Page 12 of Corrupt

“Yeah.” I huffed. “A big fuck-off reason.” I tilted my head, studying him, seeing him differently. The eight months. The silence. The fact he hadn’t just forgotten. “So what’re you doing in my place, Tricky?”

He widened his eyes. “Your place?”

“Yeah.”

“You… own this?” He gestured around at the dingy cupboard full of mops and disinfectant as if that was the whole picture.

“Not just this bit.” I scrubbed a hand over my head, trying to get my breathing steady. “The restaurant. The club.”

He widened his eyes. “You own the Velvet Lounge?”

“Half of it, yeah.”

“Which half?”

“The half you don’t see.” I held his gaze.

He understood.

He always had.

I’d never pretended with him. Never softened a truth. And the fucked-up part wasn’t that he knew what I did because everyone knew pieces of that, even the coppers who hadn’t yet pinned anything on me. But what threw me for a fruit loop was that he knew more of me than the people I called blood. Somehow, Tristan Hale-Fitzroy had seen every dark, twisted part of me and never flinched.

Dangerous, that.

More dangerous than any blade pressed to my ribs.

“Gone up in the world, huh?” He tilted his head.

“Ain’t that what you rich boys like?” I walked my fingers. “Men who climb all them big metaphorical ladders so they can look down on everyone else?”

He glanced down at his shiny, polished dress shoe scraping through the grime on my floor, adding to the irony of me making out this was better than the gutter I’d owned eight months ago.

“To be fair, us rich boys don’t manually climb anything. We’re given a lift. Elevator route.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” I sniffed. “Like that fella you’re with, eh? He born at the top like you?” I cocked my head. “Don’t like him, by the way. Didn’t like him in my place.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes, working it out. “You… removed him?”

“I did.”

A breathy laugh escaped him. “And are you aware of who you removed?”

“Couldn’t give a fuck.”

“You probably should. In your line of work.”

“My line of work?”

I didn’t like being blindsided. Not knowing shit I should have. And the truth hit harder than I wanted to admit: I’d made a mistake tonight. Because of him. And him pointing that out, him knowing something I didn’t, lit me up.

“He’s a nobody in my line of work.” I ruffled down my jacket, smoothing out the leather as if it were armour. “They all are. He’s just another slick bastard who thought he could stroll into my place and sit across from you as if he owned the fucking table. When that’s my table.” I stepped into him, sliding my boot between his legs and leant in, brushing his ear with my mouth. “And he was halfway to fucking you while I watched. Another thing he thought he could have that didn’t belong to him.”

The air between us pulsed. Hot, sharp, electric.

Anger.

Want.