." Nate stood by the floor to ceiling window. He is mildly distracted by the innumerable delivery vehicles obstructing the extensive driveway. "His sojourn to London only started two weeks ago. He is due to fly home to Palermo next week. However, his confabulation with Bosqui in the hospital's car park suggested that he might stick around until Moretti is awake."
"Well, that pissed all over our theories." Brad rubbed irritation from his weary eyes. "If Colombo and Bosqui await Moretti's consciousness, it rules out feuds between their families. Therefore, the Italians believe we set them up—not that I give a fucking toss." He eyeballed me. "You, however, seek conciliation rather than war. How blissfully poetic?"
I rolled the pen across the desk. "What do we know?"
Nate opened Vito's file. "Colombo spent twenty-two years in Rebibbia Prison for narcotics trafficking and two counts of first-degree murder."
Brad sat on the leather sofa, kicking his feet onto the coffee table. "Early release?"
"He managed to evade life imprisonment." Nate tossed the file on the desk. "Never married. No children. He lives and dies by the Sicilian Mafia, the Cosa Nostra. I found no evidence to suggest he is the capo dei capi, though."
"About the sniper." Brad unwrapped a breakfast roll he had purchased en route to the Manor and went in for a large bite. "Conveniently, electrical interference damaged Hyde Park's surveillance footage at the time of the attack, so the marksman remains a mystery."
"Or markswoman," Josh added, and the men tuned in to listen. "We can never be too sure, right?"
"Don't be so soft." Brad squirted brown sauce inside the bread roll. "It's not a bird."
"How can you know that without factual evidence?" Josh debated. "I think it's Blaire."
"What?" Nate's spine straightened. "It ain't Blaire."
"Again, how can you be certain?" Josh asked, and his jaw muscle ticked. "She had a good teacher."
"Yeah, I taught her how to fire a Glock and how to taser some motherfucker. But we never practised sniper rifles. Hell, I don't even own a fucking rifle, so how could she get her hands on one?"
Brad sucked sauce off his thumb. "Did she have access to importation?"
Everyone waited for Nate's response.
"During conveyance?" Tsking, he scratched his chest. "Probably. I deliver imported firearms weekly. Blaire came along for the drive every now and then."
"If Blaire is the sniper?" Having lost his appetite, Brad slapped the breakfast roll onto the takeaway container. "Warren was the target."
From his comfortable position in the leather wing chair, Josh glanced at the ajar door. "If Blaire had a target, I reckon the bullet was meant for Alexa. I mean, think about it. Her hatred toward Alexa was unwarranted. None of us understood her bitterness until the night she confessed to the boss. She is in love with Warren. In her sad, twisted little mind, she believes Alexa is standing between them."
My blood ran cold.
"I like it." Brad sipped coffee. "I think—what the fuck is that?" Jumping feet first onto the sofa, he gesticulated to the crawling bug on the floor. "I swear on everything bastard holy. It is bigger than Robert Wadlow's fucking head. Stomp on it already."
Rolling his eyes, Nate grabbed an empty glass from the minibar and caged the bug to one designated area on the floor. "Princess."
"I'll fucking-princess-you, in a minute." Dabbing sweat from his forehead, Brad gathered the half-eaten breakfast roll, coffee mug and unlit blunt and relocated to the space by the desk edge. He pulled up a chair. "Howdy, Bossman. I came for a visit."
Brad's eccentricities kept me sane. Of course, he can switch it off, when necessary, but I preferred his vivaciousness, especially when irritable.
"Sir, I have turned London upside down looking for this bitch." Nate's anxiousness peaked. "Blaire went off-the-grid. Hiding from the syndicate makes logistical sense. She knows better than to hang around. I bet she boarded the first available flight to Mexico to escape death."
Pensive, I stared.
His shamefaced gaze raked over the brothers. "You don't believe me."
I didn't know what to believe anymore. "You are intelligent, loyal and dependable. But you do not think clearly where Blaire is concerned. You are too emotionally invested. Unless you prove otherwise, how can I differentiate the truth from lies? After all, you defended her honour unreservedly. For all I know, Blaire is in a safe house somewhere, and you are the one who put her there."
"No, Sir." Nate had never looked so pale. "I will hunt her down and vindicate myself."
A knock on the door.
Everyone's expressions morphed into impassiveness.
I relaxed in the leather armchair. "Come in."
"Sorry to disturb you." Alexa strolled into the office clad in seamless yoga pants and a cross-back design sports bra. "Yes, I am sweating like a pig. I just ran on the treadmill for thirty minutes."
Tapping the space on my thigh, I slipped an arm around her waist, kissing her shoulder as she got comfortable. "What can I do for you, Mrs Warren?"
She reached for the wireless keyboard. "I need to borrow the computer for, like, five seconds."
"Great," Brad groused. "Ten hours of online shopping then. Alexa, I have seen your wardrobe. You have enough shoes to last a lifetime."
"You're one to talk." Typing cake deliveries into the search bar, she clicked on the first link and scrolled through designs. "You own more Ferragamo shoes than Salvatore himself."
"Salvatore is dead," he said with a sardonic smile. "And I don't know what you're talking about. I only own the shoes on my feet."
Alexa selected the three-tiered basketball cake alongside black and orange cupcakes. Tapping her card details, she chose a delivery date and closed the browser.
Josh built a deck on the coffee table. "Alexa?"
Her eyes raised. "Yes."
"What's fat, round," he licked the rizla seam, "and bounces off the ground?"
Arching an eyebrow, she muttered, "Your mum."
"Uh." He smacked his chest in feigned dismay. "My mother is dead."
"So is mine." Her mouth twisted up. "What's your point?"
"Such a buzzkill." Pinching the blunt between his fingers, he rolled, adding a roach to the end. "I can't even crack a joke with you anymore."
"Mother jokes are not funny."
"Well, it sounded funny when the guy at the petrol station said it to me."
"I am surprised he lived to hear the end of it."
"I was in a good mood."
Nate pointed to the vehicles outside. "Is the Manor under renovation or something? What's with all the transit vans?"
"I am throwing Logan a sweet sixteenth." Her arm slid across my shoulders. "I expect everyone to attend," she added, and the men mithered their reluctance. "Hey, don't be so spiteful. I thought you liked Logan."
"It's not about 'like' or 'dislike'." Brad polished off the rest of his coffee. "I just can't think of anything worse than paralytic teenagers."
My finger strokes to Alexa's hip halted. "I did not agree to alcohol."
"Everyone will be under observation." Her hand massaged the nape of my neck. "Logan will have zero guests if I ban alcohol. You know what teenagers are like. If we don't make it fun for them, they will go elsewhere."
"No harsh liquor," I said, and she agreed. "I am not responsible for their actions. If their parents turn up uninvitedly, I will be displeased." A thought accord. "Where is the boy?"
"I think Logan is embarrassed." She took a sip from my coffee mug. "He has barely said two words to me since the night we found him on the bathroom floor. Tre hasn't shown his face, either."
Brad accepted the half-smoked blunt from Josh. "What happened?"
"Logan attended a house party last week." Her shoulders drooped. "Some kid spiked his beer. It was messy."
"Brutal." Brad tousled his shoulder-length hair. "The boy is too trusting. I bet he won't make that mistake again."
"Hopefully." Leaving a chaste kiss on my cheek, she headed for the door. "Well, I will let you get back to work."
Everyone waited for the door to close.
"If anyone can find Blaire, it is you." I looked at Nate. "Enough with the excuses. I want her bleeding out in the chamber by the end of the week. Do whatever is necessary to accomplish. Understand?"
His head dipped. "Yes, Sir."
I clicked my fingers.
Josh slid documents across the desk. "The redevelopment of Timothy's Casino. I need you to sign these before contractors can get to work. With your permission, I would like to make a suggestion."
I blinked.
"Except for the entrance's Roman architecture, the casino is virtually dilapidated. If we can preserve the building's focal point and save the Roman columns, I think contractors should demolish the rest."
I viewed the images.
"I took the liberty of creating new blueprints. While assessing the original design, I found interesting outlines for the casino's underground space. It's fucking huge. You cannot access the tunnel due to brickwork obstruction, though. If you give the go-ahead, I will have the wall ripped down. I am not sure about you guys, but I want to know what's down there."
"Andino and his skeletons," Brad said humorously. "I cannot wait to disentomb mummified corpses." He shuddered. "So, what is the verdict?"
Clicking the top of the pen, I scribbled signatures across the dotted lines. "Authorise demolition equipment." Sliding the documents into a file, I handed them over to Josh. "I have big plans for the casino. Exceed expectations."
Josh's eyes dazzled with excitement. "I won't let you down, Sir."
***
I saw him emerge from the tall, manicured hedges onto the extensive lawned garden, the coruscating solar lights leading him across the granite patio. He wore an unbuttoned trench coat over his dark grey suit. He was pink-cheeked, and jet-black hair irritated his tired, sunken eyes.
Relaxing in the rattan chair, I studied the dark sky, where midnight stars constellated between nimbostratus clouds. Feeling the soft wind in my hair, I wiped speckles of rain from my face. "It's the calm before the storm."
Vincent eased onto the chair opposite me. "You look lost."
I eyed him then. "I can say the same for you."
"I shan't bore you," he said with an air of despondence. "What is the development?"
My gaze settled on the incomplete bespoke garden bar and lounge. "Alexa is in the process of organising Logan's sixteenth birthday party."
"What is next?" His upper lip curled. "Life-sized ice sculptures and a fusillade of fireworks?"
I sparked a cigarette. "Do not give her any ludicrous ideas."
His curious eyes raked over the Manor. "Where is she?"
"In the theatre room." Exhaling a veil of smoke, I reached for the whiskey glass on the low table. "Care for a drink?"
"I am not staying." He held out an envelope. "I believe those belong to you."
Accepting the envelope, I tore through the seal and Bill's gloves landed on my lap. Dislodging the lump in my throat, I thumbed the worn leather. "Where did you get these?"
"You left them at Valerie's house." He helped himself to the cigarette packet on the table. "Why are they important to you?"
I slid the gloves back into the envelope. "They belonged to Bill."
"The eccentric Jamaican." Matching a flame, he lit the cigarette's tip, wafting smoke out of his face. "He left them for you?"
"No, I stole them from him," I jocosely told him. "I believe they belonged to his grandfather."
"Family heirloom," he said, and I shrugged. "And here I thought you were immune to sentimentalism."
I cared when it mattered.
Vincent respired smoke, and the long, tired exhale seemed to exhaust him.
Instinct led me in the right direction. "Valerie?"
"Yes." His voice was thick and strained. "Let's not pretend that you care, brother."
"I mightn't sympathise with your mother," I said tightly, unable to address her as my own. "However, I will make small allowances for you."
I was rewarded with a weak, vulnerable smile. "Valerie was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer." He was too stubborn to blink, for blinking exposed tears. "She will be lucky to see three months." Rubbing his eyes, he took another drag on the cigarette. "I love her, Liam."
My breath shuddered. "I wish I could make it right for you."
"No, you don't." He looked heavenward. "You needn't pretend with me, brother. You hate Valerie, and rightfully so."
"You misinterpreted what I said." Squeezing his knee, I refilled the whiskey glass with Macallan. "I wish I could make it right for you. Not her."
His brows gathered. "Isn't it the same?"
"No," I said calmly. "I would take away your pain but not hers."
Vincent was quiet as he stood. "Anyway, duty calls."
I sipped whiskey. "What is the job?"
He thought about lying to me. "Liberal Democrat."
Evasive, I mused. "What business do you have with the House of Lords?"
Again, he considered lying. "Extramarital affair."
"Vincent," I said exasperatingly, and he flashed me a boyish smirk. "You complain when I don't take an interest."
He sighed in defeat. "Scarlet Fernsby."
Lord Fernsby's wife. "What about her?"
"Besides the fact, her husband's cheating scandal made a mockery out of her?" His eyebrows lifted. "She paid me to kill him." He glimpsed at his wristwatch. "In forty-eight minutes and twenty one seconds, to be exact."
"How much?"
"I accept no less than one hundred grand per hit."
My brother was still a mystery to me. "How will you execute?"
"He and his wife live in an apartment at Regents Crescent, which is quite the dilemma."
I was intrigued. "Why?"
"The building is not easily accessible." He grimaced under scrutinisation. "At least, not without causing a disturbance."
I drank tartness dregs of whiskey from the glass. "Then, what will you do?"
"There are a few clinics within the vicinity of Regents Crescent." He rocked back on the heels of his shoes. "I will select a suitable rooftop and await his appearance. According to Scarlet, his lordship," he muttered sarcastically, "sneaks to the balcony in the early hours to call his mistress. Now, if you will excuse me."
My pulse kicked up a notch as I watched him walk away. "What will be the cause of death?"
Vincent paused in the middle of the garden path. "Gunshot wound to the head."
Even though rage began to burn inside me, I maintained composure. "That is quite the distance for a semi-automatic."
"Barrett." He winked. "Another time, brother."
When Vincent disappeared into the night, I picked up the Macallan bottle and headed indoors. Leaving tonight's therapeutic essentials on the kitchen island, I paced through the Manor's many halls to the underground.
Alexa's laughter resounded from the gym. I followed the sound of her voice, stopping at the threshold to see her and Logan going through a sequence of sparring techniques in the boxing ring.
When our eyes collided, she smiled fondly. "Hey." She patted her sweat-misted forehead with a towel. "Are you okay?"
Perspiration dripped down Logan's back in beads. His gaze dropped to the ground to avoid an unavoidable reprimand.
Folding my arms, I rested a shoulder on the doorframe. "You hide from me."
"Yeah, I mean, about the other night..." He was tongue-tied and red-cheeked. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? The last thing I wanted to do was put stress on you. I don't even know what happened."
"Firstly, an apology is purposeless when said in vindication," I educated him. "If you make a mistake? Own it. Secondly, recklessness is synonymous with thoughtlessness, which means you have no consideration for others. I warned you at the very beginning." I pointed at him. "Do not upset my wife."
He swallowed what looked like a painful lump.
"Moreover, senseless idiots deserve consequence in lieu of mollification because they are foolish enough to trust outsiders to begin with." Pushing away from the doorframe, I went to the workbench directly opposite the boxing ring. "What have we learnt?"
Logan's face was purple. "Not to trust outsiders."
"Never abandon habitual defence." My back rested against the workbench. "This boy came at you with argumentative intent. He accused you of flirting with his girlfriend."
He nodded.
"At what point did you find his passive-aggressiveness questionable? Was it before the altercation or after he suddenly adopted a new personality?" I probed, and he looked at my wife for guidance, but she turned her head, leaving him to fight his own battle. "Answer the question."
"I thought..." He yanked the boxing gloves off his hands. "His apology seemed genuine. If I'd have known he planned to get me back, I'd have never accepted the beer."
"So?" My arms outstretched. "What have we learnt?"
Rubbing his inflamed knuckles, he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. "To never let my guard down with outsiders."
I gave him a curt nod.
He stared blankly at me. "Nobody has my back like I do, right?"
"You are not accountable for another person's immorality. But you are responsible for your own actions. Next time, when someone you do not know, holds out an olive branch? Wrap it around their fucking neck."
Logan chuckled once out of nervousness.
"It's really late." Alexa's arm snaked around his waist and, with so much love in her eyes, she smiled at him. "You should get some sleep."
His arms locked around her shoulders for a tight squeeze. "Alexa," he whispered, thinking I was out of earshot. "I love you."
"Ditto," she said quietly. "Goodnight."
Logan stepped down from the ring. "Night, Liam."
To the repetitive thumps of Logan's retreating footfalls, I turned to the workbench to busy my hands with random boxing equipment. I felt Alexa's nearness before her arms tightened around my waist. "Something happened," she said, reading me like I was an open book. "Do I need to kill someone?"
I flung adhesive tape aside. "It's not Blaire."
Her body stiffened. "What's not Blaire?"
"The shooter." Tugging her between me and the workbench, I positioned my hands on the counter to cage her in. "Blaire did not aim fire, nor did the Italians."
"No?" Alexa was understandably confused. "Then, who did?"
I bellied indignation. "Vincent."
———————————————————————————
A late update, but I finished it, so I thought, why not?
Anyways, thoughts on the chapter?
—Liam
—Brad
—Nate
—Josh
—Alexa
—Vincent
—Logan
—Blaire
If you enjoyed it, please don't forget to vote! ⭐️