I’m the one who deserves to feel guilty. I’ve brought her fully into this now. The secret’s out. What I’m struggling to believe is why she’s still here. She knows the truth about who I am, what this place is and what I’m here to do, and she’s stayed.
I don’t deserve this incredible woman, but if she’s happy to stay by my side through this, I’ll take whatever I can get.
“They’ll find the body soon, surely,” she whispers up at me.
“No they won’t.”
“But won’t it still be there, where we left it? It wasn’t even ten minutes from this building.”
“My man moved it, disposed of it. It no longer…exists.”
Her complexion turns a little puce until I take her hand and stroke my thumb softly over her knuckles.
People are already moving toward the boardroom.
I bend my head toward Erin’s ear. “What are you going to do today?”
She flushes at the closeness, igniting sparks across my skin. “I might go horseback riding again. It’s a little stressful all this, and being outdoors relaxes me.”
Ugh. I stop walking for a moment, bow my head and grip the bridge of my nose between a finger and thumb.
I feel her hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
My sigh is louder than planned. “I’m not made of stamina, Erin.”
“What?” she asks, confused.
“Seeing you in those breeches and leather boots undid me. I’m not sure I can hold back again.”
She smirks at me.Smirks. “So, don’t.”
Then she walks away leaving me feeling not in the least prepared to face a room full of mobsters with a half-mast cock.
No one looks up as I enter the room and take a seat at the table. The tension in the air feels like an electrical storm, yet no one’s talking about why. No one has mentioned the missing Russian—maybe they don’t yet know he’s missing.
One thing is clear though. Three days in and most everyone in this room has stopped pretending this is a holiday. They’re moving with purpose now, eyes tracking one another in reflective surfaces, their conversations clipped and coded.
But Nicholas is late.
Late to an elite criminal round table isn’t sloppy. Late is deliberate, or, as I well know, out of his hands.
No one says his name but his absence hums like a central heating system, setting the teeth of these black-as-night men on edge.
Five minutes pass and more coffee is served. Ten minutes pass and people start reaching for their phones.
Then, the door opens.
It isn’t ‘Nicholas’ who walks in, of course. It’s someone else.
The man who enters is forgettable by design. Mid-forties, wearing a neutral suit and a neutral face. He’s the sort of person I wouldn’t be able to summon from memory an hour after meeting him.
He remains standing, then says evenly, “Nicholas Parker won’t be attending.”
A low murmur ripples through the room.
“He sends his apologies.”
Interesting, I think, that he was able to do that from beyond the grave.
