Page 56 of Corrupt

I snorted, sharp and humourless. “No. Of course not. How ridiculous of me to be concerned.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Marcus didn’t even look up from his duck. “What I mean is, it’s handled. Or being handled. Which leaves me to handle you. That”—he stabbed his fork in my direction—“is what this dinner is about.”

I stood up so fast that the chair legs screeched across the polished floor. Conversations faltered. Silverware paused mid-air.

Marcus widened his eyes. “Where are you going?”

I stared down at him. My brother, my handler, my legacy-enforcer. And red-hot fury burnt up through the soles of my feet. I grabbed my glass and downed the rest of the wine in one vicious swallow. Marcus darted his gaze around the room, mortified, the way only a man raised on reputational paranoia could be. Then I slammed the empty glass onto the table hard enough for it to rattle.

“Don’t worry about my relationship with Wolfe.” I gritted my teeth. “Best not let it concern you.”

Marcus exhaled sharply but I didn’t give him a chance to recover.

I walked out.

The Strand was a blur. Taxis honking, tourists dragging suitcases, Friday-night everything. My chest felt too small, my breath too thin. I moved, cutting across the pavement until a pub appeared looking dim enough, empty enough, anonymous enough to collapse in without witnesses.

I slipped inside, pushed through the few bodies at the bar, and planted my hands on the wood. “A bottle of Rioja.”

The bartender fetched it. I uncorked it myself and drank straight from the glass he shoved at me, the first mouthful burning down my throat, the second numbing everything behind my ribs. Then, I pulled out my phone and typed the only person who could answer without bullshit:

What’s early-stage adenocarcinoma and prognosis?

Henry replied immediately. A doctor first, friend second.

Lung cancer. If caught early: high chance of full recovery. If not: poor prognosis. Why?

The words punched through me.

Lung cancer.

My father.

No one telling me.

I threw back half of my glass. Then the rest. The bottle lowered by inches. The room tilted by degrees. And I ordered a couple of whiskies. The hours passed then. And all I could think was how much I needed something. No, not something. Someone.

I shouldn’t have texted. I knew I shouldn’t have.

But grief and anger and Razor were mixing in my bloodstream, making everything soft and stupid.

I typed: Where’s your window at?

And hit send before I could stop myself.

CHapter twelve

Razor

I tipped my phone up from the desk to see the screen light.

Not too proud to admit my stomach did a thing. Couldn’t show it though. Not here. Not in the Velvet Lounge office with Tyler beside me, counting through a stack of twenties like rosary beads, his earpiece buzzing as he liaised with floor security, bathroom spotters, and the sellers dotted through the club. I checked to see if he clocked anything. He didn’t. Good lad. He was focused. Eyes on the money, attention on the comms.

Tonight, I was setting lists. Vetting names. Organising the top end of the clientele for Pretty Poison. If this went out, it went to the right men. Rich men. Known men. Men who wouldn’t drop dead and leave me with another Levi bleeding under my eyelids. Cause this wasn’t the usual pay-and-play shit. This was high-stakes, high-risk, high-price gear. And I’d be the one they traced it back to if it went wrong.

I leant back, drifting my gaze to the wall of monitors.

The Velvet Lounge was in full swing tonight. Lights pulsing, bodies grinding, sweat and vodka and heat mixing into a cloud rising from the dance floor. The DJ we’d brought in was a regular at G-A-Y, and he’d dragged half that crowd here with him. Should’ve been the perfect night to float PP into circulation. But it made me uneasy. Too many bodies. Too many hands. Too many men who loved to touch anyone. Anything.