“This isyourhairdresser, Clerkenwell?” asks the posh-accented man.
Why are they calling him Clerkenwell? His name is Dante Angelini.
“She doesn’t cut my hair—” Dante replies.
“An assassin hairdresser is a nice idea, though. We could try it too,” the Russian-accented man says thoughtfully.
“She’s not an assassin,” Dante growls at the same moment that I exclaim, “I’m not an assassin!”
“That would be a bitSweeney Todd, don’t you think?” the posh man says in a bored voice.
“Westminster, Sweeney Todd was a demonbarber, not a hairdresser,” says the man in the blue suit. “And fictional.”
“I was aware,” Westminster snaps back. “Some of us have read the book, not just watched the film.”
This group is the oddest combination of casual power, seriousness, and irreverent humour.
“Don, a search would be—” Giovanni attempts again to interject.
“No.” Dante cuts off Giovanni with a dark look, and he puts his head down and steps away. He’s Dante’s employee, I think?
“I think Clerkenwell is onto something,” says the Russian mischievously. “Cutting costs, discount haircuts for your men, potentially profitable pie business?—”
“Shut it, Mayfair,” Dante snaps, but doesn’t take his eyes off me.
Mayfair.Westminster.
Shock ricochets through me. I stare around. Guns. Suits. Inhumanly handsome men. Money and power. I don’t follow the gossip magazines, but I work in a hair salon. I’ve heard people talk about the London Mafia and Bratva bosses, including names like Mayfair.
“But the whole cannibalism and making pies? I don’t think my chef will go for that. And my brother would have a fit,” the man in the blue suit says.
There are two types of men here, I realise. Grunts, in plain black suits, mainly, and higher up men wearing perfectly tailored suits in expensive-looking fabrics. This is some sort of mafia boss meet-up that I have just walked into, and they think I’m here to attempt murder with a pair of scissors.
But Dante is one of the bosses, and everyone else is looking to him for their cue.
If I wasn’t convinced Dante was in the mafia, this would do it. I knew he was rich and influential, and yeah, the dangerous vibes are part of his appeal. But a mafia boss?
“What, he wouldn’t go for Spaghetti Carl’s-bony-arse?” mocks the Russian. Mayfair, I think.
I’m baffled. Honestly.
“I’ve told you about being disrespectful of Italian food before,” says Westminster, as the man in the blue suit grumbles.
“Ruby, why are you here?” Dante’s expression is grave and a bit worried.
“I need to tell you something. In private.” I flick my gaze around the squabbling, intimidating men. The blister on my foot is sore, I’m exhausted, I’ve been threatened. They all have guns.
“She’s just a kid,” the man in a blue suit says irritably. “Can we get back to our meeting?”
I don’t want to be seen as a threat, but I amnotakid.
“Please—” I step towards Dante, and Giovanni pulls his gun out again. Panic flares anew.
“Your security is over-the-top, Clerkenwell,” grumbles the man in the blue suit. “And this is a waste of?—”
I blurt out the one thing that might save me. “I’m hiswife.”
10
