19
KIRILL
There’s shocked silence.
Westminster nods sagely and holds out his hand, palm up.
Mayfair swears in Russian and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out his phone. “I’ll send it to you electronically. No one uses cash these days, you weirdo.”
“I’ll withdraw it in fifties and carry it around, just to annoy you,” replies Westminster with a smug little smile, but takes back his hand.
“I didn’t think you would join us, Blackfen.” Mayfair shoots the comment at me, half with exasperation, half disbelief.
I shrug. “Someone pointed out I was keeping bad company.” I slide my gaze to Tess, and her expression seems proud. Approving. “So I thought it couldn’t get any worse.”
“The jokes get worse,” Mayfair complains.
“You mean funnier,” his wife protests.
“I mean as bad as a cold, squashed sausage roll on a wet Wednesday in February. A travesty.”
“He means top quality,” his wife interprets cheerfully, and Tess giggles.
And that’s the noise I wanted. Her laughter. Her happiness.
Even, blyat, herapproval.
“I brought a token of my sincerity.” I catch the eye of one of my men who is at the door, waiting for the signal, and in a few seconds a balding older man with a gut, an ill-fitting polo shirt and chinos is dragged in by two of my other men. He’s bound, mouth taped.
Everyone turns in their seats to stare, and Tess draws in a long breath. I lean down to kiss the top of her head in an attempt to beg her to… I’m not sure what. Please not freak out. Understand. Accept that this is part of me, and… Stay.
There’s a shuffle of discomfort from those gathered as my men roll out clear plastic, and lay the man onto it like an overgrown maggot. I don’t watch, instead pulling out my phone and pressing send on the content I collated this afternoon.
“You’ll find evidence of his activities arriving now in your messages,” I say. “The images with him uncensored are included if you click through to see them, but I recommend caution. You’ll want to bleach your eyeballs afterwards.”
All the mafia bosses reach for their phones, except one man, who begins to stand.
“Angel, do not shoot him!” Westminster barks. “Or stab him, or otherwise end his life prematurely.”
“He’s going to die anyway,” Angel states, sitting back down and shrugging, looking at me for backup. “What’s the problem?”
Westminster’s eyes skim over his phone and his lip curls. I’m surprised to find that I don’t hate this. I’m amused by Angel’s inclination to murder first and check later, and the disgust creeping over the men’s faces as they read what I sent. It feels far better than the weeks in my basement.
I stroke Tess’ shoulder, and a peace settles over me, as though I’ve taken a weight off my back.
“He knows things that I can’t find out with my online investigations,” I explain. “Details about the victims, and other men like him.”
Low, concerned chatter breaks out amongst the other mafia bosses. Some of the mafia wives talk to each other, a couple getting up with murmurs about going to get air on the terrace, absenting themselves from the bloody part of the business. The rest are discussing with their husbands the content they’re looking at.
“Others?” Mayfair’s gaze snaps to mine. “He’s not the first. Why bring him to us now?”
That’s as close as he dares to get to an accusation. He knows that I’ve been doing this for a while, but hadn’t been sure of my motivation, just the results. Dead men, and rumours about torture.
And when I glance down at Tess, I find those blue eyes gazing up at me.
I scoop up a section of her hair and run my fingers over it.
You. You made me want to be better. To be worthy of your affection. To love you and keep you.
