“So, what you said to me was just a threat. You had no intention of killing me.”
Viktor looks like he wants to laugh. I ignore him. "Viktor says things that are designed to make people behave in the way that Viktor wants them to behave. It's effective. But we are trying to run a legitimate business. Or as close to one as we can get."
Viktor crosses one leg over the other and says nothing. He maintains his own reputation carefully.
"You're telling me," Theo says slowly, "that the man who locked me in a penthouse and put a monitor on my ankle is saying I could have left at any time."
“Of course not. You’re mine. But I'm telling you that I don't kill people. The rest of it is accurate."
He stares at me. I can see him trying to work out the logic. There is none. I’ve been treading the fine line between legitimate businessman, mobster and alpha for a long time. I’m used to the inconsistencies. He’s not.
I turn to Viktor. “We bring her in. I think she's being coerced. She's been here too long and she's too good at her job to suddenly go rotten for money. If the Castellanos have leverage on her, I want to know what it is."
Theo is watching us. His eyes move between us the way they move between the surveillance feeds. For a moment, I wonder if he’s just going to stand up and try run for it.
"Get her," I say to Viktor.
Viktor nods. His footsteps are heavy in the corridor and then gone.
Theo doesn’t look at me. He’s deep in thought, his eyes fixed on the monitors.
I want to press my thumb to the fading bruise below his ear and feel his pulse jump against my skin. I want to bury my face in the crook of his neck and breathe.
Instead, I turn back to the monitors and wait. Four minutes later, Viktor comes back with Cath Beresford.
She's in her pit boss uniform: dark pants and a deep blue shirt with the casino logo embroidered on the breast pocket.
Cath is in her mid-fifties, compact with hair graying at the temples and pulled back in a tortoiseshell clip. The skin around her eyes is lined, deeper than I remember. She looks tired.
She sees me first and her step falters, just half a beat. She recovers, pulls her shoulders back, lifts her chin. But I saw it. And so, did Theo.
"Dom," she says. "I didn't expect you."
"Cath. Thanks for coming up. This is Theo Holland."
Her gaze travels over Theo, stopping at the bare ankle where the monitor sits above his shoe. She reads all of it in two seconds and her face gives away none of what she concludes.
"Mr Holland," she says.
Theo nods.
"Sit down," I say.
She sits in the chair Viktor has positioned in front of the desk. Her hands go to her lap and she folds them together, fingers laced. Her nails are bitten down to the quick.
That's new. Cath used to have neat, short nails, always clean. But it’s not just the nails, her scent is wrong. I've known Cath's scent for most of my life. She's a beta. It’s steady and unremarkable, but today it’s sharp with the metallic tang of cortisol and fear. It's in the room and it's coming from her and she can't control it.
Her folded hands haven't moved once. Her fingers are locked together so tightly the tendons stand out across the backs of her hands.
"Cath," I say. "I need you to tell me the truth about what's happening on your floor."
The room goes quiet. The feeds hum on the monitor bank. Viktor is still by the door. Theo hasn't moved.
Cath's folded hands tighten. Her knuckles press white against each other.
"I don't know what you mean," she says.
"You do."
