I turned and swung onto my bike.
The engine roared to life beneath me, a low, aggressive vibration that travelled up through the frame and into my bones. I rolled out smoothly, merging into traffic before anyone had time to react. London was already awake—buses groaning, taxis edging for space, pedestrians stepping out without looking. I cut through it all, slipping between lanes where cars crawled, and tempers flared.
The air hit colder at speed, sharp against my face, carrying the smell of exhaust and rain-soaked tarmac. Lights blurred. Sound narrowed.
I took gaps cars couldn’t, skimmed past mirrors with inches to spare, the city opening and closing around me like a living thing. Traffic was a problem for other people. On the bike, I was already gone.
Rowan’s words echoed in my mind. I owed him everything. I’d been a scrawny nobody when I first started at Hustle. Rowan had taken a chance on me, seeing something more, and it hadn’t been long before Alec followed suit. It started as business, but we bonded like brothers over countless late nights.
We were a tight unit, and I didn’t want a fourth person in our home. He’d mentioned the communal bedroom being empty before, but I hadn’t thought much of it. Not when he never hid his contempt for his mother.
I weaved past a black cab that was moving too slowly for my liking.
Maybe he’d had his fill of whores and wanted something sweet and biddable.
It was a disaster waiting to happen. No woman could survive our level of sickness.
???
Of course, he wasn’t at the halfway house. The drunken bastard was at the local pub. His roommate had been extremely helpful after I’d knocked his head into the wall a few times—not hard enough to make him bleed. I was saving that for James.
I cracked my knuckles and pulled the pub door open.
The stench of stale beer and damp, musty carpet hit me, dragging me back to the times my old man had hauled me into dives like these. My gut burned as the memories surfaced. The beatings. His friends laughing. No one stepping in. No one daring to stop Connor Graves.
Not until I gutted him like a fish.
It was a beautiful memory. His mouth and eyes had stayed open, fear frozen on his face. I’d taken a picture before the funeral home wiped it all away. The day I was reborn.
I scanned the bar and tables until I found him at the far end. I ignored the looks from the other patrons as my boots stuck to the filthy carpet. The wooden floor beyond it wasn’t any better.
I smiled when he noticed me.
His pint hit the bar, sloshing over his hand.
“Mr Constantine. I’m a representative from Hustle. We need to have a word.”
Fear locked him in place.
I draped an arm around his shoulders and instantly regretted it when the stink of piss, sweat, and alcohol hit me.
“Come with me quietly,” I murmured.“You know who I am—and what I’m capable of.”
I patted his shoulder, then let him go.
“I’m s-sorry,” he stuttered.
“Great,” I said, tapping my fingers on the sticky bar top.“Now fucking move before I drag you to the toilets and slit your throat.”
That got him stumbling off the stool.
As soon as we were outside, I dragged him around the building toward a small car park. I glanced around for cameras. We were near the entrance—the only one I spotted was angled toward the car park itself.
“What collateral did you use when you took out your two lines of credit, James?” I snarled, planting my hands on the wall to cage him in.
I grimaced at the stench. His room had been a mess. I should’ve expected this.
I took in his weathered face—
