“I know Russian swear words,” Westminster says dryly as I turn to him. “That’s mild. Try harder if you want to insult me.”
We regard each other. The best-known kingpin in London, and the Shadow.
“There’s something you’ll be interested to see,” I tell him, and he nods.
We head across the lawn as Steve emerges from the house. Just the person I wanted to catch.
“Come with us,” I order, but slacken my pace to account for his lingering injuries.
The older man hides his pain as we take a second flight of cream stone stairs down into the cellar.
Westminster gives a low whistle as I guide them through the arched rooms all racked with bottles. “Nice stash.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll have to talk about some swaps, one day.” Westminster eyes the labels as we walk past. “I have an excellent store, but it’s a lot more whisky. Whereas you have some truly lovely wine.”
I didn’t bring them down here for that, so I don’t answer. In the furthest of the first set of cellar rooms, there’s a mostly-empty rack.
“Boss.” Steve tries to help as I drag it out. “I can…” He trails off as I squat down, careful to not get dust on my suit.
I lift a circular wooden trapdoor and a stale smell rises.
“What the hell is this?” Steve asks, peering over the edge of the revealed hole.
“It’s an oubliette,” Westminster replies for me, voice hushed.
“What’s that?” Steve is none the wiser.
“A deep hole,” I reply.
“It’s from the French, ‘to forget’.” Westminster folds his arms. “It’s a medieval torture and death device.”
“You said I had no class, and I was too impatient.” I gesture at the oubliette. “Does this meet your standards?”
Not that it matters. My wife’s approval is the only thing I need.
Westminster sighs, but there’s a hint of a smile around his mouth. “Dark Angel indeed. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I said last month that justice occasionally took time.”
Steve flicks his gaze between Westminster and me, and trembles. “Please, Boss. I didn’t mean for anything to happen to your wife. I swear I was paying attention. I won’t fail you again.”
“There’s always room…” I pretend to ponder aloud.
“He didn’t send you to the best hospitals in London, pay for physiotherapy, and have you as his best man at his wedding only to throw you down here,” Westminster reassures Steve with a wry look. “If he wanted either of us dead, we’d already have a bullet in our skull.”
True, though saving someone only to kill them more slowly, is not a bad idea, as torture goes. I nod in agreement. “I brought you because I thought you’d like to see the revenge on the leader whose men put you in hospital.”
Steve sags a little in relief. “So…”
“The Geraci kingpin,” I confirm. The mafia who went after Caterina and her family.
“How long has he been in there?” Steve asks.
One week, three days, and approximately five hours. “I forget.”
“Do you think he’s dead?” Now staring at the black hole with morbid fascination, Steve seems to have recovered from the fear that I was going to shove him into the oubliette.
“I don’t know.”
