“I talk to them,” Vinnie said, and we all stared at him. He shrugged. “Our old men. I talk to them all the time.” He looked at me. “Even Alfie. He comes to me too.”
My jaw clenched. I got the context. He was telling me that my old man was as good as dead. But I refused to fucking believe that. I refused to let him go. He’d wake up. I knew he’d wake up. Some fucking day.
Eric’s smile fell. His face had paled at the mention of our old men. He opened his mouth to say something, when Ronnie came back into the room. She pressed something on her tablet and the TV above the fire came to life. Seconds later we were watching men dressed in black silently killing Cheska’s dad and fiancé.
When the screen cut to black, Ronnie said, “No sound. No trace. Whoever these guys are, they’re good. Really fucking good.” Ronnie glanced to Vera, and Vera immediately got to her feet.
She wrapped her arm around Ronnie. “What is it, babe?”
Ronnie rewound the video, then stopped on a particular part. She zoomed in on one of the men’s hands. I squinted to see what we were looking at, and I saw the sliver of skin between his leather glove and the end of his jacket. Ronnie was watching me, waiting for me to see it.
“My traffickers.” She rubbed the mark on her shoulder. The same one this fucker wore on his wrist. Fire built at my feet and started to rise. I felt it incinerate my bones until it was everywhere. Until it was all I fucking was. The darkness, the fire, the evil that lived inside me, taking full control.
“What the fuck?” Vera snapped. “They’ve appeared again?”
“Been a while,” Charlie said, running his hand over his stubble. “What do they want with the Harlows?”
I was burning. I was fucking boiling, ready to explode. “They’re not getting near Cheska,” I snarled. “Where are they?” I said to Ronnie.
Her shoulders fell. “No address. No trace. Same as fucking always.”
“Cunts!” I shouted and threw my glass into the fire, watching it roar as the alcohol fuelled the already high flames. “I’m about fucking done with these wankers!”
Freddie jumped to his feet, staring at his phone. “Fuck’s sake!” He turned to me. “We’ve been motherfucking hit again.” I stilled and stared at my brother. He turned his phone to show me the text and the picture of the west dock, the empty shipping containers and the dead guards bleeding out on the ground.
“What the fuck is happening?” I said, grabbing my coat from the back of a chair. I threw it on, and my brothers followed suit. This was the fifth hit on our docks and haulage ships in the past six months. Some fucker was trying to get to me. And it was working. No one fucking took on the Adley firm. And no one challenged me and lived to tell the tale.
“Cowards,” I said. “Hiding behind sneaky attacks and killing guards. Face me, toe to toe. Cowards. Fucking face me!” I opened the barrel of my gun and checked it was full. I clicked it back into place and tucked it into the holster in my coat. “We’re going to check it out.” I turned to Betsy. “Watch Cheska. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“I promise, Artie,” she said, and I felt the fire calm a little. Then I walked out of the room, my boys behind me. Whoever was fucking with our gear was going to die. So were the traffickers who’d fucked with Ronnie and now had their eyes on Cheska.
The devil inside wouldn’t let me fail.
Chapter Eight
CHESKA
My legs were stuck. I tried to move them, to run to Freya crawling on the floor a few feet away, but I couldn’t reach her. Her eyes widened and she reached for her throat. Blood. So much blood began to pour from her throat, pour from her ears, pour from her eyes.
“No! I cried, feeling my heart crack down the centre into two broken parts.
“Cheska?” I snapped my head to the right and saw Arabella stumbling through a fog. She was searching for me, reaching out her hand for me to take. To guide her home.
“Arabella,” I said and reached out my hand. Her fingers had almost met mine when a knife came out of the fog and ploughed right through her chest. Her lips moved in a silent cry for help. But she dropped to the ground.
I screamed as she fell, as Freya’s body disappeared in a pool of her own blood. Then the fog cleared. It cleared, and there they all were. Freya, Arabella, Dad and Hugo.
They were gone … they were dead.
My throat was raw from screaming and my cheeks were sore from tears. I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save their lives …
I heard the humming before I’d even opened my eyes. It would be Freya. She was always singing as she got ready. I smiled, relieved that it had only been a nightmare. My pounding heart calmed as I tried to push the awful dream from my mind. I opened my eyes, only to see an unfamiliar ceiling. The humming was billowing in the air, but it was deeper than Freya’s soft voice. It was smoother, and a little more off key.
Confused, I rolled my head to the side and caught sight of a woman I had never seen before. She had long brown hair that fell in loose waves to her shoulders. One side of her hair was pinned back, revealing porcelain skin and bright blue eyes. She was tall and slender, dressed in skinny black jeans with a white shirt tucked into the waistband. She was beautiful.
I frowned, wondering who it could be, then my memory took over and started laying recent events on me like bricks, the weight of which crushed my chest. Dad … Hugo … Freya … Arabella …
It hadn’t been a dream. It hadn’t been as simple as a nightmare. It was real. It was all real. A pained sob slipped from my lips. They throbbed as it did. I raised my hand to my mouth and felt that my lips were swollen, and I remembered being hit, being dragged to a van … running. The Sparrow Club. Arthur. Arthur …
“Arthur,” I whispered, my throat like cut glass.
“Shh.” The woman brought a glass of water to my mouth. I took the glass and tried to sit up. I had to do something. My friends … Dad … Hugo … “Let me help,” she said, her accent hitting me even though my head felt as though it was filled with fog. She was a cockney, like Arthur. She put her hands under my arms and lifted me until I was sitting up. I dropped the glass, soaking the side of the bed, as dizziness made me lose my balance. I held my hand to my head and breathed until the room righted and the wave of nausea ebbed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, opening my eyes and letting my hand drop to the damp bed.
“Don’t be sorry, darling,” the woman said and pulled back the sheets. I looked down; I was dressed in a nightgown. I had no memory of putting it on. I didn’t know what was happening. Everything felt too surreal.
As if reading my mind, she said, “I cleaned you up and dressed you after the doctor checked you over this morning.”
“This morning?” I asked, confusion rising as I looked around the room. There were old beams everywhere; the roof was angled, the walls white and uneven like many old buildings seemed to be. Vintage furniture decorated the minimal room.
Arthur’s house. His famed converted church.
The woman stopped beside me. I searched her face up close. She was so pretty, with a sprinkling of freckles dotted over her nose. “Darling, you’ve been asleep for about twenty-four hours.”